"dislodge" poems
What truly is the definition of righteousness?
Is it determined by act or by mind?
They say a good man fights for justice, peace, and prosperity.
But then, can a man of such moral truly remain so
if he turns to violence as an answer?
Does his intent to create marvels render him of moral status
though his methods may empower death and promote war?
Oh, this man is peaceful himself,
taking letters instead of bullets to battle
but his lyrics dislodge society in a manner not all approve
and so begins combat.
Can this soul carry such holy title,
if the repercussions of his strung together words are strung up necks?
Or is the good man the one who turns away from the world's fight
to be his own embodiment of ethical beauty?
For the one who remains silent causes no direct pain;
he himself is passive and tranquil
and moves to inspire such conduct in others without commanding it.
But his silence encourages fierce vehemency and wildness.
Does this fact not taint his name?
The first man had pure intent,
but with his tongue he spit sparks
which others used to ignite a fire and burn the world.
The second did not fight himself
but his chosen hush could never end the blood rain,
and so his lack of sharp verbosity allowed knives to flash and blood to spill.
So I will ask again,
what determines morality?
Though this time with a grounding response;
morals define morality.
Each man's mind renders his own flawless ideal individually,
and so one's perfection will always be another's monstrosity.
In truth? There are no good men,
or at least not one to all.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Warning: Use dis list in context.
You decide on which side you fall.
disappear
disregard
disaster
displace
disqualify
disrepair
disturb
dissipate
disability
dispose
dismal
distribute
distrust
disturb
discriminate
discuss
disdain
disguise
dishearten
disinherit
disown
disparage
disagree
disgruntle
disclose
discolour
dispute
disarm
discover
disassemble
disadvantage
disallow
dispossess
discontent
discontinue
disrespect
disincline
discomfort
disrepute
dishonest
disillusion
dishonor
dismiss
disobey
disjoin
disappoint
discipline
discord
discern
discrete
disfigure
disconnect
disapprove
discharge
disbar
disease
discord
disfavor
disengage
disassociate
discipline
discount
disembody
displace
dissaray
disembowel
discombobulate
discredit
discourse
disentangle
disenfranchise
disembark
discard
disburse
disbelief
discover
disable
disagree
disintegrate
dismay
dispense
dislodge
disclaimer
disapprove
dissatisfy
disrupt
dispel
dislike
dismantle
disloyal
disbatch
disrobe
disperse
display
disaprove
disciple
disavow
disconcert
disinfect
disorder
dismal
dismember
displease
dissemble
disunity
dislocate
distort
distrust
distress
dissolute
disassociate
distill
discect (?)
distemper
distain
distasteful
distraught
dissolve
dissonant
dissuade
And dis isn't de end.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
We flourish in this partial reality.
As I quietly touch your face, your lips, with my thumb,
Begging to know the thoughts you never utter.
Perhaps this suppression is a favorable one,
Where after my uninformed dreams will run wild with hope,
And your affections are safely concealed by
Plaster walls and my contract to mum.
We really do thrive here.
In this vacuum.
I dare not think of when we must leave it…
When nights like this one
Come to a close.
We will only be able to dislodge quavering,
Reluctant sighs.
For we have so often recited the volumes of our hearts with
No words.
Always saying everything by saying nothing
At all.
Only fit for heaving heavy desperate breaths--
Airy, impalpable syllables.
On a silent quest for time’s
Antidote;
Struggling to exist permanently within
Such small moments.
Lips.
Hair.
Skin.
Snippets of life to which we cling.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
vanishing hope
for consumption as a way of life
obese children shovel pharmaceuticals
down the throats of the infirm
internally developing low-tone hymns
relating to slow death by corporate greed –
albino judicators
pass melanin laws
felonizing the populace
perpetuating the proletariat
while pontificating
on the post 9/11 society –
isolated rabble-rousers
screaming at eggshell walls
dislodge tacks holding together
the fabric of American culture
with ingrown and chewed fingernails
flailing armies
think back to trench warfare –
robust midwives mediate
heated discussions
as the United Nations blindly
support U.S. imperialism
looking for kickbacks
from energy companies
globalization giving all humanity
incurable S.T.D.’s –
the last free house mouse
bounds betwixt the ruins
energetically sniffing the rubble
seeking some small morsel
to satisfy its hunger –
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Extra! Extra! Read All About It !!
Recent Icelandic Sledding accident.
A mountain of Vanilla pudding was mistaken for
the Olympic Sledding Hill.
Professional sledders lined up, leaped on their sleds,
and found themselves floundering in pudding.
The mayhem was only multiplied by swarms
of wild parrots, squawking at sledders as they
thrashed about attempting to dislodge themselves
from the pit of pudding swallowing them whole.
Survivors were taken to Pud'N'Pie Clinic,
for treatment of acute pudding suffocation,
and treated with chocolate syrup and whip cream.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC
Two creatures' eyes have seen the sun,
and now their lids are filled with dust.
But if their eyes were blue, or brown,
I cannot tell, and yet I must.
St Claire's an Amiable Child
who sleeps secure and snug as Grant,
but who can tell me of his eyes?
(The city parks curator can't.)
And Johnson had a cat named Hodge
who fed on oysters, and was fine;
his coat was black, but not his eyes,
whose shade I cannot now divine.
Two creatures hold me in their gaze,
and thoughts of it I can't dislodge:
the nature of your eyes, my friends,
your sleeping eyes, St Claire and Hodge?
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
My life feels great , I wish I could maintain this state
My life now has a future , what will I do with it?
So many options but only time can work out how my decision will shape the future
the future , the present , the past , I believe its all one
I just wish I can transverse the multiverse so i would see what the perfect future may look like.
I take solace sometimes in knowing that in time and space there is a me who doesn't have the insecurities I have , who has better judgment than I have.
I see what I want . Focused.
Chaos always has a way of making what I see a Mirage
once again dislodge from the Multiverse
but currently I feel great and It seems the future is on the way
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
In Parsley, a Levantine munificence accreted together in Tabbouleh,
herbage that covers fractured bedrock in a poultice of healing.
Secreted within, lie igneous outpourings of bloodied tomatoes,
those solid affections that had welled through an ocean floor
as Neptune quelled Gaia's contractions, her waters seeking to burst
beneath the wrinkled surface of a salty sea. She, an underbelly of sky,
pregnant in the overwhelm of magma, sweating out her heart in fire,
muted like a moon of Neptune, in his retrograde soliloquies, yet mirroring
hers in icy resurfacings of skin. The God of the Sea, boils an amnion
to hazy mists, how deep will his trident plunge to dislodge those Trojan ships
of deceptions ? Yet, Triton blows a conch for Gaia, not for man's duelling
and his warring tribes. He soothes her feverish gnashing of thighs
labouring continents. Some fires burn in water, like desultory heartbeats
moving the pace of rocks through the ocean floor, spiriting away
to stranger places still, marking maps of memories in the beauty of
a stillborn magma. The limestone they say is no blood relation to such
alien fructification, those oceanic intruders, bleeding still, spilling
secrets in reds and purples. The acid tears spilled in lemons merely
neutralised in syllables, sedimented to a community of limestone,
that possess no archaic remnants reminiscing through dead bones,
an age of glory. Now beauty lies in herbage over once raucous magma
and traces of a salty sea, freshness of life trailing her veins, in fragrance of Parsley
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 7:15 AM UTC
seconds are drops of water in a river.
everyone starts at the top,
and according to many,
we can only coast with the waves,
following their path until the end,
and the river cannot be moved -
no matter what happens.
but how can the river stay on course
when torrential, destructive hurricanes
dislodge debris and soil from the ground?
when the path is blocked,
the river has to pave its own way.
Apr 6, 2022
Apr 6, 2022 at 10:22 PM UTC
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
Driving the congregants
in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.
Parrotic tongues set out
commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
permeates the entireness
of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.
Command darkness to produce
light.
But you turned moonlight into
tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle
Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.
Righteousness afar from the
apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.
Pastoral advertisers of chattels
in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.
Disentangle faithfuls from the
webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
separate out afflictions from
feebleminded faithfuls.
Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
a
tidepool
brought
me
to
an
epiphany
about
how
to
live
i
found
a
limpet
attatched
to
a
rock
i
tried
to
dislodge
it
from
the
stone
the
stone
was
moved
before
i
could
ever
remove
that
limpet
that
is
how
we
***MUST
CLING
TO
LIFE!***
soulsurvivor
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
i wear my religion like i wear my makeup.
i put it on when i’m suppose to.
my face shines with the highlight
of the Holy Spirit on my cheekbones.
lipstick stains a bible verse which
i use for every circumstance
“God” throws at me.
i line my eyes with the blackness
of my heart and i let “God” flick it
out into a wing at the end.
after awhile though my skin
grows weary and itchy.
i can feel every pound of makeup
that cakes my face.
a single wet wipe no longer
works to dislodge the
uncomfortableness
in my pores.
i bathe in rose-scented oils
and steam my face
ritually.
everything is off.
my flaws are showing.
makeup use to be fun
when i wasn’t wearing it
for other people.
now social media lets me know
that i must contour my cheeks
with a prayer that starts with,
“dear lord,” and ends
with, “amen.”
in order to be in my family’s good
graces i must have faith in
myself but
mustn’t be prideful.
you must not use a mirror to put your makeup on.
your eyebrows should be
arched and ready to
defend,
not yourself,
but “God”
if questioned.
when you find a boy
who says he likes makeup
you must not pursue him.
he is not worthy of your highlighted face.
love yourself but
also put your
makeup first.
sculpt the nose
define the face
overline the lips.
do all that you can
to hide your real face.
make your skin scream
to be let free.
and when you take
your makeup off,
make sure to
moisturize
because your skin
has to look great when
it is drowning in
foundation.
take care of your skin
but it also doesn’t matter
so paint your face once more.
bat your eyes.
pout your lips.
but don’t be lustful.
because your religion is like your makeup...
so cake it on like a fake facade.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
His hand was outstretched, nabbing a pesky windswept hamburger wrapper
near a garbage can alongside the exit to the cafeteria
Bent over, exposed, frozen, pretending the hamburger wrapper
required more effort than normal to dislodge it from the open air just above the ground
Perhaps it was a turnip or a beet, that he had to carefully, surgically remove
and it was only that he saw me coming
if I could have slowed down time, to slow motion
Seeing my boss, the principal of the school, up ended like this
for the sole purpose of not having to look me in the face, I would have
more kids would have had a chance to stare at this strange posture,
and wonder how a hamburger wrapper could have such a difficult
time being removed from the ground and I want to remember this pose
it only gets worse, and as my exit comes nearer, I feel lighter
but he still can't look me in the eye
if he felt secure in his decision, in all his decisions about me
he could, but he doesn't
So he will focus more time than needed to grasp that delicate
wrapper, which contained a stale bun and the remains of a dairy cow
spent and gone before her time on a factory farm in the central valley
and if insecurity can impose such ludicrous postures on a person
I will take this lesson, and remember always to be brave
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Truth always has to
Take that extra effort
Of herculean proportions
To dislodge deception
From the pedestal
Celebrated for long
Truth gets a chance
To establish itself
Having to prove itself
An irony
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
she seems like a saint in my dark moments
as she graces me with her gentle smile
because her nomadic heart came to rest for
a butterfly's moment within my grasp
and with noble intent i heart and soul to her attentions
so she unsticks my head
with her own road of good intentions
she is tender in my wilderness
placing small acts of cataclysm in my path
to dislodge my mud filled head
and with her devices nailed to my mind
it is easier to think so i think
so with her delighted mind she tinkers
with my comfort zone
trying to find the greasy spoon
that i eat my metaphysical meals with
leaves me hungry for words
when it comes time to put pen to paper
my head full of mud
grapple with the notions of her divinity
but the weight of thinking too much
keeps me from doing freestyle take to wing
so it is me that must unstick
from her influences
and her rubber band heart
that keeps bouncing back
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
These hearts have become racist
What used to be kind
And all hope to be seen
is wasted
On the stampeding blind
These teeth have become stained
What used to be white
Has been darkened by the
viscera of
those consumed by the night
These hands have become destroyers
Fingers that once saved
Equal and human;
Clean or depraved
These hands have become destroyers
I feel you chewing the limb that
used to be there
Your skin is under my nails
You're burning my fingertips
And pulling my teeth
You strangle me deep
among the sea of leaves
Flashing advertisements
in my eyes, Listening to
my every word. You tell
me I'm sacrificing for the
greater good. But I feel
submissive. I feel hateful.
You say Eve is the reason
for the downfall of mankind.
She is nothing but of rib and
even bone cracks. Saying this
as you dislodge my jawbone.
I try to argue with you, but
my language is gone.
You say that a dog is harmless
if surrounded by fence. That the
owner of the dog should pay for
the fence. That the ***** could ****
or produce pups that would ****
I am still without words and losing
copious amounts of blood.
I am poor and no-one will acknowledge
my death. I am someone people will
forget died and will have to be reminded
years from now, during a cook-out or
amateur bowling tournament. My legacy
is that of failure and being obliterated,
justifiably so.
These people look to money,
to colors on fabric idols,
to pages in a book written by
share-croppers afraid of flooding.
Remove me, so, to remember me
for what potential may have existed.
Kindly ignore that I never resisted,
and that I, the apex of forevers, was
always ungrateful. That I conformed
and became deeply hateful.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
In a tunnel
Like a wedding where I am behind
A black veil
The darkness embraces me: my new bride
But I see a light
I run! I run!
Run towards the light
But as I reach the light
I see
Matador! Matador!
My executioner, dressed in lights
A sponge for the cheers
Of a bloodthirsty people
I see your face and I know: I will die this day
But whether I will **** is another matter
To you our exchange is but a game
To me it is a war
If I win it will be a Pyrrhic Victory
In which I am the only casualty:
You will live forever in memory
I am just beef to you
You hide behind your mounted friends
Their spears make a porcupine of me
I will be weak when you finally fight me:
The hero is but a coward.
I am the only character who knows the truth:
The truth dies with me
My horns are not weapons or tools
They are a symbol of my family’s pride
A pride you slaughter when you take me for sport
I fight with my pride: my sharpest blade
I cough and cough and cough
But I cannot dislodge your sword
My spine is a broken chain
My pride smeared on the sand
I ***** blood for one last time
To ***** your hands
Because in the eyes of your family you are clean
That couldn’t be further from the truth
I die beneath the lights
Listening to the cries of
TORO!
Toro!
toro…
The darkness is my new bride
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
Rotunda of doors
Select an arbitrary gateway
Rotate a frigid bronze **** and dislodge
Gaze into an opaque, stone encircled realm
Proceed through the division
Inhale damp, stale earth
Hesitate in a moment of hair-raising atmosphere
Ignore and tread slow
Ignore the echo of the sole warmth emanating in rapid succession from within
Ignore the nagging to turn back
Do so anyways
Realize pupils dilate when the entrance is not visible
Debate possibilities
Feel pointless muscle movement pulling white eyes for stimulus
Exhale tension melting air
Whine and tread against small stalagmites
Extend palm forward and to the side
Grasp for sight
Grab nothing
Constrict throat down
Acknowledge and accept the situation
Continue onward
Stumble against a solid
Release pain
Trace the direction of hopelessness
Follow with purposeful motions
Brush against another impediment
Successfully avoid
Allow air to flow against dry tongue
Taste lifelessness and potential
Release resolution and determination
Gain momentum
Allow ears to beg for rays of sun
Decide resiliency
Pant and expend time
Sense vision assimilating
Investigate the environment
Crouch and take in the floor
Gasp and whimper
Behold bones
Three sixty and engage all faculties
Cower as truth speaks: labyrinth.
Lift chin and only stone above.
And collapse, collapse onto knees in dramatic fashion
With back arched over, hands grasping and pulling at hair
Fight against reality.
Terror eviscerates.
Submit on to the parasitic solid inorganic void.
Become more bones.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
If you could watch a plane crash in slow motion
You’d see a hundred lives slip away
Into the jet stream.
From row 17, seat B, you’d see
A freckled child lose their Legos,
Parents,
Youth.
And the man in row 22 would take one long, last
Look at his wife
And think only of love, love, love.
The overhead compartments will open
And spill out the wares,
The jackets that kept them warm
And the computers that once lit
With their life’s work
And thus, the world seems to shatter.
Do they cry? Do they have time?
Do they pray? Do they lose faith in God?
Do some gain it?
No one but the dead know the true tragedy.
As the tray tables dislodge
And the sky falls
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 9:44 AM UTC
Sometimes I want to shake your head from your shoulders
Try to dislodge the barbed twists of your perverse thinking
And the ideas spearing through your tissues
Like whaling harpoons that hooked their many heads deep
Latching and Leaching
Because you might have ****** your packet of Love Hearts a little too hard
Until it crumbled and fizzed in desperate ecstasy on your tongue
And the rest in the tube read MISS ME
Whenever you asked
But you are not Isolde,
Capulet, Karenina or Earnshaw
And as much as you desire the piercing pity of your broken collar bones
The caress of the lost-souls melody and the razorblades of a ribcage
The bitter corset of an appetite that pays for itself in crocodile tears
And the romance of a noose of flaxen hair
You are not Porphyria
And he is not her lover
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
Can't dislodge the shiit clot caught in my brain stem
On a marry go round of hell hounds, can't outrun them
I find it strange that a life can be all pain with no gain
I find it strange that nothing remains other than battle wounds and blood stains
The coward in me always wins with it's upper hand
My grand plan is to get my head deeper in the sand
The conversations from both sides of my mouth become simultaneous
Keeping this unstable, rival mindset at bay is strenuous, it's made me venomous
©2024
Jun 26, 2024
Jun 26, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
Take four
and make mistakes,
wake in the morning
to check
that your fingers are attached
to the undeniable spot
where your hands end.
Watch the clock
in case it stops;
Dislodge the plaque
behind your gums
and scream in silence
at reflection-you.
Tick tock.
Script the helix
and watch it spiral,
dipped in mothers’ milk,
everyone, gather round
for the epiphany
T-minus twelve days.
Creation calls.
Victor Frankenstein here?
Making something other than history,
constriction in the surgical instruments.
The fate you are going to meet
is going to be so beautiful
for everyone else.
You are going to scream.
You know,
a lot of this is about birth.
Through these broken walls
I hope you realise
that everything here
is supposed to create life.
Even the mistakes.
Someday I’ll write a love letter
to Rosalind Elsie Franklin, like the ones
strewn about my bedroom,
where I tell her about my day
and ask if she would like to stir sugar
into tea with me
and call it a case study into romantics.
Now, pick your metaphor
and run with it, show me
how exactly you’re supposed
to be reading this.
And when you find the answer,
let me know.
Welcome to the beginning.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 7:23 PM UTC
In the distance, on the sea, a sailboat is making its way across the waters
It has been traveling a long time trying to find the way home
Stopping from time to time at a place and then starting the voyage again to locate home
Some times the boat gets caught on the rocks or in unexpected shallow waters and has to take time to dislodge before setting sail again
At night the boat is guided by the light from the moon as it seeks a sign in the distance showing the way home
Then all of a sudden one night a bright light shines across the waters creating a line of light on the water
The sailboat adjusts its course and starts its final voyage home
By the shore is a man, somewhat hidden in the midst of the night holding up a lantern facing the water
As the sailboat gets closer, it can make out the light and shadow of a man
The sailboat is on its way home
Seeing the sailboat in the far distance, the man starts moving the lantern back and forth
The sailboat keeps its course until it lands back home from a long voyage
It feels good to be home......
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC