"documented" poems
I love a good debate,
[science mixed with illusion]
and this year was no exception:
the debate on the best shapes for a kite
from design implementation, inception and execution
some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue
the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo
and of course built by your own fair hand
such was the intensity of discussion it continued
with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles
drew their prize-winning geometry
with a primitive stick
in the sand
a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside
its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals
and documented film of it successfully tested and tried;
years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood
to know instinctively the difference
between the brilliance of genius
and the borderline
just plain good
If nothing else has come from this
I now
know
[so as not to lose]
K = p/q over 2
or
K = ab – sin Ø
[are the formulas to use]
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
Your Messiah is not Christ
my Karma is not your dogma
Their AntiChrist is not the Mahdi
His avatar is not yet manifest
Our Dajjal is not their 12th Imam
Your Brahman is not my Elohim
The Atman is not the God-Man
Your God-Man is Luciferian
Our Lucifer is not their Allah
The Djinn are undocumented
some angels fell
Allah is not Ras Tafari
Their Zion is Babylon
Jerusalem is Egypt or *****
Their Angels are ascended Masters
Our Master is your ascended Savior
My Savior is your accuser
Their God is no Savior
His unction is Satanic
The war is spiritual
The Spirit is not obvious
My anointing is carnal
their anointing is moronic
our doctrine is angelic
Your rejection was predestined
our acceptance is divine
Our depravity is documented,
your sanctity is illusory
their power is diabolic
their light is darkness
Their leader is ungodly
Our God is unseemly
His Truth is offensive
The bitter is not sweet
the sweet is unworldly
the world is not heavenly.
Trinity in seven spirits, yet God is One…
Revel in the uncertainty. Have some holy fun
fitting more angels on the pin-head, dancing
before they fall. Rebellion is always entrancing
until the current postmodern theology
hooks up with psycho-sexual linguistic pathology.
Don’t accept my apology
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
So that I can purge
these feelings inside of me
The feelings and urges
Of recent heart cracks
That make me
Want to hurt you
The solution it seems
Unsurprisingly to me
Is to
Write
More
Words
I don't need to talk.
Talking is circles
And friends agreeing
With every view I see
Even though my view
Has been skewed
By you.
It's no secret
I'm no fool
So why do they do it?
If I could just
Gather these feelings
On to a page
Surely my rage
Will subside
And then
Like a full body sigh
Things will-
...feel lighter
And you will be
More memory
Than constant reminder
So here I am
Madly scribbling
All this time later
These words
Which allegedly
Will release me
From all the
Convictions of you
But
I write with a pencil
Just in case
The seasons change and
I should ever want to erase
These documented tears
And instead
Pick up the phone
And talk circles
With a friend
Or even
talk circles
With you.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
There was a chap called Charlie.
Who lived in separation.
In total world of degradation.
Father left when he were nine.
A raging alcoholic.
Charlie, his brother and his mother.
Sent off to the workhouse.
In the land of Lambeth.
No palace.
The family were ushered into areas of segregation.
Mother and children apart in our apparently grand nation.
Product of shame documented by satirists.
Dickens's favourite topic.
Poor folks made poorer,
In workhouses designed to embarrass.
Those already destitute,
Not by choice for sure.
Only crime being poor.
Dignity stripped.
Destroyed of heart.
Wrecked in health
To reduce their being even more.
God help you if you were not fit.
**** of the earth, you were purged.
We the Brits now get benefits,
Be grateful that we do.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Charlie found extreme success.
When as a film star of the silent kind.
With a plaque on the wall of his once posh house in Vauxhall.
His surname it was Chaplin!
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
The body goes through changes.
The mind grows.
Eventually goes.
There is time spent knowing...
knowing about one's existence,
what love is,
what it isn't.
Feeling
With feet firmly planted on the ground,
it becomes frightful to think of being beneath it.
Food for the Earth, we are.
We populate our planet,
and we have come far.
We've documented man's evolution.
The evolution.
The enlightenment.
The ecosystem.
However, we forget about the gift we are given.
Spinning on an axis.
We're egocentric.
We put ego over eco.
We're contained.
Entomology, of sorts.
Maybe Darwin was right.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
She has a place for me in her heart
I've heard the others say the same
Yet I still
May rest my head
Where she would stay
Whilst all the others are long gone
Heart is a heavy word
Reminiscent of stranger times
Comforting to say the least
A shackle and a briefcase
Share her room with me
One wonders if an invitation is real
When not in writing
Enticement is real
As real as flesh and blood
As real as her
Laced ******* with frills
Bluey green
A colour best described as teal
Or was it turquoise?
Though that never mattered
Not important to me
Not a single detail
I told her not to be afraid of living
She said fearlessness is for the dead
I enquired about the living dead
She laughed
We are the only monsters
That feed off of life
We are the only demons
That go bump in the night
She is a goddess
A truly **** mess
I would like to pay homage
To the warmth between her legs
But there are many a pilgrim
And it is well documented that
I hold nothing sacred
Though I do have her favor
For now
Yet my invitation remains unanswered
I never knew a briefcase
Could be so ominous
Though she'll never be my queen
She still ***** me like I'm king
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
You ask me why I’m so angry all the time
I laugh because if I don’t I’ll cry,
I laugh because if I don’t I’ll cry.
And then you’ll call me emotional and hysterical
As if we’re still in the era of old where simple female reactions
Were pathologised and the bold locked up for being “mentally ill”.
You ask me why I’m angry and I simply scoff
And deny because if I start speaking about why
The rage in me will boil over like lava in a volcano
And then where will we be?
[pause]
I want to tell you,
I want to tell you why.
Why this rage, this utter, all consuming anger, this deep-rooted grief.
Let me tell you how I feel like crying whenever I hear about
Another **** case, another girl murdered for daring to refuse,
Another woman of colour who endured terrifying pain,
All because she was who she was.
Another minority violated, another black trans woman killed, her ****** unsolved,
Another child abducted and sold, like a commodity
Another another another
It never stops and it never ends
From micro-aggressions to gross violence
I feel it all in my heart
Like a stab between the fourth and the fifth rib
And it adds to my rage.
The words burst forth from my lips,
But I rein them in
Because even though I want to protest
Against your complete ignorance and your casual misogyny
And my being revolts in response to your words,
I stop myself
because you are my family, my friend, my peer
And if I say something
You’ll just ask me why I’m so angry all the time.
Sometimes there’s no winning
Resistance is futile
In a world so steeped in patriarchy
That it’s unaware of the consequences
Of perpetuating sexist narratives.
But I still want to fight
The oppressive systems that chain the girl child,
The casual way we respond to certain slights
Against the all encompassing freedom of women.
And I’ll take on a thousand such questions
If only I can change one life,
If only I can spread the word and fight the good fight.
And, I would have told you all this
If only you had asked.
If only you had the patience
To listen as I blathered on
About statistics and documented proof
Of how 50% of the world’s population
Is still under constant threat to their lives.
I repeat, fifty percent of the world’s population
Lives with a constant threat to their lives.
I would have told you about how there are thousands of accounts
Of harassment and abuse and violation of basic human rights,
The right to say no, the right to thrive.
I would have told you,
I would have told you all
If only you had asked.
So don’t ask me why I’m angry
Ask yourself why you’re not.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.
Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.
Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.
Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.
Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.
Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.
"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.
Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
Emails & web searches,
filtered &
documented,
footprints leading right
to your fingerprints.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
it isn't all black and white
the choke-hold of history
shades of red and brown
paint the scenery, too
the documented imagery
forgotten in the fray
a little big horn playing mournful
songs as the cavalry marches on
to the tune of galleons and guns
no passport required
when the port was young
émigré and immigrant
displacing native sons
who also once were pilgrims
breathing in the sun.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
The snipers rifle hung from the parapet
still warm, cordite drifted from
the business end.
It resembled a cigarette,
dangling in the groove of an
ashtray which was given to you
as a souvenir from a place
you had no desire to go.
And you had no desire to go there
as you had read stories of donkey
cruelty and the militias’ refusal to
accept Greenwich as the
centre of time.
Their struggle against the meridian
has been well documented in film and
prose.
Stories and rumours filtered in
from the hinterland, carried home in
economy flights from different time zones
arriving at the terminal, milling around the
carousel.
****** victim 4 lay in a forensic
scene, white tapped surrounded by
duty free bags, and the secret dossiers
exposing the militias plans drifted, blood
stained in the breeze.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
*'Oh Ainhara, you always seem to know what to
do...'* Esshi chuckles. "Thank you very much.
Have you done the Queen Mother's flower
arrangements?"
"Yes, all of them have been watered and
now they are being placed around the palace."
Esshi nods. "Good. Thank you very much.
Carry on then."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The florist smiles and leaves as Esshi places
the vase down on a clean counter as well as
the inkpot and quill while staring at the
paper.
'What should I say...?' she wonders as
she hears the meat sizzle. Bale is washing
the carrots and potatoes and chopping
them into medium-sized chunks.
Esshi blinks and smiles. 'Got it!'
Folding a paper in half she writes on
the paper, using her best calligraphy.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When she's done, she places the quill
in the inkpot and gently blows the paper.
'Perfect!' Esshi beams. "Bael? Where do
you keep the serving trolleys?"
"In the back!" he says as he pours in
the ingredients into the paella pan
and mixes gently.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi goes to the back room and sees
a rose-silver serving tray with wheels
which she rolls out, placing the
bouquet and note on it while waiting
for Bael and his team to finish cooking.
Bael smiles that proud smile before pouring
some soup into a bowl and placing it on the
serving tray.
"Thank you, Bael."
"Not a problem. Do give our Queen my
regards." he faces his working staff.
"If they're done, bring them over!"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Almost instantly, the chefs bring small plates
of their Queen's favourite treats and top it
off, a fresh brew of Jasmine Pearls.
"Thank you all so much." Esshi says gratefully.
"It's our pleasure." A chefs says as Bael
claps.
"Well done, everyone. Now we best get on the
Queen Mother's meals. Go started! I will see
Lady Esshi out."
Esshi covers the food as Bael opens the door
for her to leave. She is stunned to see Ainhara
there.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Oh my, Bael!" Ainhara smiles at him. "You
certainly worked hard."
"The life of a Chef." he beams. "When you're
done, do come by again. I'll have some meals
waiting for you!" he winks at them and
returns to the kitchen.
"The shipments?" Esshi asks.
"All are being presented, documented and
stored away by the Queen Mother." Ainhara
says. When she sees the flowers, she smiles
and the words on Esshi's note makes her
smile even more.
"Let's make way." Ainhara says as Esshi pushes
the tray behind her, making their way
for the young Queen's chamber.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
A journey into destiny
Inspiration without enduring pity
It is not a trip through a city
However it is living within reality
Years of separation
A time when writing was a enemy in not
A hidden curse being a plot
In justice in not letting your mind expand
Exercising your rights documented in creed on the United States land
Your writing was meant to reach
It was part of education in all to teach
Words have no favoritism
Actions are only disturbing needing a direct response
Writing falls partly into that category
Words construct in how the writer feels with all the conditions that apply
Endless moments from a past with a cry
Every thinking moment becomes a writing try
Every idea is another day in being wise
Life understanding becomes wisdom absorbed
Those moments alone becomes a concept explored
Back in slavery days, reading and writing wasn’t an option
Yet it was educating one’s mind to take a chance
However, it was Freedom Writers who had courage and Faith to step out
Your writing was meant to reach
It was part of education in all to teach
Words have no favoritism
Actions are only disturbing needing a direct response
Writing falls partly into that category
Words construct in how the writer feels with all the conditions that apply
Endless moments from a past with a cry
Every thinking moment becomes a writing try
Every idea is another day in being wise
Life understanding becomes wisdom absorbed
Those moments alone becomes a concept explored
Back in slavery days, reading and writing wasn’t an option
Yet it was educating one’s mind to take a chance
It didn’t matter if one didn’t advance
However, it was Freedom Writers who had courage and Faith to step out
Today, opportunity plays its part in giving you assurance that you have the talent to write
I am not trying to be polite
I want to help someone to come out of the shadows and be among into the light
Freedom Writers is what it says, and they have given you the floor plan in writing in what they think
Write where others cannot
Think where others are uncertain
Encourage where negativity has been applied
Your realize will certainly be your observation eyes
Be enthused with every writing try
Our Forefathers who wrote paved the way in how each of us write today
As a writer, you are the destined voice
You had some doubt, but you became the choice
You are “Freedom write with Liberty gained”.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
ink on skin and wit on tongue, i love you.
a sucker for seizing the moment, i adore you.
never turning my head for more than a moment, i study you, discreetly.
a form with new curves, new golden aspects, new wonders, i would devote all of my life to knowing you.
in a room that i’d normally call a cave, i felt free and wild, like the days of my youth, running on the streets, bare-chested, no-hair chested, shorts, no shoes and my spirit ten feet in front of me. such pure panic, the panic that has always hurled me into the moments in time that have beauty speckled with the gorgeous glimmers which have been plucked from the eyes of everyone involved. that panic was always there on the streets with me, jumping, swinging, playing and lunging into life with more ferocity than ever documented in NatGeo. scraped knees and grass stains on my face, you are my summer and you will go. i will always remember the way you smell.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
-Studying car lights from outside- an automobile's slow flash-
Primary colors of headlight reflections, flirt in their dance-like dash.
Here I sit in the back of my van, in the corner on the side of the street; I've been right here since 5pm, how the hours lapse with deceit. Its been just over 5 full hours that I've been paralyzed in this seat; Now as it's pushing 10pm, documented my defeat:
I'm more than done with this pit of fear,
overcome the paranoid gap,
all I need is to now pause, re-evaluate
Exiting this trap.
To wrap it up in this conclusion
To iterate the hours ceaseless delusion
Is to redefine isolations inherent seclusion- with confidence, strength-
dispel illogic's confusion.
Sep 7, 2024
Sep 7, 2024 at 3:17 AM UTC
Nobody no longer contains the desire for unrefinity
The urge to tap into the void smacks of divinity
What exists in its place in the flesh market place
Are bartering skill sets and chocoalte puddings
When confronted by an invisible elephant
The people, in consensus, turn away
This happens within the day to day
The elephants march on, heedless vessels
Turbans floating downstreat, mainstream.
****** babble replaces conversation
Emblamatic gestures infiltrate the realm of the symbolic
The priests have all taken off their underwear
And the women are putting their brasiers
Back onto their chests, underneath their shirts
Blouses are burnt.
Toast is burnt.
Jams are being made by machines, horses do have dreams
Jelly and ice cream make delicate farts
Ghosts live in pipes and buy and sell art
People whose names are Horace or Rupert
Have been decommisioned
And the stories are locked in pie dishes
And the tale remains the same.
Remember, that future archeologists will exist.
Excavating sites will bring us all
To the kingdom of devon
In the beautiful future of documented tales
Which we are building for
Inside the spaceships.
When ponies are invalid and germs become common currency
Know that it will be time to fly your pillow cases as flags
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
in the only finished scene
of my father’s
documented
seizure
a tin woman
eats a cricket
before a paltry
congregation
of children
hired
in spirit
to distinguish
an aerobic
from a cerebral
doom
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
I see myself
through the windows of trains
in different cities.
Sometimes I have earphones in
and I’m staring out the window
as the light passes over the tops of buildings.
Sometimes I have a girl asleep on my shoulder
while colored houses
line the hills.
Sometimes I’m crying
and no one on the train notices.
I see myself as an outsider
looking at a picture,
or a movie frame,
moving quickly by to another moment
that will be documented.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
These poems are an extension of me,
A pressure valve to keep my mind from exploding,
These poems are sieves catching grotesqueries
To be turned into something palatable
Poetry somehow doesn't pop without pain,
Somehow inadequate without lurking demons
Fueling passion and longing and fury
These cataclysms are documented and catalogued,
These emotions and stories memorialized,
Their existence in the world a fossil record
Of memories too precious to lose
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
He wears his solivagant demeanor like armor; your battle of love will never scratch his silver plated chest, your swords will never pierce the walls inside his ribcage called, "home" Home is where the heart is and he flatlined a long time ago; broken heart syndrome only has only 11 documented cases of death, but something snapped inside that boy that day and I think about how they never mention that you can die on the inside, too.
He says cigarettes are a way to manipulate time, that sand is just sand if you don't know how much you have left in your hourglass, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
You could've called us time travelers, we were making best friends with the moon and the stars as we breathed in the promise of calm, an ashen beach lay beneath us. Sand is just sand, after all.
The confessions of an insomniac, the stream of unfiltered emotion laying open, so vulnerable- how terribly sad it looks in the light.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
On August 31, 2012
at 1:44 PM
Tom bought
Value Meal
VM
Whopper
No Onion
Small Fries
Small Soda
Coke
For $6.27
From Jorge
and then went to the North Village Branch of the Austin Public Library
to check out
Superman: The High-Flying History of America's Most Enduring Hero
Returning it undamaged, unmarked
So I could check it out
At 15:31
On September 7, 2012
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
An old man in blue suspenders
gazed down at his wife
who had just slipped away
in this hospital
Her last breath was taken
at 2152, documented by doc’s writing
what started with chest pain
ended in this dimly lit room
The old man looked up at me
gravity pulled a tear to his shoe
I blinked, the room began to spin
The old man
in blue suspenders
then calmly said,
"As I look down at her wrinkled face
and thin lips,
I can vividly remember the day
our friendship began
Her eyes were full of life
her red lips plump,
her smile made my heart
brew emotions that wouldn’t pass
We talked about these things
that made life seem so right
She was my best friend.
Now here lies her peaceful face
washed away and pale
death has finally taken her
as it will me
But those moments,
those moments of life
the bliss and her youth
live on immortally
she’s still there in my mind
that young girl,
with fire in her eyes."
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Have you ever had a session that gave you an impression,
Then you formed your discretion,
Which then showed your expression, and at the end of the day,
It documented as a depression that formed rejection?
This rejection then formed an infection
In the enzyme in your stomach called pepsin,
That led to an injection, for your safety and protection.
Did I forget to mention, the medication won’t **** it,
Just gives the disease a suspension?
©
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
My life is well documented
on thin strips of paper
usually thrown in a trash bin.
My attachments
are well preserved
in a thin sheet of ice
covering an overflowing trash bin.
So when its time for taxes
I thaw out the bin
and re-record the trail
of 20's and 40's
60's and 80's
pulled from my account of time been in passing
I shake my head and laugh
at the time I spent trying to change the end
to Tuck Everlasting
Knowing now that when you tucked me in
it was to say goodnight,
not good-morning.
A foreshadow that you would be passing
and I would be lasting.
I've crunched the numbers
made the deductions
and came out with a lengthy profit.
Thanks to the money I've invested
in being possessed,
with the best
intentions,
paying attention to you
So when I file my W-2's,
I can do them with a smile knowing
I never wasted a dime on you.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
I knew it was bad when my fingernails were ringed
with red
as I ran them over ribbons and excused myself
from confetti cake to make them
redder.
my head was burning
a sparkling candle burning
my hands were yearning
a spazzing sticking yearning
my family was singing
a muffled stifling singing
my ears were ringing
a loud ear-piercing ringing
sing
ring
sting
stop stop stop my scalp is stinging
Nothing was clear until my fingernails
were red
and coated with pieces of my head:
rubbed raw and picked clean
You’re telling me
this is something you haven’t seen?
It doesn’t make sense because:
I don’t put pencils in a perfect pristine line
I don’t count my cheerios before I can dine
I can turn the lights on and off just fine
but my fingernails
are red
and apparently that’s a sign.
I can tell you where
every single pinprick lives
and spreads fire down my scalp
into my brain
How it tells me
your math homework can wait
save me
or you’ll go insane
My nails are short
but still red
My brain is intact
but still missing its head
Oh, how I could See the Disorder in a
demented disturbed decision
to forfeit my favorite vanilla cake
for blood
stop stop stop, i’m begging you, brain
you can’t stop; you know you need pain
leave me alone, and you’ll go insane.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 12:26 AM UTC