"disallowing" poems
Somedays I think of how I will wait until the skin drops from my bones
To tell myself that I am beautiful
She will be there at 5 foot 2 the smallest skyscraper ever
Gleaming shades of tan and amber
Defending the shape of her thighs and the queries of guys.
Disallowing herself to be patronized
I won't need you anymore
I will love myself, in fair or morose health
For when your hands shall leave my *******
I won't even feel the ghost of your caress
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
an average human creature should such a mythical exist
in a lifetime will celebrate about 2,200,000,000 heartbeats,
billions of heartbeats per minute (I prefer moment)
but like everything so essence human there are
those very few heartbeat moments,
the ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
that you total truly remember,
recalling the cream and sauce,
swell and the hell,
of the pounding so slow so hard,
each one a volcano of
a moment until that day
you don't remember-anything
when she said yes and you're shaking and beating in a
honky-tonk rhythm cause you were heart undressed unsure
and truly afraid of a rejection that makes a heart stoppage
disallowing visions, to be exponentially happy future imagined
you're feeling your heartbeat
in your knees going weak,
when the doctor says:
congratulations healthy swell
and/or
some years later,
I'm so so truly sorry, hell
when they hand you a long handle shovel no instructions needed and that scoop of earth weighs two tons and the sound of slow reverb in your head hurts like hell and you lack the strength to move and they move you aside quiet gentle like
but inside the temple of the two headed hydra-heart,
it's the rock and roll of slo mo, the violin crying, the drumming of
heavy metal chords plucked so slowly, it's you froze screaming
a billionaire of heartbeats you are,
but only ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
you total truly remember with the perfect clarity and
forever renders into your own unique orchestral symphony,
your true net worth, the stripes you wear
upon your shoulders skin,
the tune when you hear it and melts you into rigidity
you fall to your knees wherever you are,
that is where you will find me,
just listen for the cars horns blaring
cursing the man lying in the street, re-listening to
ten or twenty maybe forty heartbeats total in a lifetime
you alone total truly that concert set recall and
the win-loss record inherent, inhiment,
in both of them, tears and the rents, all there in the tunes,
of forty beatings you took,
somehow it feels like here is, there was,
the answers to
where is shelter for the heart,
the answers that have gone and come and gone and someone says,
I don't feel a pulse
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
I am stuck in the same place
At the same pace
What's wearing thin is my patience
I don't have any time to stay complaisant
I need to find my placement
Put myself first, not in the basement
Some may not know what it meant
I however hold no sentiments
This is what I have to deal with
No one actually making things better for me
Instead I bleed
My marrow creating blood just abundantly
Just to keep the stream from weening
Disallowing the life in me to die out
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 1:16 PM UTC
Sat in my room for hours, glancing up into the ceiling,
confined walls narrowing me in, so deep I land in the pouch of the room,
jumping on the trampoline cushions to peek for the exit,
but I was stranded, in a cubicle that constricted me in, disallowing my
departure, I screamed for help, as the volume of the music heightened, where the ballroom danced, an army of people,
drinking champagne and wine,
I could hear the sound of laughter roar upstairs into my room where silence
could only hear the sound of a choir with bass violins sharpening the wood,
as they took a sudden pause, the music ceased,
I could hear them snickering silently but visibly, at my exile.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
why does it seem as if everyone has left me?
my hands quiver as i verbalize these thoughts
and the sweat from my palms dampens the page --
my vulnerability has become difficult to manage,
despite my mind's intent to remain good-willed
and my heart's discontent with the language misunderstood
friendship does not require ideological consistency,
and to believe otherwise is a detriment to the love
we are fortunate enough to experience in this life;
intellectual supremacy equates to the patronizing rhetoric
embedded within the elitism of the morally superior --
your grim clouds turn our progressivism dull
i will say what i need to retain a friend,
but the judgment within is a grudge untouched,
a ghastly bruise that never seems to mend --
you do not get to determine the language i speak,
the words i weep, or the healing i seek
when a bond so potent is forgotten so easily
to question my morality is to question my identity,
and those who know are the ones to see me grow
as i flourish from the bounds of these restrictions
and inch my way upright, stronger than before,
disallowing my words to be misconstrued,
a prohibition of the trauma i continue to elude
a Leo is loyal like the lioness of a pride,
gnawing at the flesh of the ones who betray --
grudges maintained in the chill of the winter,
a midnight breeze toppled an unchanged core --
it is not a star, this dim light retreating above,
merely the fading memory of our platonic love.
Oct 12, 2023
Oct 12, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
Some memories are sticky
Clinging to nerve endings
Disallowing their otherwise
Normal functioning
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
one more for Pradip...
"Poems...are never short or long, they're only more. Thanks Nat for ever filling the less."
firing up the poem kiln,
this intriguing provocation
insistent of deserved consideration,
after all,
it is thy stories that these days inspire,
my own stories are relentless
grey, old, cold, and to my eyes,
coded repetitious...
neither a chaster or a chastiser,
(You could look it up!)
confessing readily to sinning against humanity
by ecrivezing poems of length considerable,
the Mexicano from Indiano
releases a shotgun blast
to all those whose attention spans last,
to ten words or a single stanza...no more...
but this not the matter of import,
no, no, it is the
more and the less
that makes poetry the best,
no matter the length or the heft...
in each of us
there is a more and a less,
in cycles individual that are not bound to
tides, weather, or any effect natural,
but product of our own amber waves
of chemical imbalances and mental auras...
all my days have I rode waves of
well hid hills of mania *** depression,
contented moments surrounded and cosseted
by wails of worry, sorrel colored sorrows,
making the scientists amazed at the correlation
of the macro and the mini,
the precision of my indecision...
in sixty seconds, in sixty days, in sixty years,
have I battered and battled the disequilibrium
of more and less,
disallowing a pilloried intervention,
will likely do so until
that day when my pen
has bled its last...
this theme haunts,
for but a day ago,
a bus poem was blurted out,
that concluded thusly:
***to survive,
to justify,
to mediate
between these un-counterbalanced weights,
I write poetry***
here I am stunned that Pradip
with but a handful of seeds,
exactly isolates the genetic implanted notion
that I struggle to define,
knowing only that my poetry fills my less,
when the all the rest is just
another fine mess
we fill the less with our wit,
we top off our souls with writs,
we are more for having scribed,
one read or ten thousand,
it mater matters knot!
look upon the pages endlessly bearing
the ephemeral heavy-handed weight full of well crafted words,
the good, the plenty,
the sad, the sorry,
the trite and cranky,
those misted musty,
the light and the careful,
the bad and merely awful,
even the drip of torrential love stories gone dry
what matters not
any of this over sighted analytics,
each and all and everyone
a success,
for each poem makes someone's less lessened,
and someone's more, more,
and by this
ever filling the less...
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Give me a line,
and I’ll write a poem for you.
Give me a tune,
and I’ll hum a song for you.
I’ll make do with every little things you give me
I’ll hold on to the memories that could have probably made a beautiful story.
If you must know; as though it’s not obvious enough –
I’m no poet, I’m not one with words.
I just write what I think I feel.
What is it with feelings that makes our mind choked up with words
Jam our brain and twist our hearts –
Like nicotine blocking the arteries; disallowing blood to enter the heart –
I know these words have been dying to get out
They want you to know what this is all about.
And I can’t help but find myself asking this question:
Who would ever have the heart to hurt someone so beautiful like you?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
Come with me, I’ll show you where
The wonders sparkle beguiling blessings
Arousing perceptions of gratitude innate
To heedless humans in lack of deceptions.
Irrefutable eternal verities unfolding
Elegantly before disallowing eyes
On the expanding canvas made of space
Moulding elements of plasmatic grace.
Wind back the hands of time with me to witness
The emergence of the first and most abundant substance,
Hydrogen out of recombination epoch
Finely orchestrated by physical laws to form and fuse in stars.
Stellar nucleosynthesis where nuclear reactions
Are boons in disguise for new combinations
To bear lithium, carbon, neon, oxygen, iron,
The entirety of the essentials on the periodic table.
Indulge with me in the mesmerising marvel
Of watching those incandescent stars go supernova,
Their shock wave thrusting silver and golden nuggets
Throughout infinity creating planets.
Now return to Earth with me and look around,
At the stars’ debris under your feet, feel the ground.
Take this glass of water, a cocktail of hydrogen
And oxygen, breath in! Gaze at all that exists.
Stare at yourself, made of trillions of cells,
Nourish the awareness that you are part
Of the bewildering opus yearning for you
To live your life and honour with consciousness
The wonders sparkling beguiling blessings.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
electric — conflated with
the doldrum of once ignited feeling
on the russet table work
and the stringing aroma of flyblown
coffee painting the morning something
earthenware;
i imagine
women lounging
and displaying their flamboyant dresses
confessing a dull promenade
parading their attenuated ***** reveling
a queendom on recall and this bane,
merely resolute, gives itself a new
meaning as a hand of forgive
men resigning their bags on the corner,
grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into
a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting,
verses lying cold on the froth of the tile
and the wind ripening the brew of
contestations — punctuations in their
cupboards still and reserved in hermetic
space curating silence, giving dins
their polished ends,
open for all: churlish boys,
naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects,
rebels and the overwrought –
never closes like a hand in cold
or a rose, its face occulted by
identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling,
scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered
wall, sipping coffee,
mmmm, that
morning ripple transcending the
heaviness of the city before me.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
It is one thing
to teach by example,
but it is entirely different
to take over and become
the self-proclaimed know-it-all
Head-Motherfucker-In-Charge
disallowing learning on the parts of your peers.
These two are a stone's toss apart.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Tired...
That's all I can say...
As I stare at nothing in particular everyday,
I mean won't it just ever go away?
Won't it just leave?
Won't it realise it's destroyed me enough?
Won't it just allow me to relieve?
Relieve all the wounds
From the poison flowing out,
The poison only continuing to sprout,
Disallowing the gashes to seal up again,
Draining the blood out of me to gain,
A sense of wholeness once more,
But I feel that I know that I will forever lay sore...
forevermore.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 8:10 AM UTC
You are okay with disallowing the truth
Because it lends a threatening aspect to your security.
Your security,
A false sense of entitlement,
Is by no means your creation.
Your security is the safeguard
Of another man's security.
You allow your self
To be enslaved
Because you do not know how to walk alone
And the master has told you many stories
Of heroes, villains and creatures alike
Who sought this adventure;
Its dangers, toils and snares.
The good bit he left out
Because he too is enslaved by your obedient labour.
The good bit he keeps to himself,
To remind his self of the goodness he has carried out.
To save a soul
Who dared question the existence of the master,
And steer him back in line
With shovel and pick in hand.
To him
This journey must be split between the eye;
One must enjoy pleasure
And the other
Must enjoy the displeasure
Of creating pleasure for another.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Today the Sunday special brief
iCloud online worship session, I did attend
(via remote support)
found me feeling pampered,
when adept technical support
didst figuratively bend
over backwards, thus aye defend
glorious, righteous,
and zealous Gurus who did expend
their religious fervor, without proselytizing
and sanctified dedication they proffered
as if this secular chap hapt tubby
a long time Facebook friend
diligently persevered amidst
my woeful yelping alarm
where bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
and drawbacks,
required a secret char
which this netizen vaguely understood
as unfair be-tidings disallowing
thyself to purchase additional farm
ming out iCloud storage
in the deleterious harm
akin to buggy ah mush swarm
comprised documents
(painstakingly slaved over with zest)
plus sundry data necessitating mooch ***
legal tender (probably every
last red cent of mine) to in vest
concerted efforts of
at least one expert to test
her/his mettle in an attempt
(dim prospect) performing an in quest
to retrieve valuable data lost amidst a nest
of inaccessible "lost" information
(bantering with computer
jargon more so jest
with no intention to "FAKE"
trumpeting minimal knowledge
judiciously impressed
upon thine fifty plus
shades of gray matter, at my be hest
expressing scant cumulative
disc cussing duff frag
minted understanding lest,
a personal goal
to incapsulate in poetic best
not abandoning frustration
with this Macbook Pro
cuz, positive experience
wrought with Apostles eye attest,
so rather then vent
my spleen in vein
hie desisted
to rage against the machine,
and tack toward being urbane
thus, rejoicing with a cherry,
hearty, and mighty byte hooray,
asper driving,
exercising, and foisting
gentle circuitry vis a vis
neurotransmitters and neuromodulators
nudging pull-ups
within cerebral terrain.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
A glass of wine before I sup
fate declared this was so
what came after mattered not
delight taken by kismet’s hand
the meal became an afterthought
tasteless shifting to bitterness
once foretold by liquid's drought
now inevitable on table's top
if only the chalice could bypass
lips once born of innocence
before learning spoiled the mind
defiled by crystal of circumstance
knowing nothing except for bliss
before the turn of the years
to the table the youth are led
betrayed by bottle loosely tipped
now I’m left with a feast
disallowing what I may eat
while I starve by liquor’s fault
the succor given by the gods
intoxicating by all measures
sadly I’m beyond this pleasure
what came before mattered not
beverage robbed food’s repast.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180709.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 8:22 PM UTC
Here I lie,
in the pool of my own blood,
as they tentatively watch me,
disallowing their hearts to beat an inch for me.
I sit and watch and wait,
for the day when my scars become theirs,
for my cries to be the only sounds they hear,
as they pierce their ears leaving trails of blood down their necks,
so in the end,
we will all become what our scars make us.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 3:19 AM UTC
Absent Motility Against Staid Inertia
impossible to describe listlessness
bedeviling this body electric aye attest
motivation to counter glumness
seizes motility temporarily
to stave off staid purposeless at best,
yet aware poetic obfuscation chest
barely delineates fierce hopelessness
assailing me,
when'r awake and/or at everest
feeding melancholy feedback loop
sparring against faintest
momentum - writhing psyche,
asper an unwelcome guest
emotional friction
bringing motionlessness,
where lunging futility
summoning ability
to muster joie de vivre
defeated willpower
no matter mental health
propped up
with pharmacological medications
prescribed by Doctor George Adams be hest,
yet tis NOT suicide, but general malaise
as if poison (or stung by a scorpion) jest
permeates thy being
sparking existential angst
hoop fully communicating figurative soffits
facilitating emotional bulwark lest
ye **** sitter
this lix spittled chap messed
up in the head, but also that empty nest
syndrome - aa bird den, and nefarious pest
disallowing merrily rowing my boat
subjected to turbulence that doth wrinkle
space/time continuum quest
punctuating any attempt
to take fig yurt heave Newtonian rest
without being assailed
of drab quotidian predictability
re: envious papa
towards daughters adventurous lives
he rejoices (albeit vicariously)
respective lives where offspring lasso lassitude,
viz both their electric kool aid acid test
how fate didst in vest
waning wily woebegone zest!
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
i was thinking of you and me
in our pieces and places
thinking about our own selves
not thinking about each other
until time space place things
put us where we breathed air
in same situations here-there
what a strange conspiracy
would place us here to down
grade the importance of selves
ours mine yours each others
we did not prioritize so
this world put us at number
one for each others for some
time leaving us without options
we made do with companionship
some brief moments of time
where we prioritized each other
then time space place things
moved without us a tidal wave
of shifting things so we shifted
too and moved to others priorities
but you were fortunate enough
to take a plus one for these
black-tie events while i carry
the heavy space around me as if
it is an option a conscious choice
no one rsvp-ed as my plus one
thus no witnesses to call me out
when i don a new face to greet
the faces i meet prepared to leave
every second every day- i barely
remember those i met a minute
a blink a movement ago but
music forges ahead life brims
knowledge is added and crushed
into dust by the relevance of time
disallowing for anyone to put any
hold onto it with intellect or paper
my song remains empty silent fake
lights fake smiles fake laughs fake
fake tears fake companionship so
helplessly temporary i feel the
drowning air of words unsaid anxieties
untested in my bones at my lips as i
slowly nervously keep moving always
being rushed in as a late attendance
by an impatient usher too busy with
bigger details to explain the rules
of a party where i always arrive late
with none to take my coat at the door
i remain hopelessly dressed in red
dungarees worn since i was three
my version of a skintight red dress
painfully obviously underdressed
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
My past is like a stain that paints each new place, and face.
A mind which seeks release and an essence that continues to cease.
'Tis a burden resting within my body, disallowing any newfound story.
"Dusty dialogues, foggy monologues."
Sentences strewn about and borrowed, without much doubt.
Quotations so seemingly true, I resort to attaching myself to more than a few.
Spirals in which I continue; imprisoned words I need to see through.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
help me if you can, cuz salutary
hans solo impossible missions
fall short asper this mwm to break free,
thus Siam game for heroic measures to wrest
sill loose, gnome hatter
remaining time on Earth
strong arm gull lancing tactics
aye need to vest
from perverted imps stranglehold
upon healthy existence
will resort to extreme thine body electric
(serves as kool aid base sic acid) test
hosting ocd (analogous to a
suckling leech happy fiend)
disallowing this mwm
(similar to Sir Issac Newton) begs to take a rest
nurses nourishment feeding off host
(thyself) linkedin, sans sybaritic symbiotic,
excising unhealthy sycophantic relationship
long term ultimate quest
shucking loose obsessive pest
compulsive disorder moocher
drilled deep into psyche tub billed a nest
which bred a hardy crop that messed
up with my enjoying life tooth ha max,
viz parasitic, opportunistic,
narcissistic fealty must stop lest
asphyxiation undermines ability to jest
as if deadly poison
this chap (as a kid) accidentally did ingest
hence this attempt at plaintive pleading
for mental health professional
took hum at my be hest
a much more welcome guest
versus nemesis grounded rivaling mount Everest
that tis all i write unloading off my chest
an agile, fertile, and nimble sprite
who already out best
this scrivener, now completed poem
confiding bugaboo aye attest.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
this July fourth
I would ask something
from white America
which is not going to be easy
but could go a long way
in rebuilding the dream –
do not go to parades
do not spend money on smoke and mirrors
fireworks
twinkle but for a second
but the image of hypocrisy
shines in every minority eye
instead
close the drapes
gather the family in the middle of the room
kneel
bow your heads
like in the Rockwell paintings
and ask whatever you think of
as greater than your self
for forgiveness –
when the red and white of old glory
fly for freedom
think about who is free
and what that means
do not salute
or stand at attention
for the symbol of empire
and oppression
instead
close the drapes
get on your knees
and beg for forgiveness –
400 years of slavery
250 years of empire
conversation of wall building
deporting 11 million Americans
because of paperwork…
disallowing the influx
of the most war torn and ravaged people
since Vietnam
they are our brothers and sisters
who just happen to hail from Syria –
the United States stands as a global disgrace
in place of the greatest nation
we see hate values and racial profiling
bigotry peppered with intolerance
this fourth of July
think about freedom
think about liberty
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
Each subsequent process of cell division
I.e. mitosis sans the biological parlance
Erodes chromosomal cap
re: telomere if u can envision
at some juncture senescence prevails –
apoptosis no chance
To prevent this natural degradation
and the alternate decision
Per opting to bail from etching
chronological age – averse at a glance
To this mortal male,
who decries that death breed’s frisson
Thus disallowing healthy discussion
once end of the figurative dance
Delivers the curtain call on existence –
where grim reaper jeers with derision
At attempts to thwart cessation of life
whereby scientists seek to en-hance
Longevity – even exhuming the grateful dead
and experimenting with incision
To rewind expired meter fostering
demise without spectacles
after staying alive – with lance
A lot chock full of chemical concoctions
to revive corpse as the ultimate mission
Yet, any effort to transcend
genetic bulwark
engendered from bulge in pants
In tandem with merging with ova –
based on each coupling favored position
Ought not be tampered
with lest havoc t’will be
rent asunder and rants
From rabid quest per course ala collision
Inscribed within DNA blueprint
from extinct cousins of uncles and aunts
Prepping monster
to burst from Ray Kurzweil laboratory
Whereby to halt recalcitrant
zombie spells FRUITION!
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 5:01 PM UTC
I'm standing in the crosshairs
Of a future not yet broken
From the chain linked anchor
Sinking
Into the deepening depths
Of inspiration
Yet I'm as blank as tomorrow's paper
Before time presses in the letters
I am buried deep
Beneath the crossroads
Cursed to stand apart
From those with direction
Tasked to confuse
The faltering straggler
By adding doubts to their
Already overflowing collection
I am weary of this curse
I wear ...
Of overlapping cross-purposes
Where I feel my way
In total darkness
Along the walls
Of an ever narrowing tunnel
Squeezing me
Into a panic state....
Attempting
To force me to confess
That I crossed the line
Once upon a time
Long before
The first second did exist
So my passing by
Had no measure
Had no limits
Had no value
Placed by limitàtions
Needed...
For the formation
Of any creation
So in a sense I am
THE CROSSING GUARD
Disallowing
Any and all who seek
A way of crossing
By standing fast
Between
The future and the past
I am hollow to the core
Those
Who have tried
And failed
To break me down
Grow weary ..as I do
Eventually go away
And I stay
Forever more the door
Locked
Not to ever be opened
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
Assumption begot,
that cumulative generations
bred tiredness weariness zap
ping ability to remain awake,
nope even enough energy
to feign opening maw mouth
evincing a yap,
and if equipped
with smartphone app viz whatsapp
would shear lee ask ewe
if Androids dream of electric sheep,
but limited options,
asper talking via two lipped gap
reduce modes to communicate
keeping shut tight denture
"FAKE" toothed trap
affixed to gums by (James) bonding agent
necessitating manual finagling -
careful NOT to snap
dentures, thus
leaving garbled speaking
where gum shunned rattletrap
disallowing articulation,
enunciation and pronunciation,
making worthy words
sound like discombobulated pap
hoping to convey tiredness affliction,
sans this poe whim, whereby i map
imagining yielding curling (catlike)
upon ample sized maternal lap
whether gentile,
or Jewish princess i.e. ***
pan knees, which above
quasi Semitic iteration hap
puns tubby what occurred to me
for no particular rhyme or reason
hoping ya ponied mental effort
to breeze thru my sad dulled verse
with neigh saying horsesense to giddyap
whereupon woebegone
sleepiness could perk me up -
if ye could purchase far me a large frap
pa chin oh otherwise
fate twill point this chap
to Google search how to buck up vitality
vis a visa deer lee sought app.
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC