"dispossession" poems
Profit
Gross obscene
Exploiting dealing pocketing
Surplus killing debt dispossession
Undoing grieving needing
Ruin destitution
Loss
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
Love and confusion confounding the illusion of trust in a systematic regime which they deny ever existed but constantly promise to improve upon. The hat's shape and color may change, but our inability to exchange their deranged platforms for a stabler form of expression exposes our disillusion with dispossession and our embracing being complacent in the face of our rulers' all-encompassing corruption.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Chairs were creaking from the strain of ignorance,
as the habit of ignorant anticipation gripped the
edge of a creative moment to disrupt thoughts
which hoped to choose the pastel colors of an
expressive photograph. Rather than deep garden
saturation, the light, fading to become ghosts
of movement, offered a place of acceptance. Shrugs
rounded the shoulders of the road, so it could be
claimed that no responsibility hindered the
development of suspension systems. Political
levitation supported the dancers as they turned onto
the public stage in a forum of occupation. The state
of the street, in the absence of smooth nylon, brought
the parachutes down to flutter, disconsolately, above
the pavement. Single waves of regret were drawn
to leave the stage, but, as this effort was declined,
determination measured resolve based upon
community options, described in the local papers.
Setting the pages down, each day, the play became
enamel baked onto the restoration and the satisfaction
which kept them all together as a group. Certain
curtains were raised, as others were lowered to close
the door excluding the poor
from the equal share of space related to the experiments
of the place.
Conversation by clerks sculpted freedom to crimp the
brass cases in ways not accepted by sprites in mid
flight. These were the colors in the ledger interpreted as
shades of gray or flashing midnight blue, faint copper,
and pearly white. Forces of education were dismissed
as a superficial demonstration indicating the character,
intensive.
Thus, they were reaching for the money, but funding
remained a gift offered only to those admired and,
through the glass, profitable by cultural attributes. Some
thought the process was the singular importance of an
event. The dancers were dreaming, as they rehearsed.
Another kind of artist discarded the event in favor of the
documents and images meant to persist. These, the
dancing players favored as memories to be contemplated,
some to be cherished.
Materialism, since it included spirit, ruled the transient
existence experienced as joy. Perception brought
enjoyment into being, yet when the unusual critic walked
away, it was a dispossession. Other critics were members
of the team.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
odd. i see two chairs.
one room and one room
keeping the herd
while the nether
keeps the
paired.
a brute union of tough love and apathy
and middle-class *******
chafing on the sun drenched schema
of our dispossession.
like clever lads with epilepsy
only
the lights change
when
the frequency of
your questions
overclock the
enchilada.
the whole thing. baked in alaska.
striking a match
with a land
slide.
but absolutely, "no slide rules ".
every thing
to scale.
so the truth expands as you extend humility.
like an olive branch
in your boulevard
of baroque
naps.
life, is how sleep gets up in the morning. to yawn at the dream.
and
never quite
seem to remember
to tell
but recalls
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
Is it my imagination
Or are there far fewer birds singing ?
What dawn do they mutely await
Through the long night of terror ?
Silence speaks of pervasive fear
And of the loss of ancestral nests.
The protector has taken an axe to the trees.
Trees fall; the earth shakes.
Raucous cries of dispossession supplant birdsong
As the khaki-clad hunters *** sitting ducks
While Zeus' swans feast on Leda's flesh.
Rejoice, my countrymen, for the prophecy has come true
-The state has indeed withered away.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
Abscess blockade burrowed
to the jawbone
dream ruptures
infectious screeches
threats of gangrene
mainlined syringe residue
drawn back-blow back-cross bow-shot across the bow
racing thought
restless night shade swollen eyes
mud caked dispossession
broken promise treatment
crack in
the pavement
things fall apart
lies upon lies upon lies
and
she says
'While I'm at it,
I don't really want to talk about it.
Can't I just use you,
to only tell me nice things? '
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
Depression is an overused word
It might make an easy rhyme
For poets who labor under the impression
That they can climb to the heights of expression
By showing no discretion with each and every
Narcissistic emotional self-obsession confession.
But of all the poetic depression transgressions
From the front of the procession
To the straggling indiscretion
The worst and least touched on
Is that it's boring...
Depression and talk of it
Leads to the inevitable compression
Of each and every tidbit
Or texture that prevents a poem from becoming a lecture
It flattens the curve
It scans the sculpture
A man of depth dwindles to a nerve
But depression doesn't let them see how it narrows their view
The circle it drew around appropriate questions
Ignore the censor and suppression
Be vigilant of the slightest dispossession
Starting to understand this oppression?
Don't let it convince you that you can see more clearly
From the bottom of a pit
You have no idea what you're missing
Mar 19, 2021
Mar 19, 2021 at 5:11 AM UTC
problematic is the renewal of my soul,
systematic is my need to be evolved.
quite listless are the streaming roads
leading to the ends of this weary world.
now breeding are conjectures in my skull,
still breathing is my life - soothing cold,
with this possession in dispossession
tearing up my vile flesh and decrepit bones.
soon forgetting to be adorned
laughs will soon start to be heard,
once the fluent waters of the flood
swallow up the darkness it's become.
give me reason, i undergo deep sleep
live forever and give side to my good and dear
soul.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
i love the way you mostly go from garden to shack
tapping at the jagged slats of my ragged door....
loosely latched to the frame of my hovel.
your knuckles
rapping
on the knot in the grain
and the lichen blotch
above the likeness
of a cumulus cloud...
etched into the feeble barricade
of my luminous
tomb.
i let you in, after you wake me....
with your quiet
rain.
You read my books
but My -
lips
move.
II
sunset denudes the strident stars
and stark they come, above the worldly disarray
of my ordinary disposable comforts.
and the tinsel twilight
of my terminal misconception
of how to proceed with
a miracle.
and i love the way you mostly ignore my dilemma
and how thine is the kingdom of little mercies
that gather to my deconstruction
to ***** pavilions of the unimagined
in the dismal eye
of my hurricane...
For to watch you at your craft
is be astounded
by my Isolation, dissolving -
into a figment
of my crippling
self doubt.
i love the way you mostly correct the mistakes
that leave a mark...
how you show me how the moon
is a hole
in a pitch dark
clock....
how you serve this hermit
a banquet of intimacy -
that never recedes from
my bare cupboard
nor my hearth.
the way you squander your riches
upon my barren spoils.
the way you ruin my dispossession
by laying claim to the crest
of my tsunami -
of crushing
disappointment in
wishing wells -
( with ventriloquists you can lip read in the dark... )
by the light
of a constant
collapse.
the star you caught
off guard with your
south paw.
III
( And )
i love the way, that i love the way - you
mostly save me
from the withering din
of long hours,
from clawing at the ripple
in my false pond...
where i skipped a stone
into the great red spot
of my private Jupiter.
twiddling your thumbs -
as you casually rescue
my derelict barge
from the Scylla and Charybdis
of my discontinuous
clarity.
( and the moment you arrive. )
i love the way you mostly
and all the ways -
you always
how all the ways
you love
me...
come so naturally
to you.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
Proof of the past:
In November, you were born. Nothing here but stark cold,
until your warmth. Your presence extolled.
The mirrors remember your vestige. This is the silence
that extracts itself then exacts itself in this frame. Sometimes letters
accumulate but remain unfinished. In November, it is all clear.
I have no use for sordid entrails.
It is the stone’s duty to be evidence
of situation. Its flight, the sum of all its lost parts,
say when you speculate over the escritoire over an unfinished meal,
burn altogether and turn to scrap everything even the soft presses on the creaking
metal of the chair where we almost made love but didn’t because it is a surprise
that in rawness we are ripe more than ever, making our
life total, if not equal to an immense fault. You are sometimes
the cold metal chair I conjure. Sometimes just bleakness. This uniformity
seeks riddance.
Proof of the past as surety to claim:
In November, this year, they have changed the roads. Detours constructed
to arrive at a certain destination. Faces blur past the old university.
Trees are effigies. Leaves wriggle like the curtains of room 201, 2nd floor,
I do not know what specimen I have in my hands. Bare in lack of worship.
Grandeur is here
when seasons are predictable. This is the home and that is where you are that translates
it so. A wanted want – a dispossession.
Proof of the future:
You know nothing about this place.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Dock Workers’ Strike – BUY TOILET PAPER!
WE ARE AMERICANS!
Whenever threatened by enemies furry or domestic
By hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, storms
By shortages of food, water, and electric power
By aliens stalking us and eating our cats
By famine, fire, dispossession, revolution
WE BUY TOILET PAPER! WE ARE AMERICANS!
We are armed with our AK-16s and AR – 47s
Uniformed in our Wal-Mart camo from China
Size 89XXXXL-Lard-ass
And we will by God stand together as ONE -
And fight each other to the death for toilet paper!
Oh, and do you know Jesus?
Oct 3, 2024
Oct 3, 2024 at 11:57 AM UTC
__
( • )
( )
( )
/-----------\
Love Song
•
* *
We rise up as the earth arises
--
We are the HUMAN
Our Love is real
••
Heart beat
Breathing
( nothing else )
•
* *
Our lives
Totally surrendered to purest Will
--
( do you remember ? )
•
LOVE itself ?
•
Passion
The full embrace
••
Walking along the river together
In the mountains baring treason
In the stronghold
Of dispossession
Fully facing what is here
••
DARE YOU KNOW ME ?
••
Winds along the twisted street
Children crying hungry in alleys
***** poetry watching writing
The whole travesty down !
•
( WHILE I AM HERE ! )
••
gentleness
( purest self )
The earth is saying that
YOU
are worthy !
Calling on you to know your true NAME
counting on your understanding
Of your sacred independence
Of the meaning of your life
Of the promises you made
••
Love song
YOU ARE HERE !
all together
Let us sing !
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC