"demur" poems
What happened on Weehawken Heights,
that warm midsummer’s day?
There are several versions of the “truth”
but none for sure can say.
The Principals were both well known:
Hamilton and Burr.
Aaron Burr had made the challenge,
Hamilton would not demur.
Hamilton choose pistols as the weapons
Then Burr proposed the site.
Per the Irish Code Duello
It was all proper and right.
Dueling was illegal,
so the Seconds looked away
so they could plausibly deny
that they had seen the fray.
Each man walked off ten paces,
and Mister Pendleton yelled “Pre-sent”!
Most think that Hamilton fired first;
wide and right, his shot was spent.
Aaron Burr was deadly accurate:
His shot, its target found:
Alexander Hamilton, wounded,
swooned upon the ground.
“this wound is mortal, Doctor.”
was all Hamilton could say.
They bore him to the City where
he passed on the following day.
Aaron Burr also fled the scene,
evading prosecution.
He had “Full Satisfaction”,
this hero of the Revolution.
What is full satisfaction
when Burr’s Star was past its season?
He never more held public trust,
indeed, stood trial for treason.
A person can be haunted
by a ghost that none can see.
Burr’s brilliance had been blighted
by a sort of infamy.
Towards the end of his own life
Burr said of his enemy:
“{Had I known}The world was wide
enough for Hamilton and me.”
On July 11, 1804, Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr fought the most famous duel in American history. These two heroes of the Revolution were political enemies and Hamilton had done much to exclude Burr from the Presidency and from the New York governorship. Burr,feeling he had been defamed by Hamilton's published remarks demanded the "Full Satisfaction" of a duel. My account generally follows the account of the historian, Joesph Ellis. Any errors are my fault. Any items in quotes are words ascribed to these two famous individuals. Aaron Burr never after held public office and eventually stood trial for treason for his alleged attempt to set up an independent country in the territory Jefferson purchased from France. After several years living in France, Burr returned to New york where he faded into obscurity. Alexander Hamilton is buried in the churchyard of Trinity Church in downtown New york.
Towards the end of his life, Burr remarked: "Had I read Sterne more and Voltaire less, I should have known the world was wide enough for Hamilton and me."[35]
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 7:04 AM UTC
For Eric
Still as likely to call
you on your faulty reasoning
To add philosophical asides
to any conversation
To create something from
other things: words,
succulents, driftwood,
found objects, and
arcane bits of wisdom
To dig up treasures where ever
and when ever possible
To delight in uniqueness of character
and a choice turn of phrase
To both insist and demur,
challenge and encourage,
to penetrate and repent
(on rare occasions)
To surprise with a soft word,
a kind gesture,
a wisp of sentiment,
and a steadfast dedication to
lasting friendship.
Permanence is an illusion--
he would argue--
But some things, like the
arrow of time, remain unchanged.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
435
Much Madness is divinest Sense—
To a discerning Eye—
Much Sense—the starkest Madness—
’Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail—
Assent—and you are sane—
Demur—you’re straightway dangerous—
And handled with a Chain—
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The woman of power, of the final hour,
Stood upon the gaping edge of death,
Savoring her final due breath,
Recollecting her spent time, as the demons beneath, did climb.
The woman, once unknown, many must atone,
With a simple display, she tore the lights that held the night at bay,
For nothing as powerful as she, should anyone but agree,
Resting upon her belt, the stars forever dwelt.
The woman, demur of the end, a challenge to death, she had penned,
A game, we shall partake, with eternal lives at stake,
For if I do not wish to die, your purpose, you must defy,
With a stolen piece, her years did increase.
The woman of blackened markings, her mind of ever-workings,
Stood tall upon her mare, chased with twisting white hair,
Upon her belt, rested pouched treasures, glittering fondly with pleasure,
For her company never to shake, as her pale eyes did forever take.
She was the woman of Cree, far beyond The Black Ink Sea,
The taker of stars, leaving naught but empty scars,
She was the winning player of Death's Game, her rewards, to gain,
With the twisting marks of power, deep to the pit, she did glower.
For nothing of its sort,
Shall ever hold her short,
From any a task within her aim,
A woman such as I, victory shall I claim.
And with that thought dancing across her mind,
She leapt, and left the mortal world behind.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
858
This Chasm, Sweet, upon my life
I mention it to you,
When Sunrise through a fissure drop
The Day must follow too.
If we demur, its gaping sides
Disclose as ’twere a Tomb
Ourself am lying straight wherein
The Favorite of Doom.
When it has just contained a Life
Then, Darling, it will close
And yet so bolder every Day
So turbulent it grows
I’m tempted half to stitch it up
With a remaining Breath
I should not miss in yielding, though
To Him, it would be Death—
And so I bear it big about
My Burial—before
A Life quite ready to depart
Can harass me no more—
1.6k
The opportunity to feel will come back in time
Turn my head away from all that are unobtainable and sublime
Don't speak to me my energy will turn you away
Loneliness drives me insane but I'll be okay
Wasted time spent by smoke and stereos
Watch time fly while I'm restless with my woes
My friends see me as someone with potential
The way my worth drops are exponential
My insecurities hold me back
Being comfortable with my shortcomings is something I'll always lack
I'll wait an eternity before I let anyone in
Until I can offer everything I guess I'll have to wait then
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
Far off in the distance
I hear her fretful wail
No purpose in resistance
it would be to no avail
Like Sirens from an ancient ode
she heralds my demise
Inviting me to her abode
and all that it implies
As a lamb unto the slaughter
in innocence I go
A manipulated plotter
of a life I could not know
Thus my friend I go to her
and freely seal my fate
I ask that you do not demur
for the hour is getting late
And so I bid the world adieu
and leave this disarray
As for the likes of me and you
there can be no other way
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
What you didn't realize
was that you were a conqueror of fate
Having me ravished to the highest magnitude
you still pretended like you had no clue
A counterfeit image of
trust issues
Playfully taunting
but I was also hurting.
For I didn't covet you
to have doubts
Or descry the demur I doubted to dismiss.
But it's true
That somewhere betwixt the precariousness
I had relinquished my all
my heart; my soul
to you
without yet having been acquainted
with more than just the night
Without yet having been acquainted
With only you in plain sight
Your scintillating eyes
holding to the fact
that
I ought to conjecture
The earth is flat
.
.
.
You grin like a Cheshire Cat.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
As militant Mullahs mutter and pray
And plan their Mosque near ground Zero
Protesters march and people say:
“This isn't right! They'll have to go.”
But let's demur and make no noise
No tears, no threats, no signs approve.
It would profane our civic faith
To tell the Mullah he must move.
The Towers’ fall brought harm and fear
Men reckon what that did and meant;
But building a “cultural Center” near
Though demonized, is innocent.
Dull couch potatoes of the Right
Those ditto heads who can't admit
Tolerance, cause it doth reprove
Those thoughts that have them in a snit.
But we, my love, are so refined
that we ourselves don't care one whit.
Let them build it, come what may
But build a brothel next to it.
Two buildings place there, cheek to cheek:
the Mosque and “Annie’s House of Pain”.
One dealing with things spiritual,
The other deals with things profane.
In both, salvation is for sale
It seems to me a perfect fit.
For do not both invoke God's name?
-and both, I fear, use whips a bit.
students at the Madrasah may
hear the cries of Joy next door
on her mattress, hard at play
While they use prayer mats on the floor.
.
Will they too prove as tolerant?
Live and let live, for now- they say
When they enforce Sharia law,
The folks next door will learn to pray.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
for Wallace Stevens
1.
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make data, so the self-same sounds
Of a CEO’s fingers make me a data, too.
Thus it is the spirit that feels,
Here in this cubicle, desiring—through
Excel spreadsheets, email, a deadline—
Itself.
2.
In the pale glow of a Xerox machine
The body stood.
It sought
The hum of Nature,
But, finding only synthetics,
Sighed with demur,
So barren grew its mood.
3.
They wondered why the invisible child wept
In a security without which Death’s adept;
It could not say,
So convinced were they,
Safety was the dream of a Happiness that slept.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
This head's a space
clouded
its brume almost reaching
the insides of my irides
This hand's a tremble
from its roots
an earthquake
venturing back to an especial gob
of cardiac muscles
helplessly siphoning life through
the fragile cracks of this cage of ribs
Around my floating body
Spins the earth
Just another ornament
In a knitted blanket of galaxies
I do not question where
I do not question why
Those eyes, jaded
by stale smiles that have been
keeping them fed
and distracted
I am not one with myself
as the wavering mind threatens
to abandon this sad case of dolor
Breathing suffocates
Silence, a pain
I need a hand
to slap and punch me out of conscience
to shake and yell
live, you are alive!
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
Devoured by the folly of the fallible, in the hipnotical fossils, of the future, suturing the nature, of nurtured suitors, to better the maneuvers, of gene polluters, spreading the demur, of social lure, for the fewer to mature into free will.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
so juxtaposed
I feel, I feel
concomitant
on a fulcrum
in a stasis
at the nadir
and the return
and I demur
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:07 PM UTC
Aphrodite of the Immortals
on magmatic throne aloft
ruse rummager God’s daughter
shield not my fury or pang of demur
my spirit’s empress eternal
desired goddess, appear
seal rank in the corps of my heart
from gilded kingdoms above
fling thyself to this tenebrous earth
atmospheric reentry – to me
jovial thy ****** bequeathed
known by heart, my splits and seams
my bedraped innocence and tears
to spill my trusty soul secure:
why is thy countenance amiss?
who has entranced thou in her arms?
whose caresses does thou shake?
venerated queen so valiant
dilate my love, dwindle my pain
free up my heart to love all embracive
comrade goddess, be mine
be thou, my ally
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” when Jesus stood on trial,
Bearing witness of the Truth to all who heard His voice.
Though philosophy rejected it, stood in denial,
Still, the Way, the Truth, the Life allowed mankind its choice.
“What is truth?” though, sounds urbane, superior to law.
Hermeneutics of humility smooths out the field.
I seem more sophisticated, cultured, not bourgeois,
If it’s all a mystery, still hidden, unrevealed.
So I claim, “There are no absolutes; it’s relative,”
Disregarding that my statement’s antithetical.
My assertion controverts itself (though tentative),
By proclaiming proclamations “theoretical.”
Next I try, “Who really knows what truth is, after all?”
All my friends agree with me; they wisely nod, concur.
Confident in doubt, with inconsistency banal,
Logic cast aside, to diametrics they demur.
How about “There is no right or wrong; it’s in your head!”
Satisfying concept until I’m the one abused.
Then my default is to judge the wrongdoer instead,
Never asking, “Why impose my ‘truth’ on the accused?”
“Well,” I claim, “I make my own reality; it’s true.”
If you counter me on that, I’ll argue all the way.
Think about it, though, because just how can I undo
True belief with skepticism; how will doubt have sway ?
Really, if I don’t have Truth, I don’t have anything.
Two plus two must equal four, or all the rest is void.
If we have no premise to employ linguistic string,
Then our discourse has no point; we’re barely humanoid.
Truth’s the binding to our book, the glue that holds secure
Logic, Reason, plain Consistency, our common ground,
Making possible each conversation to be sure,
Infrastructure of our culture, verity profound.
Then . . .
Let the relativist hush, he has no argument.
Making absolutist claims without the Truth is mad.
Only schizophrenics would attempt to circumvent
Rationale with their subjective unbelieving fad.
Maybe Truth’s “behind the times,” unstylish, square, uncool,
Maybe if I cling to it they’ll call me “Simpleton.”
All I know is Truth, derided, under ridicule
Still is True, and I’ll be its “minority of one.”
Yes, I’ll make that choice to speak the Truth against the tide.
Orwell’s “revolutionary act,” though I’m alone,
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” and history replied, . . . that
Truth, though spurned, remains civilization’s Cornerstone.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
"Can I offer you a drink sir?"
He didn't flinch,
Reacting with such demur.
He resembled grief to the last inch.
Maybe he didn't hear me.
"Sir? In need of a whiskey perhaps?"
Maybe it needn't be,
But it seemed as if he was ought to collapse.
Cigarette slipped between his teeth.
Leaking wounds along his hands.
I soon noticed the blade beneath.
I knew then that he is one who understands.
His head stayed down,
Hidden behind a defence of stubble.
Long last, he came around.
"Make it a double."
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
[I bet you thought I did nothing all day.]
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXII)
Mourn in the greyish eye of dawn's void sense,
Those blue skies ere that darkness swallowed hale
Notes of sheer April. Yes. Ignore, t'avail
My soul again by memry, though's pretense.
Grab up the notebook, inking for intents
That thought which last night rolled as if to scale
Across my tongue, how "daylight savings'" bail
Is long since quite forsworn without defense.
Grey racks like Shakespeare knew oft could as twere
Yield heavn's eye chance to slip unknown all through
From East to West preside, and I demur
To catch aught languid note's detail. Thus brew
Morn's *** of Barry's tea, with toast in tour
For taste. And write of yesterday like'd do.
11Mar19b
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:23 AM UTC
the buzz and the blurrrrrr…
the absurd contingencies
the adjacency of our dependencies
(not discrepancies)
i and her
we demur the frequencies
the inconsistencies we deter
the buzz and the slurrrrrr…
what was and deferred
the efficiencies of three
us, we, but not them
and the absentee
her and me
NOT THEM
to condemn it and spin
the sins we could make
and our skin to awake
wherein we wont forsake where we begin
began
i and she
i and her
her and me
she and me
we, us
the buzz and the…
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
You’re gone at last, so at last I can think.
Insulting! Humiliating, not to be able to fire back,
As you put me once more on a mental rack.
It’s no wonder that I want a drink.
But by now I want so much more than strife.
I want to scorch your villainy with shame,
To crush your “triumph” and ruin your name,
And make you watch how you poison life.
Yet I am stuck beneath your wealth,
Undone if I demur in the least.
You spring upon me, a mental carnivore’s feast.
While I resort to stealth.
My father watched your villainy from the beyond,
from the so-called “Heaven” in which you planned to meet him,
As if that will ever happen! As if he would want to see you!
Is enlightenment part of the afterlife? You should hope so.
But since you finally let go of your empty life,
I do not miss you, don't mourn you or feel that confusion
That people say I should, that I'd be torn with strife,
No, no! Not at all—I feel nothing at all.
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 10:49 AM UTC
Do you have a boyfriend?
No way to defend
From an ignorant question like that
And it sort of offends
Want the moment to end.
Hiding it's not something that I work at
But then again
I expect in the end
It's easier just to pretend
And say, "Oh... Right now I'm not ready for that."
Try to change the subject again.
"You'll find a good man,
All the pretty girls can."
I smile, nauseous, and look down, demur,
Know she won't understand
And I'm wringing my hands
Trying to have the right answer for her.
Don't feel like taking a stand
So I just say offhand,
"Oh, thank you. Yeah, that is the plan."
And quell the resentment that stirs.
You'll meet a sweet guy
You'll surely catch his eye.
Those words start a fire in my mind.
I just want to say,
"Actually, that's not the way-
I'd much rather call a girl mine."
But instead I keep all of my
Anger locked up inside,
And say, "That's what I'm looking to find."
Their questions and comments march on without end,
No matter what happens, the talk always tends
To turn toward finding a good man for me.
I do my best to be quiet and blend,
And sometimes when they speak I like to pretend
They say "her" and "she"
And not "him" and "he"
It makes it easier then.
I can try to pretend
They'd accept a girlfriend
And with her just how happy I'd be.
I can try to pretend
They'd respect a life without men.
But what I really wish they respected is
Me.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Ms Lovepeace
Seeks no fame nor pelf
She feels bliss
When left to herself.
She craves not company
Loves not to party
For her the best moment
Is one with herself spent.
For this queer nature of Ms Lovepeace
She wasn’t ever anybody’s heartthrob
Nor was ever her cheek pecked a kiss
All she ever heard was o such a snob.
She likes it that way, she doesn’t demur
The unflattering things said behind her
She wants it and it makes her happy
Times she spends in her own company.
You may think it too mean
This dislike of her own kin
But Ms Lovepeace doesn’t mind the cost
Of enjoying the peace in her permafrost.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 7:42 AM UTC
Bikes pass the green park bench.
Arabs in Armani Express outerwear circle the natural beauty; I watch.
Demur English women plod past in ones, twos, and groups of elegance and young simple folly.
They breathe the freshness in, and again, I watch.
Aged men play with their grandchildren in the field.
I recline.
They see me watching, they all do, even the sun…
English boys with coifed hair cycle by in expensive jeans and extravagantly matched shirts run, bike, walk, stroll, and I watch.
Hyde Park is the richest public good that has become… or maybe always was…
The milieu for different races, ages, and sexes to converge, collapse, and coexist.
And for men to sit on green benches,
watching… and writing.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
A ring around the sun
An omen for the dumb
A reminder of the sum
To the faintness of our hum
There is a city in the water
Where the color whirls
She is mocking what we taught her
The demur of a world
There is a fire in the sky
Just a passer by
And if you hide your eyes
You will be surprised
There is thunder in the dirt
Sliding lands on molten rock
And if you listen to it work
You can hear it talk
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
He’s cruel and stupid, and ignores
His omened doom, pronounced, decreed,
And mine with his, no ranted screed.
Though I must speak, I pray it bores.
The direst warnings couldn’t save
My family, or those I loved.
When prophecy failed, I should have shoved
Them from the palace to some cave.
Now it’s too late to intervene,
And force can spare their murderer.
I should prevent, but I’ll demur,
And perish too. I’m just sixteen.
I’ve suffered, but don’t want to die,
Especially not matched with him.
Even so, I’ll meet my downfall prim,
Trojan royalty too brave to cry.
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 1:22 PM UTC