"disclaimed" poems
it ain't easy, when you relate, restrict and delegate,
when you draw a narrow lane on a highway that says
only left footed
poets need apply
<>
it does not say
**slow cars stay to the right,
only trucks,
or oddly even,
no trucks**
I love seasonality,
without thickly thinking
you take a break
from the poetry writing
one day I'll figure out a way
to monetize my love poems,
publish them as Shakespeare's couple(t)s,
"new edition plus
a couple of
newfound poems!"
maybe some fools will buy some thinking Shakespeare has been, resurrected!
*love grows goes hot all over and
grow slower older
and grow colder,
in between those fine
ticklish teasing moments*
when the miracle of resurrection repeats itself
something is said
a gesture is made
a finger strokes the cheek,
unexpected
and it all comes
rushing back again,
overfilling
that coffee cup mug she bought
just(ice)
for you
*ain't gonna check how long it's been
since last I declaimed, disclaimed,
inflamed,
these pages with an only love poem
but I do know this:
it is something I think about,
It is something I know about,
it is something I feel about
daily
even on the nothing days,
when routine takes over
I know you couldn't remember of its passage,
is the waking up and the lying down to sleep*
but the poets eyes are always open his emotive secret senses,
always alert,
what's that thing they always say,
his heart just wasn't in it!
(🥴if they only knew the truth😘)
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:—
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion’s feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain’s earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!
Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own æolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!
2.5k
covid -19
a killer unseen, without uttering a threat
it has the world pulling at every nerve, it has them down on their knees.
It has people creating songs about going crazy in quarantine
While Trump is really going crazy,
he cant throw money at it
for someone like him, this is unseen,
now his true colours shows
his fake, while the world bleeds
he is still trying to save his stake.
he has ample, yet he still pulls at every last cent.
If you cant see this, he must have stolen your eyes
he keeps it with all his supporters minds,
it's in his refridgerator, he keeps it on ice.
locked in a safe
now they all mindless, so they play by his rules
yet he control the outcome of dice.
he dont care about the human race
you can clearly see it on his unsympathetic face.
Why dint he react in haste,
maybe his just slow?
He is worth 8 billoin dollers, i really dont think thats the case
he cares more about the economy,and losing face
he knows if the US economy drops
at the table in the whitehouse, he has to set china a plate.
give them the morning paper run their bath
and under his breath, he would have to quietly hate.
He would rather let the world burn,
They miscalculated this whole situation
they thought they were unleashing an attack
they forgot to disable the homing pigeon
it did a 180, knocked at their door, politely disclaimed Hi , I'm back.
Talking about money he has to track, that they paid to create this monster
is it just me or has the whole world been smoking crack.
we glossed over that, i get it
He can even in song confess, our hands will still be tied
money is power, an intoxicating lust
the jury has already been bought, the justice system unjust.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
The quiet town of Sheridon,
Held a very curious myth,
A Crazy Bus that steals children,
Then empty's them off a cliff,
Younger children could see the bus,
But adults hadn't a clue,
The youngens told of what they saw,
But the oldens thought not true,
Many offspring dissapeared,
For reasons unexplained,
Thorough investigations to find the truth,
But the myth was quickly disclaimed,
Many family's fleeing the town,
In fear of hurt to their young,
Detectives believed it must be a killer,
While the myth continued unsung,
The children continued to tell of their seeing,
So watchmen were sent to the cliff,
But still nothing came apparent to them,
So the theory returned to a myth
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
LOVE HAS DEPARTED
Departing avenging spirits
In the dead of winter;
love has assumed to know all hearts,
But what stands before thee
Are the cowards of the lost?
all they bring is wickedness,
what has happened to true love?
Oh, tender hearts,
Why did you depart into the dark?
the gentle touch of lovers’ hand
Where the beauty of spring;
this old town has humiliated me,
But then the knight looks and sees
His love under the leafy shade,
Writing her heart away,
He looks with a stunning smile
upon his face that couldn’t be removed
if she is near; words of anger started to fade,
but then he looked around and she was gone,
His anger ragged like a villain;
He looked at the cowards
that has been making war,
what is it you have done?
That is when the cowards started to run,
Then one of the cowards
stopped and looked back,
Saying, Dark Angel is taken his queen home,
There was this big hesitating chill
that moved faintly in the knights’ heart,
a darken trill of the dead of winter
moved in his soul;
The knight heart became cold.
loneliness came from love;
while the cowards of the town
laugh so loud towards the knight
he pulled out his sword;
and told them if they come back
they would lose their heads,
Clear, loud he stood his ground
In the old town, he called home,
Wide is the rain that brings on pain,
that gives free choice to all who bleeds,
you can love or run from it;
or you can love and fight for what your
heart beats for and will die for it,
like a true ‘’ Shakespeare’’ theme;
that has been written in true passion of love
that gives feverish dreams;
Dark Angels, deathless powers,
The knight takes on his delight
that verse how he truly feels,
love is where his heart belongs,
But his queen her heart is no longer function
She has disclaimed her love for thee.
Poetic Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
The fountains mingle with the river
and the rivers with the ocean
the winds of heaven mix forever
with a sweet emotion
nothing in this world is single
all things by a law divine,
in one or other way stay together
then why not I with thine?
see the mountains kiss high heaven
and the waves clasp one another
no flower in love would b forgiven
if it disclaimed her lover
the sunlight clasps the earth
and the moon beams kiss the sea
what are all these kisses worth,
if thou kiss not me?
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 4:14 PM UTC
*Whispering willows,
slowly singing a euphony.
Cries loud enough to hear through soundproof walls
and covered vents.
Leaves that fall to their death.
Only to be then shattered beneath a plastic,
sadistic platinum foot.
Sad trees no longer visioning its "Great Perhaps"
A cup of tea sipped every second to Pluto,
who has tragically been disclaimed as a brother,
and back.
No long wondering who and why,
when and where.
Indebtedness being a rare occasion.
The colors of summer,
adapt to the mourning sun.
Fall has come.
Where reincarnation is now the cycle of life.*
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
The liquid and mutable subconscious
Can always return disclaimed feelings.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 10:00 AM UTC
so Olson (#2), Honorarium
around here,
poets have been advised and disclaimed
the genuine praise of others get repaid
in kind, in k i n d
no, nope, not in
succinct pithy praiseworthy commentaries
that pays the quid pro quo bills
no ******* it,
a full blown poem is your honorarium,
you have torn open that envelope, and gosh **** golly gee...
debts must be paid for the scales can not exist imbalanced,
until pieces of me equal pieces of you,
and I hate owing (for one never can be owning) poems...
Honorarium
*this lonely business, never paid the rent,
at best, I hear them whisper, leave him be,
he’s entranced in other galaxies, breathing
words of nitrous oxygen, which has oft
produced excitable effects, copious weeping, hysteria,
and uncontrollable hyena laughter and
a sadness so deep, we fear for his retrieval*
*while
conversing with others in his head,
but when he writes of honor & love,
beware his bewitched bewitchments,
when all flu-like symptoms starburst all at once
the words are corded and stacked.
for fiery consumption in a hearth hearted fireplace,
word fries with aioli spice tendered in repayment*
*not a one lost, for those poems, though up in smoke,
lung imprinted, and breathed out into the clouded atmospheres,
dragon exhaling, poems roaring, stored and restored
honorarium in the crematorium of word debtor prison*
*an “the end” sigh dot dot dots the bitter end,
the anchor resting on sandy bottom,
at last, the last word, debt paid, honor restored*
*this, this
he loves best, when the beast released
and then returns to rest-in-chest and
await his next self imposed commission,
immolation in isolation*...
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 6:51 AM UTC
~for all the old poets,
especially one so denominated, my old faithful friend…~
<>
the
THEY,
emboldened and italicized,
are whispering and whimpering,
even
whining
that I’ve gone
wimpy,
lost possess of mine
facilities and faculties,
no longer able and capable
to command, demand, in hand,
import
a decent poem
from & in the English language(s) to
purport,
lost my edges,
hide behind the hedges
of inconsequential ancestral
and incestual rhymes,
these
THEY
do oft appear as voices in my
now emptied and unemployed head,
but familiarity breeds contemporary
contretemps of contempt,
for they are remiss,
in dismiss when the eyelids
flutter,
the noble temporal lobes
mutter,
*’tis thy~thyme ole man,
for spillage of your*
FPOTD
(first poem of the day)
thus kneecapping the cancer
of a restless dark hour period
where failures and faults,
of lines
crossed and uncrossed,
bear you to pieces,
bare your lifetime
laundry list
of pulsing, palpable,
fulminating and always ruminating faults
of which penance cannot be bought
by the bags of pennies and sordid assorted coins
that THEY
will find in the back bottom of thine closets,
along with the manuscripts
of the discarded and forlorn,
unloved and unpublished poems that you chose
to have buried with you,
lest you think that
eternal rest
will best
them voices,
they will accompany you
to permafrost of forever dark,
their once and future demise,
a travesty of
justice…
enough.
lists of to do’s;
the exercise of delaying death
for one more day,
by trodding on the treadmill
that postpones the inevitable
that can
always tun longer and faster
and cannot be outdone, outrun,
but
this poem
disgorged and disbanded,
it’s bytes,
will not bite mark me
in the forever future
*their bytes are alive now,
free to be chomped and well chewed,
and once fully digested,
be return to our Mother
Earth*
where some disclaimed poems
go to be buried
within it’s eternity
Apr 21, 2024
Apr 21, 2024 at 10:16 AM UTC
Inquire not of me, nor of my life!
All knowledge, by instruction, is withheld.
Our blood line cut, your kin no more my wife,
your right to know by your own hand dispelled.
Your silence had you ousted from my heart,
when I besought your most beloved names.
Your hush kept me at bay, and us apart,
as I sought you, my son-ship you disclaimed.
Now if perchance a thought of me has raised,
please quick extinguish it and mind me not.
Why resurrect the ghost of one you've razed
upon your kin's request, and made as naught?
True love, when born, has immortality;
when false it lives only conditionally.
(C)2018, Christos Rigakos
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 9:11 PM UTC
Happenstance, my resentful muse appeared in front of me,
in a bleak and bitter night
to mourn over the death of my feelings.
and, I standing over the edge of a cliff
a snowy cliff
I was not alone,
my feelings were by my side.
my feelings which are
half parched, half shriveled
and I began to strip those feelings furthermore
so they can be heaped
and I can exhume them for good in the fire within.
the sullen muse smiled apathetically; Ironically my lips curved too
as we both knew each other.
And, the night was astonished to see us smiling.
and I took my confidant, it read.
The coldness within is far colder than
the snows; you might meet soon your beloved at the dawn
but that dawn never ever came to knock the closed doors
of my heart.
my heart like a cloak
has encompassed my being
and it knows
what they call LOVE
LOVE IS NOTHING BUT AN ILLUSION.
as relationships are always
a gamble, merely a prediction
which by the times turns into
a dessert.
and the dust of time
makes is barren
more barren by each passing moment.
Night, by then was about to bid adieu
and it stopped just for a while
to say
your disclaimed existence is not a song
it is a lullaby of your soul
which is in a deep slumber
and I along with dawn shall make you love again.
it is a promise to you.
And, that promise is even today remains a promise
unfulfilled promise.
© Jayant Kumar Sheen
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Mother
Father
Do you love me
Despite my love for she?
Brother
Sister
Are you ashamed
You're sister has been disclaimed?
When I took the flag
For being a ***
They blamed me for red
For when I left my families heart to shread
Screamed orange
For when I went for that slow plunge
Questioned yellow
For their woe
Cried green
For they believed I was merely a teen
Who could never tell purple with blue
Yes, they told me I had no clue
I insisted on love
On my wonderful ladylove
It was she
My cup of tea
It was love I let win
Not sin
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:17 PM UTC
LOVE HAS DEPARTED
Departing avenging spirits
In the dead of winter;
love has assumed to know all hearts,
But what stands before thee
Are the cowards of the lost?
all they bring is wickedness,
what has happened to true love?
Oh, tender hearts,
Why did you depart into the dark?
the gentle touch of lovers’ hand
Where the beauty of spring;
this old town has humiliated me,
But then the knight looks and sees
His love under the leafy shade,
Writing her heart away,
He looks with a stunning smile
upon his face that couldn’t be removed
if she is near; words of anger started to fade,
but then he looked around and she was gone,
His anger ragged like a villain;
He looked at the cowards
that has been making war,
what is it you have done?
That is when the cowards started to run,
Then one of the cowards
stopped and looked back,
Saying, Dark Angel is taken his queen home,
There was this big hesitating chill
that moved faintly in the knights’ heart,
a darken trill of the dead of winter
moved in his soul;
The knight heart became cold.
loneliness came from love;
while the cowards of the town
laugh so loud towards the knight
he pulled out his sword;
and told them if they come back
they would lose their heads,
Clear, loud he stood his ground
In the old town, he called home,
Wide is the rain that brings on pain,
that gives free choice to all who bleeds,
you can love or run from it;
or you can love and fight for what your
heart beats for and will die for it,
like a true ‘’ Shakespeare’’ theme;
that has been written in true passion of love
that gives feverish dreams;
Dark Angels, deathless powers,
The knight takes on his delight
that verse how he truly feels,
love is where his heart belongs,
But his queen her heart is no longer function
She has disclaimed her love for thee.
Poetic Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 1:40 PM UTC
Love unites two persons that used to be miles apart
Based upon friendship that should be firm as a rock
It is something you give to someone out of reason and heart
And should never destroyed just by jealousy and betrayal
Love isn't something you do for fun
It sometimes bear the biggest factor for some
Love should never be constrained
And never ever should it be disclaimed
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC