"derides" poems
My African culture
Uprooted from my ancestors
And pused on from generation to generation
My African culture- might seem
wied sounds funny or looks like a
**** but these carry alot of benedictions
My African culture tells the story of were we
came from and most probably were we are heading
My African culture describes and names itself
there is really no need for a heading
My African culture the one source of pride and
Joy
My African culture hard to replace yet easy to enjoy
My African culture oh my beautiful culture
my soul screams in joy from the energy of my
people and from the rythm of the African drum my
heart beats
movements degin within my feet
my inner voice telling me to move
in a fleet
I dispiss and dislike a person who
malingers or derides his culture,such
a beautiful thing,such a precious
, Special thing
My African culture tells the true
tells of fallen legends, of great worriors
And of most celebrated heros though
it never varies the tall in the telling
Now that's my Wonderful African culture
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:13 AM UTC
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****
Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.
Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.
Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:
Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
a question
is posed..
touted as
most pressing as
our century unfolds:
Who am I..?
a phrase and cliche
proposes to reply
through the back door:
those talking-points
sometimes official
often serve to accuse..
the accuser
points to those points..
derides the masking
of original I am..
sad choice to repeat
health to reveal..
those points have
not just arrived..
dogmas of old
others brand new..
a sage once prescribed:
self-reliance on
Whim...!
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Hearts ecstatic
kindred spirits
thoughts elope
seas wash over like a blanket
warm and quiet words
silent hope
whispers of desire
mired with complexity
patience begetting tranquility
kindness derides fear
stifled anxious inquiry
fate sings eloquently
hand in hand with time defeated
smile to smile the gaze instills
the sun still rises even so
a kiss remembered
our time together
never once forgotten
beauty therein held deep
truly remarkable and unique
my eyes upon you effortlessly
happiness just in knowing
you
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
"Forever" is such a foolish word,
To its promise we're held like a slave,
Too often love is vowed forever
And then hurtled toward an early grave
Without shame, "forever" deceives us,
For what it vows, it can't deliver,
Like a stream that can't float a dried leaf,
Yet, it boasts like a mighty river
Yes, "forever" is a finite word
Eternity must find amusing,
Just a carelessly shared expression
We mortals delight in abusing
"Forever" derides reality
Even when spoken with good intent;
But only fools believe "forever,"
And soon discover its value spent
Yet, we need "forever" in our lives,
This word, uttered with bold endeavor,
This beacon that lights our darkest hours,
Can we just cast it aside? Never!
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
There's a regret
So grinding, so immitigably sad,
Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . .
Do you not know it yet?
For deeds undone
Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due,
Till there seems naught so despicable as you
In all the grin o' the sun.
Like an old shoe
The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie
About the beach of Time, till by and by
Death, that derides you too--
Death, as he goes
His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray,
With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way;
And then--and then, who knows
But the kind Grave
Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm,
In that black bridewell working out his term,
Hanker and ***** and crave?
'Poor fool that might--
That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be,
Think of it, here and thus made over to me
In the implacable night!'
And writhing, fain
And like a triumphing lover, he shall take
His fill where no high memory lives to make
His obscene victory vain.
1.1k
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Languages are elastic realities of ages
Going beyond political and historical chauvinism
That selfishly blends into exclusive nations
The European languages we slavishly speak
In diversity of the world is a ****** testimony,
Ostensible Afro-American cultural civilization
Are mere protégés of transplanted tongues
In forlorn position of knowledge
That derides cultural Darwinism
Unto this last that Language
is born and grow from the native soil,
Nurtured by facts of history in timbre of altruism
Where misfortune of history ***** my stature
Planting unknown and unnamed language
In my ****** soil of pristine times
My conscience not yet passively accepting
The changing misfortunes of the transplanted English
As they are at current times
The negations of vicious cultural Darwinist
Condemning me a victim of tonguistry.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Walking past the playground at the park
in the center of my grown up city
I hear children, but do not look at them,
their parents’ eyes seem to glare at me.
As I carry on, earbuds infecting my head
their vibrant laughter derides my shady afternoons indoors,
the things my mother said.
Once I wanted to drink grape Kool-Aid, but my mother wasn’t home
and even though she’d told me not to, I decided to make myself some.
I climbed up in the cupboard and took the faded pitcher
then I took the translucent canister below, in which my mother stored her sugar.
I mixed the sugar and synthetic flavor with a knife
a cloud of purple powder rising up.
Despite the fragrant odor, I couldn't be sure I’d added enough.
After the ingredients dissolved, I was ready to drink.
I took a big boy, breakable glass cup from the counter and washed it in the sink.
I dried the cup and set it there, beside the pitcher on the table
But when I raised the pitcher up to pour juice in the glass,
my little arms were just too feeble.
The pitcher slipped, as I lost grip and everything got wet.
As I took white cloths to sop up what I'd done,
the Kool-Aid fell in torrid sheets from the table's edge into my mouth
as warm Summer rain did years later, inhibiting a game I didn't want to play.
The water falling was relaxing and sweet for me both times.
Each accident was my momental, purple rain delay.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 6:32 PM UTC
If only it were justice to ****
a mocking bird.
The fauna that derides one,
stares one down
and dominates
with the entirety of Nature behind it.
I'm stuck, my blood dripping
fresh from its feathers.
It leaves me empty with its cries;
lonely and one dies.
Absorbed, engorged,
elapsed, and relapsed.
Nothing works,
and nothing's clean;
everything's a nightmare,
and it used to be a dream.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 7:58 AM UTC
Curfew dogs pay no
heed to black sheep
Darkness differentiation
derides no delegates
Church bells silence
testicular pendulums
Hands semaphore -
timeless clock towers
Shadowless alleys
cat controlled kerbs
Embers doused, ashen
Phoenix faces cindered
Light rationed through
ill fitting shutters
Charred wood remnants
wafting weightlessly
Whispering eavesdrops
cobblestone chattering
Town crier echoing in
mnemonic mutterings
A rising intonation
dies on rebound, silence.
<>
Lockdown |ˈlɒkdaʊn|
nounN. Amer.
the confining of prisoners to their cells, typically in order to regain control during a riot. the lockdown has been in effect since October 1983.
• a state of isolation or restricted access instituted as a security
measure: the university is on lockdown and nobody has been able to leave.
<>
Curfew |ˈkəːfjuː|
noun
a regulation requiring people to remain indoors between specified hours, typically at night: a dusk-to-dawn curfew | [ mass noun ] : the whole area was immediately placed under curfew.
• the hour designated as the beginning of a curfew. [ mass noun ] : to be abroad after curfew without permission was to risk punishment.
• the daily signal indicating the beginning of a curfew: they had to return before the curfew sounded.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 9:12 AM UTC
I cannot abide the horrors in the hours when the coming day
Shouts and pulls at yesterday and derides him for a job poorly done
Leaving unfinished business on the table.
Scraps and bones
Tatterd sinew.
Skin.
Poor execution has left tomorrow
With rotting clutter. Hear him
Mutter.
Not at rest fully now surfacing psyche able to stir
after corps-like slumber judgement at the ready.
Shake the foreboding feeling
walking
through a graveyard something inches from my back
Grinning at my ignorance.
Pondering surprise.
Wake up and push the stone uphill
wake up and take your pill.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor….
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
E.A. Poe
When we were younger we walked paths of beauty
Up dusty steps before the sunrise
Until the sun rose over red stone arches
Through the mist of rainbows from the falls
And the golden eagles screamed over us
Flying down the long trails of morning
Though we were afraid, we thought that maybe
We knew enough and loved enough to follow the dawn
Surely there was more to our journey than
Shiny vehicles surrounded by summer lawns
Living in false palaces while the forests burned around us
Life broke us many times and our pride
Like damaged feathers pulled us down
We could not find the true song
There were strange voices from the stars
But no one believed our translations
Now we are older, our hands are worn
We are so weary
And the Raven has come
His eyes are shiny and feathers black
He moves his head to one side
With a cynical call he derides our struggles
Tells us, “No more dreaming
No more wistful stories of the time before,
Nevermore.”
Though my heart is still burning
With broken dreams and misplaced lore
I have not forgotten the cerulean blue morning skies
The voices of ancient children still singing
And my love laughing by the waters
Perhaps this old Raven will attend me
Another journey though our wings are sore
And oversee another sunrise
On those beautiful, blissful shores.
Gibbens, 2015
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
Existing is that state
that links
the present temporality
to the infinity of time
man dangles
between two polarities
he strives and struggles
to understand and too often
he is frustrated and disillusioned
for the larger part of his life
seems shrouded in incomprehensibility --
the monotony, vexation, ennui--even inanity
and there seems no escape
from the meaningless round
of just existing-while time mocks and derides
without a single whit of sympathy.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
My African culture
Uprooted from my ancestors
And pused on from generation to generation
My African culture- might seem
Like a taboo , sounds funny or looks like a
**** but this carrys alot of benedictions
My African culture tells the story of were we
came from and most probably were we are heading
It describes and names itself so
there is really no need for it given a heading
My African- culture the one source of pride and
Joy
hard to replace yet easy to enjoy
My African culture oh my beautiful culture
my soul screams in joy from the energy of my
people and from the rythm of the African drum my
heart beats
movements degin within my feet
my spirit telling me to move
in a fleet
I dispiss and dislike a person who
malingers or derides his culture,such
a beautiful thing,such a precious
, Special thing
My African culture tells the true
tells of fallen legends, of great worriors
And of most celebrated heros yet
it never varies the tall in the telling
Now that's my Wonderful African culture
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 11:40 AM UTC
Names are funny funny things
like a bell that often rings.
Time brings in its crazy swings;
surf the web and memory pings.
Can't negotiate this site;
rhymes are all I can recite.
Well, I here submit a flight
of feeble rhymes to frame my plight:
I cannot find a Councilman
McClester, a real gentleman.
If you the poet and that man
are different, then this dumb fan
will simply have to find more guides
where Councilman McClester hides.
But if it's here the C'man bides
and frees your soul as it derides
in lay upon delightful lay
the foibles of the current day,
then I can only truly say
your probity has made my day.
Geoffrey Riggs
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
LIFE’S ETERNAL STORY
Enough has been said
Too much, indeed—no more--
The river of words has gone dry
All past words and deeds have been washed ashore.
Who then is the victor?
And who is the vanquished?
Even the mightiest and strongest
Have kissed the dust and into oblivion vanished.
Some say: life is a cheat and a thief
Others say: it is a sweet song
Yet there are others who are indifferent
Who then is right and who is wrong?
One sage says:
This is the way
Another derides
Ideological clashes never go away.
The poor have hope
The rich have fear
Who is happier-
What in life should one hold most dear?
Who are the foolish
And who are the wise?-tell me
Who is the judge?
But none is the authority.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
Painters strive for the perfect stroke
Comedians look for the perfect joke
Writers seek to engage or provoke
**** stars strain for the perfect poke
Students grind, hoping they won’t choke
Trump derides his conviction as a hoax
Yachtsmen yearn for the perfect boat
Social climbers aspire to be bespoke
Politicians pretend to be regular folk
Workers yearn to throw off their yoke
Golfers train for a consistent stroke
Flyers pray their Boeing isn’t broke
Stoners want the ultimate ****
A smile is what I want to provoke
.
.
A song for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Jun 3, 2024
Jun 3, 2024 at 8:04 AM UTC
each day i struggle to stay alive;
the war inside of me has outstayed it’s welcome.
the ghost of my past derides every step i make.
so needy.
always seeking attention
still
you never have anything to offer,
but you hold high the audacity to take all that does not belong to you.
like happiness.
you see me smiling and bombard my concious mind with a million reasons why i don’t deserve to smile.
i have been trying to silence you but i am finding that there is no silencing.
you exist for a reason i may soon understand.
without you
i may never understand.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC