"deservedly" poems
*Dust on the ledge, before me, magnified
Smell of gun oil in my nostrils and cramp in the calves
The boredom of the wait intensifies,
Stale air in my loft is full of must
With the failing light I’m grateful it is almost time to stand down.
Through the cross hair sprints a target
An ordinary, everyday, running target,
I know not who this target is,
I know not why it runs across my sights,
But because it is, where it is,
It becomes my enemy.
In a microcosm of time
the loud bang alters things forever.
The buck of the rifle’s recoil,
The immediate sour stench of the shot washes back across my face.
The intoxication felt, in being the one who caresses the trigger.
The satisfaction earned in deservedly making the ****
My target spirals in mid stride,
Contorts in agony
And collapses to the rough tarmac
To lie dishevelled, an insignificant, dishevelled item.
Checking the **** through the telescopic sight
I see the rough stubble of the chin,
The nicotine stain on the fingers,
I see the colour of the eyes are pale blue.
…I know well, it will breathe no more.
With descending twilight
I trudge from my tower perch
With the long ****** rifle slung across my weary shoulders
The crones in the street glare as I walk by
There is a loathing in their aged eyes, It is a tangible thing.
I know they have no knowledge of the target,
But they know, however, that there has been a killing made for the cause.
A cold beer would be nice.
God! how I hate these young punks with purple hair.*
Marshalg
Gaza, Palestine/Mogadishu, Somalia/Kabul, Afghanistan/Tehran, Iran/Cairo, Egypt/Islamabad, Pakistan/Soweto, South Africa/Dier El Zour Province, Syria/Beirut, Lebanon/Baghdad, Iraq/Tripoli, Libya/Pristina, Kosovo/Grozny,Chechen Republic/Veracruz, Mexico/Guatemala City, Guatemala/Sao Paulo, Brazil/Moscow, Russia.
27 November 2012
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
"Beauty just is."
I have an 80's wooden plaque with a picture of an ocean somewhere and waves crashing on the rocks, written on the sky in the photo is the quote, "Beauty just is."
I believe it. So should you. Whoever you are.
I could pick apart the picture. But I won't.
Don't look for ugly.
The quote was given credit to anonymous. Deservedly so.
Anyone anywhere at anytime can recognize beauty.
This is not a duty, choose to be dutiful in all things beautiful.
There is lacquer over the picture to protect it. The lacquer makes it shine.
I find that part ironic, protecting the beauty from spills, unkind graffiti,
from any ugly thing that might happen to it.
That might mar the beauty.
It is not an easily recognizable coastline,
not a celebrity coastline
or a model coastline
or a physically outstanding coastline,
no archways of rocks
or large rocks
that have stood the test of time and erosion and wind and well, pollution.
"Beauty just is" so accept your beauty.
I am not talking to your cat or my dog, the aquarium or the stable full of horses, all those animals do not measure life in terms of beauty, only we, humans do. Animals do not judge anything on the basis of beauty, smell maybe, not necessarily good smells but strong smells, even odours.
Only we humans; also decry, put down,
use the word ugly
and write each other
off,
for not being beautiful.
But "beauty just is", beauty just is. Period.
If you are talking about a piece d'art and
you are going to shell out cash, from your stash,
make sure you buy something significantly important to you and beautiful.
As for another human being...
You have not the right or responsibility to say that someone is not beautiful.
I do not think there is
one person with the wisdom,
alive to recognize what makes
each of us beautiful.
Beauty just is, no parts, no assembly required, accept it, accept one another.
I know there are those that already get it.
I don't want them to read this and sweat it.
They don't need to. I want the bully to read this, out loud.
Beauty JUST IS. You might not get it, yet.
Keep rolling it thru your mind, a beautiful surprise awaits you.
Meditate on it.
Meditate on not the author of the quote, he is anonymous, but the Creator of beauty is not.
Be surprised, as this revelation once understood, will change your perspective on life, after all you're beautiful too.
Originally done by © DWE 2011-5-11
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
<> for the love of friends<>
How does one write
of one he knew not?
the ancillary evidence
mounts relentlessly,
the double toil and trouble moments
edged now, slow vanquished by
steady accumulation
of the evidentiary
a man who lived his life well,
will be inevitably,
nay, justifiably, deservedly
be well remembered...
one examines the evidence with
eyepiece lenses calibrated
to one's own soul,
for this is the natural condition
of humanity
yet wonder,
what manner, what scale,
does one rightly employ
to judge another's
plantings in the soil?
rightly judge another?
then you hear
a woman say,
she knew not knew
this man Eryc,
revealing an honest tertiary,
even cursory knowledge
of an anecdotal life well lived
our shared quandary,
yet she solves
this judicial issue
by asking of herself
a question
so stunningly elementary,
which both
asks and answers
the double risk
you have imposed,
to write of one you can never behold,
and in doing so,
judge thyself...
What Would Eryc Do?
this crystal rapid current question
erodes doubt, the fear to tread
where one knows not
when a stranger says to another,
indeed to many others:
heard tell of this young man,
and know now to ask myself
when I too am junctured, in doubt,
What Would Eryc Do?
there is no doubt, no juncture,
just a provident question
a makers's mark
of and upon a man,
whose future shortened,
will live far, far longer than most,
if one simple applies
a standard to one's own life of
What Would Eryc Do?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
In the heat of the night bed bugs bite.
They'll crawl up the skin for every mortal sin.
Stuck asleep while covered in fear.
Swallowed up by a land both far and near.
This is a nightmare casted by witches.
Deservedly on handsome men and beautiful *******
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
In a dream I wandered through the cathedral of death
the dust and smoke catching me in my throat
as I counted myriad of souls that flew past me
Amazed, were they, at how they now were, lost and bewildered.
And some so fresh, not of the first to die, responders
so called, who came to help, to rescue and became
part of the event, surprised in the act of dying
desperately trying to contact their loved ones
even in death, and the white dust covering all
even those who, in their mistaken belief thought
that they were martyrs and in some spiritual world
for heroes and deservedly so, looking, for virgins
but all they found was disillusion as they wept for
those whom they had dispatched to oblivion with one
fell swoop and through a trick of fate and time they
saw the future and what it would bring and were ashamed.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 12:28 PM UTC
*Yes! Yes! It's a great "Barry Hodges" memories poem involving *** and degredation!*
O Croydon, dormitory town of happy memories
With your delightfully sixties-style Ashcroft Theatre
And your many enchanting concrete underpasses!
O delightful borough so deservedly renowned
As one of the major English centres of wife-swapping,
That quintessentially bourgeous weekend pastime
And surefire antidote to inevitable marital ennui!
O gracious queen of the central south London suburbs
And gay paradise of semi-detached commutersville
O I cannot sing your praises ******* loudly enough
Nor can I deny the charms of your public toilets,
Where I have oft times enjoyed a **** with a gayish stranger!
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
I take my knowledge from architects, medieval painters and galore.
I walk along the stretch of times, Read the Canterbury Tales from folks of yore.
I've written literature in my own dialect, through the beautiful English language.
I find awe in the act of creation, new etymologies where old writers anguished.
My words: symphonies of the beloved and dead Beethoven; like the arias of Wagner.
I am the high priest, the new catholicicist propogandising as your Cardinal.
I am the spiritual technology, provided to the ailment of what we call society.
I am the new Ghandi, the Dalai Lama deservedly inspiring your piety.
I am the Luciferous angel of life, breathing heaven through the cesspool of Earth.
I am the post-modern Romeo and Juliet, Warhol's 15 minutes of fame and worth.
I am the Alexander Mcqueen, the metaphilosopher of fabric illusions.
I am the lyricist of society, speaking through the castrated eunychs.
I am Stephanie Myer, inspiration of vampiric genius to adolescent impressionables.
I am Jane Austen, author of new age thrillers such as The Secret and Lesbian Misérables
I am the eclipsing of twilight, the post-mortem autopsy of a rotting cadaver.
I am Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson, legends inspiring a race of sleeping pill grabbers.
I am the Blockbuster, the Titanic Avatar, $4.9 Billion to children in poverty.
I am Gangnam Style, 2.5 Billion viewers of the Palestinian Bombings.
I am modern philosophe, the birth giver of Socrates, Plato, Nietzsche, Derrida.
I am Steve Jobs, terrible father, tyrant and billionaire technological reliever.
I am God, the predeccesor and successor of all eternal life.
I am Satan, damnation and strife.
I am Tupac, rapper of gangster warfare. Inspirational to first world degenerates.
I am Oprah, most powerful black woman with white hillbilly aesthetics of Ellen Degeneres.
Thank you, to world's only true Genius.
Hail Kanye West, our one and only revered Yeezus.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
The Art Teacher
for the one whose initials mean morning
"teaching art isn't about teaching art. it's just about letting people be - letting them be them, showing them it's ok. i don't know...that's why i like it. everyone is so scared...i like to try to show them they don't have to be afraid."
~~~~~~~
writ by one woman,
an art teacher
whose young life story
is a chain refrain,
*put it on me,
put it down right on me*
her see
nowadays
is her sea
of nowadays nothing but troubles,
ocean thirteen fathoms deep
what hasn't gone wrong,
just wasn't worth
being put on the list
we all need someone to lean on,
so here I am,
leaning on her,
surprise!
her prize,
a strength so profound
when depths plummeted,
she curses the dark deservedly
then writes me
another poem and
her sinking ship
never goes under,
despite life's repeated
offensive attempts
to play her,
down after down
you see she gets it,
not quite rightly,
she
is an artwork,
momentarily
needy for a frame suitable,
and I,
well,
am in a museum gallery
admiring her,
for she is great
art,
and from great
trouble,
her art grows greater,
her persona painting
simpler and straighter
so here I am thinking
student minoring in art,
think she is an art,
a teacher majoring
in teaching how to be
so here I am laughing,
my pandora gremlin
does it again,
playing games,
first "Lean On Me"
and then
"Let It Be"
so let her be,
so she can teach
the art of letting us
be
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
Be patriotic,
Patriotic be
Everyone,
You and me.
Heigh ** Shout thou.!
For thy land's song, for thy land's fair renown.
That man shall be as dark as Erebus,
whose ***** ne'er growled to return,
'That was my land, my dear native it was'
the one: ne'er hath this said, ne'er hath this sung
Such a man, through angel's marks,
would go down and deeper at the eventual phase;
Regardless of what he receives o'er there;
A tainted metal and deservedly disgrace
Be patriotic,
Patriotic be
Everyone,
You and me.
Heigh ** Shout thou.!
For thy land's song, for thy land's fair renown.
He'll hath high titles and seamless wealth,
selfish wishes shall ask;
Despite those medals, rewards and honours he will trip,
faltering and facing the blast
Thou don't be the one,
work for thy fair mother's renown,
incessant be,
or doubly die, with a fading pronoun
To the vile dust from whence thee sprung,
Unnamed, unhonour'd and unsung
You'll receive what you doth give,
To your mother, nature and kin
Be patriotic,
Patriotic be
Everyone,
You and me.
Heigh ** Shout thou.!
For thy land's song, for thy land's fair renown.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
Born in a bevy of robust, good joy
Raised by irascible those who employed
Dubious methods to coax and convince
A conniving compliance from this little Prince.
He stole what he could as he played a sharp game
And accrued a doubtful reputation of shame,
He cheated at cards and stole from the rich
And called all the tarts on the corner… a *****
And in taking the **** in a fat, farty way
He went on to run a fast gauntlet…and say
“I’ve now passed the buck to an honourable sod
Whose specialty lies in allegiance to God”
In thus doing he wagered a bet both ways
To the Devil he sang and to Jesus he prayed.
To his mistress he lied as he bedded her well
Tho his wife hit the road with the milkman from Hell,
His kids all cavorted with *** and with sin….
Then the whole mess contused like a shroud over him.
Morose and confused, whilst simpering in bed
Moans now, quite deservedly,…” Better off dead!”
M.
8 November 2017
In a wet Waikato Spring
NEW ZEALAND
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Pigs, chickens, goats, ducks, geese, turkeys;
feed them all.
Always as a girl she walked without shoes.
She played in the mud and yet was still beautiful.
Up and down she chased that boy.
The painter boy;
the one who did not all that much care for mud.
The big man with the heavy boots stopped coming here;
many years ago he stopped.
The three ladies with the pointy shoes came then.
I became ridden with new holes and dips daily.
I became even more worn and torn up.
One would think I spent all my time with the likes of chickens;
continuously pecking and clawing and picking.
Ripping me away from myself layer by layer.
Mostly I waited;
waited for all of them to just leave.
Leave her to her farm.
To her animals.
To her life.
One night,
just as the sun decided to sleep,
she left; slipping away.
The ladies with the pointed shoes were gone.
She was leaving too.
But mercy!
Her feet were not bare and her calluses were hidden.
I knew soon life for us all would change.
For on her feet there was something new.
Glass slippers soft as silk caressed my face.
The hems of white satin and silk slipped over my eyes carefully.
She was afraid but anticipation shook her breath,
and weighed her feet.
I wished her luck and sent warm prayers up through me.
I waited patiently,
the rain pounded rudely upon me and
the night raced on.
It held feelings of pain but also of hope,
and I waited.
After humiliation and hurt passed,
carrying defiance and anger with them,
joy and happiness exploded in the air
as forgiveness spread silently around.
Satisfaction crept slyly in and decided to stay.
With petty arrogance the three of them pranced;
down the steps and across my face, stabbing me
with every new step.
They laughed and taunted and gossiped,
reveling in what splendor they thought they had,
and the royalty they believed they deservedly were to receive.
With false fragility they were lifted into the coach
where they sat with straight backs, gloved hands, bejeweled
everywhere they could be...
The ladies with the pointed shoes didn’t come back.
No, but she did.
Of course she did, she had to say
So long for now, even though
every once and awhile she’d be back.
Now someone else would tend the pigs,
the chickens, the goats and ducks and geese and turkeys.
Someone else with calloused feet and a ragged dress
would walk me over each morning.
But I didn’t care.
I smiled, that is, if dirt can do such things.
Cause as sure as anything in the world,
she was happy.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
It first served as a conduit.
Somewhere pure to place
passions, pressures and people.
Now this place has become a board
where we must match
eachothers movement
with our own critical thinking.
Each tile filled with recycled lies
hidden within fresh new lines,
where every throw of the dice
could win you the round
or move you back in the ranks,
desperate and drained,
deservedly so.
The totems we've chosen for ourselves
move hastily through the rules,
guidelines and restrictions,
hoping that the next 'chance' card
we draw
might instead read 'fate,'
and that the game will finally cease.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
How often it’s said “trust is earned”
Oh but it holds far more
For at times it should just be!
For the persons worth!
For how they hold your heart!
For how else did you earn them as part of your life?
Yet through acidic traits and scars of those so traitorous that we allowed in!
There will be doubt in the purest that deservedly own a special place in our hearts!
Yes trust shouldn’t just be earned for those I speak of, it’s in no uncertain terms!
By default deserved!
YET!
Shallowly,
How we allow these scars left by our past experiences by ignoble people, to tarnish what should just be!
So to My so true, without reserve if ever unappreciated in moments of blindness,
You are a True Treasure!
More than thanks be due!
But for the great person you are! you back me anyhow!
Wow a sheer blessing you are!
My love be yours with no refrain!
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
Àdùké
Priceless is your worth to me
Even than cedars of Lebanon
You're to me the best gift
Divination graciously gifted
Never you stop "fìfé kémi"
Cos daily as I live
I long after constant assurance
Of your never lying love.
"Àdùké mí, eléyinjú egé"
Your cynosural eyes is captivating
So foxy that I'm knotted to you
Mindless mouths saying I'm influenced
By your pungent "èfó rírò"
If it's so, better it continually so
For upon this "èfó rírò" I helplessly
Want to be endeared to your unfading love.
"Àdùké elérin èye"
My priceless jewel
A simple definition of sincere beauty
The two "tóóró" on the either side of your cheeks
Signal muscle to my meaty lips
Sparkling euphoria of planting pecks and kisses
I often grow, each moment you wear a smile.
Àdùké mi
Gifted are your "ìbàdí àrán"
Way too delightful its rigmarole
Following your queenly walking steps
It's intensely appealing and optically endearing
I bet it's simply "àwòmáleèlo"
Little wonder my heart sticks to you
And my mind often caresses the thoughts of you.
Àdùké please "f'owówónú"
I know I've wrought deservedly of your angst and goodbye
But apologetically I beseech you
To not flip out nor bust up
Forget, forgive and stay with me
Sail me on your forever love voyage
Assuredly, you're my eterlove
My world without you is unimaginable!
©'Felaoye
#penmightierthansword
+2348065921819
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC
Prodded skin,
Outwards, within
Hope courses like
Wild horses.
I will kick this stuff
Get back to the right rough,
Deservedly sore,
Fealty a'more.
Heavy lidded eyes,
Controlled by the lies,
Love is stronger,
Hold me a little longer.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC
i cried for you last night
sobbing into my pillow
i was wrought with the pain of loss
so fresh
it was as if you'd just left me
i am so sorry
i am still so overcome with guilt
i can't seem to let go
i had let you down
you
my most precious love
you
who trusted me to take care of
you
i wasn't there for
you
and, deservedly
my heart shattered
i am so sorry
there's no thing that can fix that
i know...
i've tried
i am so sorry
it's funny though
because i know you'd forgive me
but i can't forgive myself
and until that day comes,
if it ever comes,
my heart will never be the same
without you.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
So innocently and beautifully created,
Though a life’s entirety can be utterly spent in search, imperfectly patient and imperfectly sated.
For that love you can be immortalised with,
Even unchanged by jealous Time, that weaves itself between hearts and minds, with nothing to take but only to give,
Though is it true lovers souls can forever live...
Life can be without and ones own life without in turn,
But life is no life at all without gentle fire that can be held with no burn,
A passionate fire that all mortal hearts deservedly yearn.
Love is truly more complex than mortality will ever know,
Seemingly with power to transcend our hearts and souls so much so,
That we can continue to be, long after our spiritual self is freed.
It’s easy to think we are so much in love today, and even more so tomorrow,
Though frightful to think that this Love may turn to sorrow.
Inevitably we may need to let go, we cannot keep what is merely borrowed.
I am Jimmy.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:57 AM UTC
LOL! Your Elbow this Award does support
Since your Elders submerged to this Fact
A Model indeed; With far more rapport
More than any of us would keep intact
For the Plym's Primmed Legacy did partake
To testify your Undisputed Youth
Which rightly owned your Promises did make
For a City begging its Fresh Review
This time I'm glad that you shared this with Some
Who, by Right, their Light deservedly shine
Though, sampled only mere Sentiments come
Still their Impact does greatly reflect thine.
Upon your Retreat, the Trophy slaps your Bed
Wishing a softer Pew; Whilst you Rest dead.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
If you didn't already know better,
You might mistake me as driven..
If you knew none to the contrary,
You may think I have success envisioned..
If you didn't know otherwise,
You might assume I have will to function..
***Actually, the truth is deservedly frowned-upon...
I tend to possess mostly prescription ambitions..***
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
upon reading your poem
Tremor^
and this what I think:
when reading your seamless
writing connecting of moments
of immortality,
only one question remains,
why, does our own writing
not approach the level of your exquisite precision
soul's ***********
is it our
own immorality
that permits our soon-to-be-
discontinued pretenses,
wherein, whereby,
we can still believe
our own words should be
deservedly disowned,
disinherited to the
scrap heap heated,
burned, eradicated
and
why do we even try?
sigh
>.<
dare not read it twice,
lest my inked fingertips
surrender to my
indecent indecision
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 5:19 AM UTC