"differed" poems
for Tascha
deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,
drowning the next contemporaneous
depression thought quickly swallowed,
desperation in quick glances everywhere,
dawn is no consolation but just another
daily drawing tighter of twine cutting
disillusionment
dear god, commences every thought,
delayed answers have yet to arrive,
**** the deity's non-responsivness,
dare not say out loud lest,
deserved fates be worse, be realized,
didn't know? how can that be?
disguiser par excellent, I am the original
deceiver
But I never think about
death or dying, for that would be
defeat finale, a statute to, a status of none, a
destiny some wick spark, still insists can be
deferred
differed always,
diffidently, but grasping yet at the
double entendre that is my
dark vision of a future already past
May 2015
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
My brother, you quietly succumbed to death.
Why do you defeat yourself I implore?
For cruel injustice had done by poor health
To rob of good of life you may explore.
Despite our vigil you went just the same.
In times of great wonders still suffered,
With scientific breakthroughs, and what a shame.
What possible way death can be differed?
Sleep in peace in tranquility brother;
Oh, leave this world to us, to concern, to think.
Some lives toiled for many, some no other,
Some only lives on merriment and drink.
Here laid he in soil of red burial earth,
And free of cares and rest for all it's worth.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Well where do we start?
Bob,
That answers a lot of questions before asked.
He was a vegan, kind of?
Never did he linger on thoughts of animal flesh,
vegan you could single him upon in certain words.
He would not linger on the animal nutritional formalities.
Could he linger on the repulsive tastes of pork, beef, lamb.
He would heave at mere thoughts of digesting these
peaceful recipients of the plant we delve all upon.
But even fish was out of his lingering taste buds.
He did how ever have a taste that differed from the
palettes of most, for it was of those he called friend.
He contorted on the repulsiveness of what his hunger
desired in wanting attention, but as those around waited
for there inevitable ending. He lingered on how they were savoured.
Bankruptcy of morals was his downfall, he saw others as
just meat sacks. Things that were as wanting in consumption
as those they fed upon, There screams were so inviting.
Have you heard an animal scream. No they don't, they
just look cynical in why your ending, their existence and stare.
Where we cry like lambs to the slaughter of our ending.
Emotion makes those that tear salt upon features
taste that much better than those unintelligent creatures
that just except there oblivion with eyes of so be it.
I have a sickness that thrives on the taste of you superficial
fear that I will not end you. No I will cease you light and
endeavour to feed on you lifeless carcass now silent.
*"Hi I'm Bob I'm a vegan struggling with the concept of
no meat in my diet, I don't eat animal, but I still linger
for the taste of meat inbetween of my moist lips and teeth.*
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
We come and go
like the seasons that forever change,
what mystery to know where the road
will take us in a life time.
If remembering our past,
it would indefinitely shape our future.
We are one in human nature
but our nurture sets us apart,
therefore “all men are created equal”,
but what divides us is a broken highway
to the shadowed valley of death.
Fear no evil in what lies ahead
for the future is bright
in mind,heart and soul.
A kingdom is beyond our grasp,
but the depths of our sanity
are determined by a sociological
and psychological point of view.
How would one determine
the preconceived notion of self worth,
all while understanding that is it capable
to lose ourselves in the laws of the world?
Choose not to live for the "structure" of the world,
but live for acknowledgement
that there is a tomorrow
and we are in control.
We will all be admired by
our strength, courage and beliefs,
even if your views differed
from other individuals.
No matter the sin that bestowed us,
these were our core values
amongst faith itself.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
She strolled along the narrow pathway through
the park. Her soft skirt flitting in the breeze,
her long legs smooth and pampered, sandaled feet
took mellow steps under the Springtime sun.
She caught the eye of Fred, who from his book
rose up bespectacled and drank the scene
of one young beauty carried by the breeze,
and thanked the Lord for all His wondrous things.
She noticed that he noticed and she sneered,
disdainfully and crushed him with the lids
of scornful eyes that closed upon his face,
and cursed the womb that birthed this pervert live.
She caught the eye of Tom, whose magazine
dropped to the bench from fingers preening hair,
his lion's gaze devouring this gazelle,
and she took notice of his notice there.
She threw back hair and turned to meet his gaze
with sideways glance, a wink, and half pursed lips,
amazed a stroll from bench to bench could find
a pervert and a stud so side by side.
Both men came to the park to sit and read,
and read indeed, then both, like men, did do
what men so do, and neither differed there,
yet one was deemed a pervert, one a stud.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Here is a tale of a dog and a cat
And a *** bellied pig, so pink and so fat
Of days in the garden alongside a farm
A whimsical story of magic and charm
The dog as he was of bushy descent
Yellow in color where ever he went
Digging a hole was his prime source of fun
As a matter of fact he had just finished one
The collar he wore was a leathery find
With studs made of silver so brightly it shined
His tail ever wagging, a happy old guy
He hung with is friends as the hours passed by
The cat on the other hand, sleek and so fine
A coat made of orange with stripes it combined
Cleaning a habit I see in all cats
But this one was special for it wore a hat
A tiny straw chapeau with fine feathered brim
A ribbon of pink that was wrapped round her chin
Though not really sure if a cat finds the style
But more as I looked I would bet that she smiled
And there to her left with a snort and a grunt
Was a portly built fellow the legs of a runt
Fine wispy hair that did cover the skin
With a gather of long ones that hung from his chin
Puffing along an attempt to keep pace
The dog and the cat and the pig they would race
Faster and faster they’d run through the fields
Though what was the secret of friendship revealed
None were the same as they differed and so
Still bound together a’ running they’d go
Never before as I think about that
Has a dog or a pig ever friended a cat
For ever so prissy, no memories jog
A cat who was friends with a pig and a dog
Though still I could see right abreast of my eyes
These three companions did bring the surprise
What is the moral of all that I see?
It sure does not matter of your company
Whether a dog or a pig or a cat
You can make friends with whomever you chat
People are different in color and race
But everyone seems to be wearing a face
A face that can smile, a face that can cry
A face that can hello or even good bye
If only we look at each other the same
Will we find fortune in learning their name
No matter the differences that we might see
It pays for each of us to every time be
Nice to each other and all things like that
Just like the dog and the pig and the cat
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
it was a Sunday afternoon
when I walked across the park
there were already a dozen people
gathered at the house across
throughout the years, this park has seen my many roles
a lover, at age 16
gently caressing the hair of the boy I adored
a wife, at age 26
exchanging vows with the man I loved
a mother, at age 36
kissing the spot where my son had scratched himself
it was a Sunday afternoon
when Death took away the love of my life
with his fleeting cloak and gleaming scythe
he was the love of my life
when he was putting on my wedding ring
or when he was cradling Jim
and even when he walked out on our suburban dream
he had always been the love of my life
and here I was
at age 46
in the park
the first time of my life when our roles had differed
I, the widow
and he, the dead man
it was a Sunday afternoon
and it was one of the quietest Sundays I ever had.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
He had wandered far in his truth quest.
A man by law, with 19 years he can attest
and ended up stuck in the west.
With limited cash in his name,
as he had abjured his family's fame.
Since his beliefs differed in his chest.
The family ideals were deceptively lenient.
Kindness was taught but he had never seen it.
His views were seen as unnaturally scenic.
A family that preached their branded acceptance,
made the man sing their praises and dance
with their rhythmic rants.
Maybe he is just a rebel;
A phase where instead he sings treble,
because the bass is in a bubble.
His head shakes and dusts rains,
falling just like earthly remains.
The ideas caused by yesterday's pains.
Heartful man, take care in the west
Listen as lives differ with the rest.
Make a pledge and mind the dread
Keep a level head.
Keep a level head.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
I sat in a cafe one morning
held a latte with my cold hands
I stared out the window
to watch the white crystals
falling from the sky
most people take advantage of them
some even despise them
snowflakes
all varied and unique
they fall to the ground and join with the rest
that's what happens to us
we let society shape us
we once differed from each other
had our own personalities
but we lost those charms
when we decided to follow society
to do what everyone does
the snowflakes have no choice
gravity pulls them down
to lose their charm
but we have all the choices to make
to stay beautiful
and unique
-m.e.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.
The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.
He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’
While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.
There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.
Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.
The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’
He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!
But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.
It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
I saw great shade-casting green built upon pines,
like statues ripped the Earth stretching up to the skies.
Never could you reach, and yet you live to try,
But the heaven and the Earth seem lovers by design.
Billowing clouds, feeding roots that build shrines
that I won't live to see completely arise.
For my own pallid self - or for beauty - heart cries?
They stand so stoic and draped, in flowers and vines.
As I'm lost in the calls of the overhead crows
rained in each fluttering fall of feather delivered.
Drop. Like my once-glossed eyes emptying this soul
and my weighty life into the likewise sobbing river.
Casting out, casting off. Isn't it the same as to sow?
The river does not pause; why then dwell on what differed?
Feb 6, 2022
Feb 6, 2022 at 6:02 PM UTC
Back in the twenty first century
The world was in chaos.
There was no World Gov.
Democracy was limited to certain “Nations”
As such territories were called.
(We were so territorial then).
Millions died of malnutrition
In places called “Asia”, “Africa” and elsewhere.
Factions fought for land, resources
And “Religious” beliefs
That I will describe to you later.
In those days people were persecuted
For their race, gender
And any way in which they differed from “the norm”.
Anyone who spoke up against injustice
And countless other wrongs
Was branded “Un-PC”
Humiliated
Before his (or her) peers.
Those were troubled times,
Back in those “frontier days”.
Be thankful we are now civilised:
United Human Race,
Worldwide Democracy,
People Loving,
Compassionate
For the Good of All.
Welcome to my history class.
Let us learn from our mistakes,
And never repeat them.
Paul Butters
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
The society we live in has differed and changed
No matter how we try we never shall stray
The matter of peace is no more up for discussion
The outcome is utter disruption
The period of talking has expired
The time comes of execution
And there shall never be any resolution...
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
You asked for a poem,
but the truth is,
I don't know how to put us into words.
We are so imperfect.
But when I hug you, and lift your tiny, feather-weight self from gravity's grip,
there is nothing more familiar.
I could squeeze all night, try to squeeze you into myself,
where maybe I could keep you safe—be the hardened outer-layer to my little Lemon Drop.
We met at an age far from simple.
thirteen's complexities of spirit
is made up of much more than
ugly or pretty
white or black
sad or happy
mismatched or a puzzle piece fit.
It is made up of pieces, or wholes.
You came
olive skinned,
brown hair—with eyes to match,
laughter that tickled at the throat of any nearing neighbor,
and a smile that held both truth and fallacy.
The pretty one who fretted over petty.
You came,
In pieces.
I came
Fair skinned,
blonde hair and blue eyes,
an imagination that couldn't escape even itself,
and confidence unfit for such a character.
I came,
a whole.
Our friendship
came like love—unexpected and almost ungraceful
at first.
Our paths had history,
but this was where both of our stories began,
at the edge awkward
at the brink of becoming.
As time passed
it even felt like love now and then
I your rock,
you my little slice of sunshine.
As time passed
our bridges split our interests differed,
but we never lost sight of the pieces to our whole.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
I came, you came.
I smiled, you grimaced.
I laughed, you scoffed.
I admired, you differed.
I loved, you rejected.
I cried, you boasted.
I stood, you cowered.
I smiled, you frowned.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
Forgone into the nether realms of grief
with piths embalming loves' corrosive drear.
Bemused; for worldly plush negates relief,
If woes be - known; how differed earths veneer?
Verdure would tinge a molten shade of lime
the oaks will mourn their leaves, and cease the Spring's
with wilting plumes adrift the songbirds prime
and dimmed the sun as dark as lovelorn brings.
For pebbled hues of grey will shroud the skies
and cursive lacquer; etch this sickly mold,
the winds will howl forebodes of vows and lies,
no more shall grace nurture upon this wold.
This suffered love cascades and dwells as deep
if even touched by Gods - would thunder weep.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
And I gave my First Snowglobe to them.
…And When I had given that to them, I had told him to give me a gift in return that may have more to itself than just simple life.
“Inahah oona sept amni kquestal”.
Yet I had no other thing to give, this broken soul, beyond more than just flesh, I was naught. And so she had nothing more to me than that of the great overtone, the great silence of the earth, of space, her arms stretching invisible to hold our gaze to her innumerable foreign light show and state--
Perhaps there is another lover of soul somewhere within?
And he said simply to me, that there is someplace for me to be, someone for me to see-- that there was innumerable and inexplicable, incalculable and incomprehensible, powerful and overwhelming deterministic fate that guides my eyes, lets me chose without choosing, think without thinking, know without knowing.
And he knew—and she knew—and they knew with a knowing that I can never know; true and whole and unspoken, I can only dream to describe.
"We made the world for us, for you."
And I felt their love radiate that ferrous heart, steeled with centuries of pain and removal, heated by the ***** of her truth and guided by the loving, tender hand of his true brilliance that blinded and pleasured my aching eyes.
The entire web of the cosmos, in my eyes, dreaming and thinking that maybe I’d be back there one day, whole, float-- bool and cruelty of world inconsequential within the vast expanse of everything—
A powerful, emanative, restorative code of the universe that held itself no information but all, no hate but the misidentified ache of longing love, differed from the soul of the grinding earth—so far away from god through sickly skin and broken bone that without expanding into time and vaporizing into pure light, these feelings which we can never know.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 10:58 PM UTC
I remember this one time that
You and I went to the beach and
We fell in love as we
Got up early to watch the sun rise and
Kissed and held hands and cared not
At all
Who was watching.
I had never felt love like that
So thrilling and still
Reciprocal and
Just so head over heels
I couldn't tell where was up and
How it differed from down
As my head twisted around your
Stone cold exterior and
Cracked the surface as I
Crumbled.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Singing with a stolen voice
Borrowed tongue, the song of choice
Would have to be
Of ice and fire majesty.
To run from here on others' feet
A differed meter, with which to meet
A girl whom I've known before
Though now we drink and gamble more.
Her persona, then, was gently sore;
I see none of the scars we bore
As children, though now I see
The scars she left now complete me.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
*and i smiled into my father’s face and eyes
when i wrote this, and he set off to work
and i set off to bed to sleep off
having fed the hangover to appear by noon of what i thought
to be the next day... :)
indeed i did feel lazy being a poet and not being a
journalist. and i know the dead poets' society
still lives on! it still lives on! even though he was an actor,
the dead poets' society still lives on!
but i still have my father's strength at 6am as a roofer
than the weakness of a poet at 6am in wish to be
a roofer - most of the agonies of man are explained by the strenghts / “apathies” of animals... who share none of our sensible inquests of the new arrival proclaimed as lord of mannor but the corner stone / messiah of our turnip pyramid constructed by eager termites... we have none of such composure between mammal and lizard... we then in pretence rule animal with man’s fake prosthetic heart as heart of hierarchy and as above? when with as an above no above we dare believe in, surely?! of what heart does serve and of what heart could serve, only the sensual it does, serve, and no other in the realm of the heart’s intent to think exchange heart for mind and allow mind the feeling enclosure of not thinking. what then? i mind my poetry is weakened such and such takes of what could never be mistook: but you know how a masculine profession was mistook for a feminine one? it only took a mother and a builder to say they differed: the builder’s mother said the hammer in sense, while the mother’s sunday am simply said, the nails frequent the builder’s hammer less than my son’s tears my husband’s eyes, even thought that thety do.... as i too wish robin williams was my english teacher... but... really... wasn’t #hatealcoholicsmuk -
but then i heard soulfly's tribe:
your tribe our tribe!
your life our life!
your god our god!
your tribe our tribe!
amazon mea culpa mea crux mea ego!*
it’s a shame most of our lives are lived only to anticipate
a said impromptu:
mr. johnny mayfair..
king’s cross the doors are parting
hence you depart;
and so much of life was,
missing the mongol tribe
that would have replaced flatmoor st.
and would have done so with a good intention
and a happy face of he who was a member of...
the mongol tribe... rather than the boredom of
flatmoor st. making it worth a wrinkle to age to 80
and only remember life as having played chess.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
My undoing is you.
My unbecoming is certain.
I had my hopes up. But you undid them too.
My undoing is yours.
You strip me till I'm plain and cold, filled of nothingness.
The meaning is differed
the undoing of history
the undoing of life.
My soul is filled of gold. It's getting chipped but the undoing of your cold hands.
Your my undoing.
My my unbecoming
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
I want to take in your ancestors sighs
breathe in everything that made its way through your furthest history
and then deeper
razor sharp goosebumps making their
home on my skin permanently
while in axis of you
treasured build up of everything you give to me
then I die
I die
2 seconds before I met you i knew I would know you
I felt you speaking to me before I heard your voice
and I felt your sharp edges under my chin
and in my shoulder before I saw your scars
heard your scars
felt your scars
oh traumatized child of the other generation
your life was built with mediocre times when you should run so fast you got lost
run so fast you crashed
crashed into me
and now I'm laying down breathe less in between your arms
a body all too familiar to me since I knew I was a girl
and that my body differed from that of a mans
and I slide along with a smile
and understanding of your familiarity with me
I'm hanging upside down from your tongue
and all I can do
is close my eyes
and breathe
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC