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The screaming
children of Gaza
torment the sleep
of a troubled world,
and remain a real-time
unending nightmare;
anointing The Levant’s
fevered brow
with a diadem of
incessant grief.

Gaza is a burning
ankh that sears the
madness of sorrow
upon Egypt’s skull.

Gaza,
an unblinking
third eye
of shame,
peers into
Lower Egypt’s
closed window
ever reproaching
it’s turbulent
conscience;
chiding fellow
Muslims with
the ugly memory
of abject affliction,
the endless images
of a living Guernica
suspended in the hell
of indefinite imprisonment
all Palestinians are forced
to suffer.

As Zionists ***** the
steep walls of Apartheid to
extend its occupation
of Palestine, it
condemns the youth
of Gaza to a life of
incarceration with no
possibility of parole;
hardening the hearts
and steeling the resolve
of a new generation of
militants to demolish the
walls and the wardens
that imprison them.

The Zionist jailers
bestow upon
Ishmael’s Children
phylacteries of shame,
wearing the rolled
prayers of wailing pain
scribed with bits of
dust from the
the broken walls of
demolished buildings
and desolate homes
beyond habitation,
now housing grief
of trampled souls,
forcing recitations
of deliverance
to Allah while
davening an
incessant drone
of anguish at
the Wailing Wall
of Resentment;
decrying the
blood lust of
undying acrimony,
victimization and
the slaughter of
innocents, carried on
with the imperial license
of state sanctioned impunity.


Father Ibrahim's
feuding children may
share a sacred paternity
but remain the
divided brothers
of different mothers;
stoking a sibling rivalry
more bitter then
Cain and Abel.

Our anguish
never dissipates,
the gnawing
impulse of empathy
to assist the distressed
of Gaza is dashed
by omnipotent
powers recusing
the ability to act.

Sympathy is
embargoed
in the black
obfuscation
of religious
partisanship
while timely
assistance
to aid the
distressed
lie netted in
blockades of
realpolitik
affinities.

Gaza, where
Hashim is granted
his eternal rest,
restlessly inhabits
his unknown grave
from the destitution of
his profaned homeland.

Ghazzat,  “the stronghold”
countlessly conquered,
falling to Roman Emperors,
Lionhearted Crusaders
Ottoman Caliphates,
and British Mandates;
slipping from Egypt’s
geopolitical grasp as
as a casualty of
The Six Day War.

Gaza is now a stronghold of
resent and desperation for a
desperate conquered people.

Ghazzat, the prized city of
the western Mediterranean,
a four star Phoenician port of
caravansaries now unable
to trade with any partners
due to ungodly blockades.

Gaza, has grown wholly
dependent on the largess
of UN aid and meager
subsistence portions
doled out by well
meaning NGO’s.

Gaza, the foot stool of
the Levant and surely
the pathway Father
Ibrahim, Jacob,
Joseph and Jeremiah
traveled to escape
Canaan's famine;
finding at the close
of their sojourn
a table set with the
plenteous bounty
the Blue Nile
unconditionally offered;
the veritable feast
of abundance,
the generous yields
of the blessed delta
that sustained the
Prophets of Judah
and a thousand
generations of the
Nile’s Children.

Gaza, the Achilles
heal of Middle East
peace, land of the
Canaanites, Philistines
and Old Testament
heroes.

Gaza, a fortress for
Philistines who
imprisoned the storied
Sampson, revered for
breaking the chains of
imprisonment and righteously
destroying a pagan temple
in a suicidal act of heroism.

Gaza, where the myths and
legends of rapacious
holy crusaders captured
the western imagination
with the chivalrous gallantry
of religious warfare and
valiant last stands of
Templar Knights employing
the tactical imperatives
of terrorism in service to their
higher God.

Gaza, an oasis
by the sea now
lies dry and brittle
as the precious Hebron
waters of Wadi Ghazza
are diverted to serve
the agriculture of
Judah; condemning
a dehydrated Gaza
panting of thirst
to an imposed drought
and a war of
self preservation
to remove
the dammed rivers
of justice controlled
by intractable powers
laying upstream beyond
Gaza’s mean borders.

The Qassams
lunched by Hamas
are desperate
expressions of
exasperated people,
eager to call
world attention
to the growing
insufferable plight
of a people living
in a perpetual
state of siege.

Its a modern day
David slinging rocks
against an armor
clad Goliath.

Each Katusha
serves as
a justification
for Zionist
intransigence
and condemns
any possibility
for peaceful
coexistence
of a Two State
Solution.

The pointless attacks
invite massive
disproportionate
retaliation and succeed
in prolonging and
increasing the
measure of Gaza’s
agony.

The mystic grace,
the divine power
of satyagraha
-a non-violent
response to the
cruel enforcement of
Apartheid- is Allah’s
way to secure the
moral high-ground
and the surest way
for Palestinians to
expose it’s unholy
adversaries innate
contempt for civil rights
and a refusal to
recognized the
shared humanity of
all of Father Ibrahim’s
wayward progeny and
recalcitrant prodigal sons.

Mubarak’s fall
has allowed the
Rafah Gate
to swing open again.

The concertina
wire that separates
Gaza and Egypt
has been removed.

The prisoners
of Gaza have
an open portal
of freedom.

It is a Day of
Jubilee, a day
of pardon for
for the inmates
of prisons built
for victims.  

It is a day of
possibility for peace.  

It is a day to declare an
Exodus from the land
of bitterness.

Humanity is
offered the hope
of escape from
the prisons of
acrimony, to
freely move across
the staid borders
of intractability
and exclusion.

The hearts and
minds of Palestinians
and Egyptians
are free to connect
and unite once again.

Liberation is
possible only
when we uphold
and honor the
affirmation
of all humanity.

Music Video:

Silk Road
We Will Not Go Down

Oakland
2/9/12
jbm
a poem from the epilogue section of Tahrir Square Voices
"I Think I Love You"

So swiftly these words, these human words
(so dense in Nature),
Ensconced--in a language,
Made an escape,
through those scrumptious lips of yours.
Not realising,
that these beautiful-eloquent words,
You doled out so uninhibitedly(in a single breath),
Had rolled themselves up,
And breached,
My opaque atmosphere
in the form of a meteorite;
Colliding with this surface,
and Cratering
this isolated heart;
Which
shall be forever visible
within the Cosmos of my eyes,
Which shall hence be named after your vivacious soul,
Which shall indelibly be located within the latitudes and longitudes
of Earth's time;
And,
Always be scouted--
by telescopes of ephemeral Love.
annh Dec 2018
I wove my own web and netted my prize,
I cold-pressed my words and refined my disguise.

I goggled at life and faced up to that book,
I tumbled and tweeted and baited my hook.

I blipped and I blogged, I bantered and blushed,
I followed and friended, I grovelled and gushed.

I doled out the instant, ten grams at a time,
To fuel my addiction for caffeine and rhyme.

I reshopped my pic, I swiped left, I swiped right,
I pinned and I posted deep into the night.

I gloated and gossiped, I chatted and cheered,
I logged in and logged out without favour or fear.

For is it not fun - this mad media storm?
Viewing and voting from dusk until dawn.

Yet love me or like me, let it never be said,
That despite how it seems, it’s gone to my head.
Joe Bay Mar 2014
"As a core, idealistic truth, love is all that matters. In practice, especially between fundamentally flawed and unfinished beings, it’s not. Sometimes our love isn’t greater than whatever is doled out beside it. It doesn’t always win out. Sometimes it shouldn’t.

When you first realize someone could be something to you, the days become hazy and fluid and the last thing on your mind is logistics. It seems cold to be calculating at the beginning, to compartmentalize a person and see if those parts match up to the whole you envisioned.

We’re so quick to glide over whatever instinctive inkling resonates every time we realize there’s a void greater than our love for someone can fill. We press on, seldom realizing that every relationship culminates in deciding whether or not those instincts are the ones to follow.

Love exists in multitudes. In shades and elements and dynamics. In pieces and in learning, in growth and in change. In strangers and in soul mates. It does not exist as a single, expendable truth or experience. We’re so quick to attach that idea to one person or one relationship. We don’t want to go through the motions of experiencing those levels of commitment, attraction, interrelation with anybody else. The risk of losing is too great, but withholding waives the possibility of ever finding it in the first place.

Some relationships are long, steady, and easy; some are quick and enlightening and challenging. Some brush along our surface and others dive beneath and uproot us. Some might be temporary, one might last “forever.” That doesn’t mean it has to be the only one there is. That doesn’t mean there’s not something to be experienced, to be taken, to be learned, from whatever came before.

You can’t make a relationship something more than what it inherently is. You can’t make yourself fit into something you inherently won’t.

The whole of human love is what’s enough, the parts are just precursors.

We are unfinished, every last one of us. We have to let go of wishing each chapter was the last one because we’re afraid of how it could end otherwise. We have to stop forcing people into being the end-all-be-all for the same reason. We have to paint in contrasts, in love and from loss, and we have to find eventually that the whole picture is filled, and we are filled, from what we take, find, lose, gain, learn, give and create with the multitudes of people who loved us, in the multitude of ways that happens.

You’ll realize you knew the answers to your questions all along, it was only a matter of having the courage to act on them. You’ll let go when you don’t realize you’re doing it. You will have to learn that loving someone doesn’t always mean that being with them is the answer. You’ll realize that love is enough, but the kind of love that makes you stay only partly comes from the person you stay with. The other part comes from you.

You’ll realize you don’t have to be out of love to say goodbye. You’ll learn to separate the two: the loving part of you and the logical part of you. You’ll learn to use them in tandem. You’ll learn that two such things can be used in tandem, though you were taught otherwise and it seems impossible. What you’ll find eventually is the only love worth having is the kind that’s there even when the rest is gone."
-Brianna Wiest
We,
the uninsured
being inured to this,
the will of gods.
Our lives doled out in tablet form
from birth to breath by those pharmacists
with death proscribed,
prescription wise.

My eyes have seen the crookedness that shake
foundations,
three times a day we pray again to all the gods
to open up and swallow pills and god just nods
his head,agrees that we need medications.

The ***** top bottle throttles me
but I am strangled happily by those 'dolls'
the greens and reds of fol de rols
a plague on gaudiness unless instructions say,
take the pills three times a day.

These games we play, I'll say,
are just a side event,a small diversion to prevent us
from ever having to face the facts,
but we're inured to that and so,
on and on and on we go until the end is reached.

I plead,
just one more pill,
it appears that this is not the will of god or any pharmacist,
I missed the last bus home,but home is hell and
so that's just as well.
I wait in the wings to see
what tomorrow brings.
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,—not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more triumph for devils and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life’s night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we pierce through his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Mirlotta Oct 2014
Once upon a time, in a world that looks like yours      
there was a girl with
golden hair
that hung like a banner across her back in a
a sea of sandy metal
that whispered across the air
all the untold secrets of the water and the flowers
and their petals


and when she blinked, her eyes were blue
and if you leaned too close you'd
drown in them
like the hags who tumbled down the wells
and shrieked for help
that no one cared about
because they didn't hear their voice
or see their
ebony locks trailing like abandoned sea **** after them
because they didn't fit into the space the puzzle maker had carved
and couldn't conquer the tedium of difference



and the girl was tugged by hand to go to Church
and her prayers were secret treasures
that trickled from her lips
and tasted like righteousness
each word more crystal than the last
soaked in honey at the tip
and smothered in wonder and glory
and the days as they passed


and they never mentioned the girls she teased
who wore headscarves
or bindis
that she'd printed with the colours of endless torment
in hues of cheerless and agony
and the girls never told her that
if they took them off
like she begged them to
laughter sprinkled in and stirred
they'd have to show her how much more pain
her jeering caused them



and the girl made mockeries of the unconventional
but that was okay because
everyone did
their eyes creasing up into slits of derision
in universal agreement
skidding past the true
whims of their heart and growing to
resent them


and the eccentric pressed themselves carefully
into the mould of society's
baking tray
their souls thrashing out in pain and hatred
as they compressed their emotions
and intelligence
and the beauty they found in the strangest of things
into the shell that had been vacated for them
when its previous owner had shrivelled up
and given in
and died



and all the way through life, the girl was beautiful
but she still  blew char
over her eyelashes
and stained her lips the post-box red that's found in
first kisses and
poetry and
scrawled crayoned hearts and
fading wishes


and she made fun of the red that pulsed
in the form of acne on
her classmates' faces
growing their hair out long to cover their pain
until no one could see their shame
and pouring their money into
the collection tins of mass chain stores
of cream and gloop and products
until their faces were marred by make-up
until their mothers didn't recognise them anymore
and they cried



and the girl was thinner and happier than anyone
but because it amused her
her wrists were slit
so her peers doled out their sympathy
and held battles over
who could make her smile first
and she fasted to become thinner
and she collected
four leaf clovers


and her classmates ignored the tender puckered skin
of the children that hacked at
their flesh and
tried to hide it alongside their hurt
and she cackled at the ribs
that seemed to try and burst from their flesh
like hungry mouths were trying to eat
them from the inside out
and they collected things because they feared
what would happen if they didn't
because that was OCD



and when the girl grew up, she married a boy
and he was tall and
his hair was night
and he was handsome in the conventional way that was accepted
perfect match
the paradisiacal sight of
dainty damsel clutching the arm of the
kind of man she'd read about in books
she'd been infatuated with him before they'd met


and the boys who fell in love with each other were outcast and spat on
their hearts torn into tatters and shredded in machines
by the people who thought they could decide for them
that if they didn't love girls then they'd love no one at all
because in the fairy tales they'd read as young children
they learnt that
prince = princess
and the prince never runs away with the woodcutter
because where would the princess be then?



and the girl still lives on today, in a world that looks like yours
her words a deadly poison
reaping and bleeding
crushing her prey between *******
and showing songs to the ears of the impressionable,  young or old
sowing seeds in their brains
that blossom in their hearts
and she is beautiful
and she is terrible
and she is nameless but for the title of
Society’s own child
and she is blameless
for it is the parent
at fault.
Yay, first poem!
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.

But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.

The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.

Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.

I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.

Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
Blue zoo hue true through due stew brew flue crew boo to you grew jew new ooh poo rue sue shoe

Pain stain bane rain cain feign sane train brain lane main inane grain

Gold bold sold mold scold cold doled fold foaled hold rolled

Feel seal real deal meal keel heal heel kneel wheel zeal steel steal peal peel

Melt felt belt dealt knelt pelt welt

Pent mint sent rent lent vent bent went dent gent glint spent tent rent

House louse blouse

Curt shirt

Bridge ridge

Pocket rocket socket walk it

Crank dank frank hank rank stank bank tank yank blank sank

Tout pout rout route lout bout clout doubt shout scout

Knoll shoal foal bowl coal dole mole whole hole roll soul toll pole

Bust rust dust crust lust fussed just must combust trust

Lewd dude sued rude crude booed aptitude mood food *******

Fort sort court report tort port quart consort contort retort cohort cavort snort

Maid raid jade laid paid ***** obeyed aid made weighed evade parade afraid glade

Ounce pounce trounce bounce

Porch torch scorch

Flounder rounder

Trace face race lace ace brace case pace waist waste

****** haunch paunch launch

Long song gong **** wrong strong tong belong

Fast mast past vast crass glass brass last aghast hast

Gulch mulch

Survive alive hive rive jive live strive

Twirl whorl curl hurl furl burl girl pearl rural whirl

Flaunt taunt haunt daunt vaunt

Hoot moot loot boot toot shoot cute jute root suit newt

Weep seep steep keep heap deep creep leap beep jeep reap

Hide side abide bride died guide lied glide bide vied wide ride tide slide

Serene ravine green gene careen obscene demean

Fin pin sin men tin wren Zen

Bought naught fought caught ought distraught drought

Meld weld held gelled knelled quelled emerald withheld

Left heft deft

Verve swerve curve

String thing bring sing king ping ring wing sting ding

Boon soon moon tune loon **** noon rune croon

Knave grave brave rave save wave crave pave
Combating poetic writers block
S R Mats Mar 2015
Are we junk?  Waste,
Shard and smear,
Empty symbol made by
“Doled out Poet’s papers,
Hoarded like sweets?”

Our awkward secrets
stumble
cislunar.
2003
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
When the intelligent design was
sizzling and shining in the soul,
and the rest were still in deep mute
yet one was playing the lute!
Paradise saw me, to her I drew
and tweet “So beautiful are you.”

Pronto, the heaven turned around,
as if the first light after the eternal night
hovers on her lips like she then spoke.
Hissed to me, “without prejudice
am I by design the enduring showpiece.
So ask me what's indeed the beauty is.”

Without blowing a horn or waxing lyrical I say:
Didn’t it blur before you, that a magic snap?
The first reflection of the feminine form
on your golden spiral smoothed out water,
because she breathed on it, on the spot.
Up till now did you view this intact mirror?

Only one drop, keeping tight into the core with
a shadow of the reflection within doled out.
Instantly croons in and danced through every
river across your one hundred layers.
You are still painting on, go on take your time!

Even the atom from the bottom of the black hole
reaches out to the water, the feminine did it first.
Peering through the water’s skin she floats
with the utmost high-surfaced designs into mirror.
Only the primo wonder of the all one peerless God
looks on it, there is no veil except the one is her!
The Uncreated Word, fluid beyond, finest mellifluent
coined the creation, only to loop back to itself far greater.
Therein the root the first (pure light) feminine rose,
for good ever after blossoming flower!
Mercurychyld Aug 2014
Demagogues of our society; daftly delivering
disarming delusions of decrepit delights.
Dealing in powder, rock and liquid death,
demurely doled out in droves to the
willing unconscious, dysfunctional deviants
of the land.

Blindly offering devotions, flaccid devotions
to plastic, white collar deities; giving new
definition to internal deformity, through
decelerated dejection.

Desperate and emotionally dismembered,
defrauded by quick, cheap decadence,
debauchery, and mental decay in many
deliriously delicious forms...pick a flavor,
name your poison!

Delegate your defect, as those with
doctoral degrees in defunct traditions
do deviously delineate their demented
designs...for our future.

DejaVu?
Perhaps, but in fact, it is we
who sniff, inject and drink up their drivel,
decidedly and dutifully depleted of
intellect by way of dubious data.

Duplicitous dullards...sanitize and
deodorize their fiendish lies...as we,
WE do nothing!

Not enough of us dumbfounded or
dumbstruck by their deceitful smiles.
Full of dread and deep dismay, by
the statutes of the day...I, for one,
will dream of better days, when we
shall defeat these diabolical demons.

But for now, down beaten, downtrodden;
we will continue to be denigrated for
the duration.
Clever dissection; dumb as they want you
to be,
disparity of all creativity...individuality...
and all of your rights...controversially.
Our disgruntled displeasure doomed...to
fall on dormant hearts...and we,
debilitated and daunted, lives dismantled,
are now forever haunted, by our freedoms
demise...by days we could question
their smiling lies.

Demagogues; Big Brother...such delinquents
dosing up the masses with a deluge of powder,
rock sedation and liquid elation...pick your flavor,
name your poison.

At the end of the day WE are ONE...duped,
defaced, defeated...and to continue on this
road, our final denouement will come
disturbingly disguised...as DEATH!



-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Inspired by a movie I once saw.
John F McCullagh Aug 2018
Uncle Sam sat down across from me and placed his satchel on the floor.
It was time to pay the piper; that is God’s immutable law.
I tapped my bony finger, impatient to begin.
“That will be fifty eight thousand, Sam, starting with Tonkin.”

From his satchel, that seemed bottomless, Sam produced the cash.
“Start counting!” I demanded, as I drooled over his stash.
He started pilling Franklins up on the table there between us.
Each “C” note meant one hundred dead Due to McNamara’s genius.

Fathers and sons had fallen; young men by the score.
Just think of the girls they never kissed; the children they never saw.
Uncle Sam doled out the bills until his thumbs were sore
When he finished I took out my Scythe and swept them on the floor.

I saw Sam’s look of horror at my eyeless, nose less face.
He had counted out a treasure that he knew he can't replace.
“It was a Pleasure doing business.” Oh, how I despised that man!
Still I was certain that we’d meet often,even after Vietnam.
58,220 American men and women, my fellow boomers, died during the years of the Vietnam war. Here I imagine Uncle Sam settling the bill with an unusual accountant.
Marigold May 2016
I will never understand
the happenings of some things.
Like the horrific and horrible
that happens to the innocent,
like the willful and intentional ignorance,
Of death and pain and torture.

I will never understand
how evil is doled out among us.
By chance, by fate, by deliberate decision?

I will never understand
The recovery that happens,
After the unforgivable; forgiveness,
After death; new life.

I will never understand
Love that won't go away,
Even when told,
Even when begged,
Even when commanded.


I will never understand
how you go on.
I will never understand
how I go on.
I will never understand why.
Lilly Tran Apr 2011
***
It feels so strange being sad.
There's no way I'll miss that.
Now the pain is my pleasure
and your love will not measure

how free

how clear

how happy
I feel now.



Love is great, love is fine.
Now that you're
out of heart,
out of mind.
The cold burn of your feelings,
the "I love you" lies that you brought me,
leaves me screaming
"no more".

Cuz I might be sad but I'm perfectly good at it
I'm done with you now
and hey, I love the sound of it.
Sticks and stones may break my bones
but you won't do that to me
any more.

Na na na na na
I'm gone
I'm gone
I'm gone
and I love it.
Na na na na na
We're done
We're done
We're done
and I love it, love it.
Na na na na na
You're alone
You're alone
You're alone
don't you love it, love it?

You hurt me bad, messed me up
I tagged along, I was just a pup
but joke's on you cuz now I'm a *****
so kneel down, boy, cuz I'm done playing your fetch.

Cuz I might be down but I'm perfectly good at it
You're on your own
and hey, I love the sound of it.
Words and wrongs may break my bones
but you won't do that to me
any more.

The pain I took drove me mad
but now I won't give you that.
Now the pain is my pleasure
my heart is my treasure
cuz that I've stolen it back from you.

You doled out the hurt,
I groveled at your feet.
You pushed me too hard,
I wept and plead defeat.
You threw me away,
I came crawling back for your sweet.

But now

I'm finished with *** and sadomasochism
I'm finished with you, your lies, your macho-ism.
I'm taking my heart
and I'm taking my stuff
and I'm laughing as I leave.
Derek Miller Feb 2011
to say that i am fed up now
would be a gross distortion.
blithe ignorance, i can't allow
to grow in same proportion
as thoughts that now let peons hold
onto bold misconceptions
that they alone do know this world
through cliche-formed perceptions.

take heed, blind fool, raise up thy head
and know the truth unknowing.
in lieu of fables, you'll instead
give seed to thoughts through sowing.
saddle up, then. take this ride
into the fields of fortune
where wealth is found to be inside
one's own mind's doled self portion.

if you shall find that you've not found
conceptions worth protecting
the cursory heart to own you're bound
since base you keep rejecting.
i'd liken you to one that's blind
t'were that not false relating.
at least the sightless seem to find
true art through innovating.

this path you've wound has been well formed
by all who've passed before you
the world beyond appears malformed
try harder now, eschew
all prior trends that formed this square
high time you shall contend.
ambivalence should you beware
now know, and don't pretend.
Chris D Aechtner Mar 2017
A plastic bag is snagged in the branches where I can't reach to stop its crackled song. The bag is an *****—its kidney? Stomach? Heart?—of the thing that's dying. The thing's given pills and powders, and graveyards are robbed to replace its parts. When it dies, it'll be brought to the taxidermist to be stuffed, and its stiffened corpse will be strung in lights—a beacon for people to arrive, two-by-two, and scoop out the void from behind its glass eyes. And when the void has been doled around, the dead will shuck, jive, and shuffle step to plastic song.
March 25th, 2017

The 10 minute time-span of these exercises includes any punctuation and other cohesion that I add after the words have streamed out.
__________

When the plastic bag rustles in the wind,
I hear its crackled song as an omen heralding in another phase. No matter what happens, only the moment is ever assured for us.
Simon Obirek Sep 2014
Golden Gate Bridge,
pathway between two worlds
the bay's own graveyard.

A young man named Kevin
on the rail, talking to officers.
Shifting
from side
to side
a leg in both worlds.

He had lost all hope
odds were stacked against
life had doled out too many lemons
and he leapt.
Ending his own pain
and sparking everyone else's.
Stephen Parker Aug 2011
Unblemished veneer caresses each fold
Glossy sheen with silken strands manifold
Face brimming with rosy hue; underneath satin sheaths scrolled  
Coarse fibers with satiating nutrients doled

My eyes peel each savory layer, delicately kneading each fiber apart
My nostrils intoxicated by sweet, pungent aroma your core doth impart  
My fingers ****** and swab each, soft, curvaceous part
My lips drivel as the sugary juices from your mellow stalk doth depart
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life
~~~

this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching

write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of  the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth

sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?

a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true
peer?

let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded

if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment

even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:

Overcast.
Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.

High near 65.

what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?

this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis

there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body

weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution
before...

these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:

for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?


October 1, 2015
~~~
(1)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1417203/there-is-a-poem-lurking/
~~~
(2)
but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,

this space so gulf and so narrow
in and between
the unity of
us


http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1413760/for-ernesto-l-gonzales-aka-the-dedpoet-the-in-between/
~~~
Brian Oarr Jun 2012
Time was, when I thought it strong,
to hold back and block all my feelings.
Inestimable the emotional devastation
I doled out on those unfortunates who loved me.
How can you dam it up so?, said the therapist's stare,
still her empathy opened my mind to smiling,
chiseled my heart from the glacier.
And slowly I learned to act out my dreams,
the wounded clown learned to cry.
Pride bled in the thickets of human *******.
Now, when I dream of life, I am perfectly amazed,
my singular life drawn to those who loved me regardless.
Mikaila Dec 2012
In the mirror my skin is white
White.
Like snow, like clouds, like ashes.
Pure and milky, porcelain and unblemished, pale and alabaster:
White.
Such a pride, such a power.
My skin is white, but my soul is not.
In the mirror, wide dark eyes in a pale face.
They are ashamed.
I look at them, study them, wondering:
Am I?
Could I?
ARE we who we were?
We, who beat down the broken, scorned the helpless,
Yoked our workhorses to the plows of liberty.
We who doled out lashes and harsh words.
We who stood idly by, apathetic and indifferent.
The blood that courses under my white skin, almost translucent, showing blue veins- that is the blood of generations.
It IS we, is it not? Us.
We killed them, we used them.
Doubt blooms, full and supple, spreading inside of me as I stare at myself.
We'd all love to think we are above cruelty,
but could I be so blind?
Could these eyes have looked the other way as another person was wronged, broken, chained?
Could this heart have made excuses, hidden behind "God", hardened against empathy?
Could these pale hands have lashed an ebony back, in another life, another world?
All for what?
A color, a heritage.
Could these ears have heard the songs, assumed the meaning, mistook the words?
Sing of a brother beaten, of a child sold away, of a way out.
Where is the land of "liberty"?
Could these lips have uttered insults and racial slurs, at people who were not people, about lives that were not lived?
What right have I to think I would be different?
In the mirror, I see not just myself, but all of us.
I see the privileged whites, men ruled by avarice, women corseted by tradition, fooled into believing that they were always right.
That WE were.
I look at us, and I do not see white.
I see souls, stained red with black blood.
And I see tears on an alabaster cheek in the mirror.
This was written for my sophomore history class, about slavery. I wonder, if I had been raised to believe such awful things, would I have the strength of character the way I tell myself I would, to reject it and do what is right? Or would I have fallen in line with everyone else? It's a scary thought. I am glad I live in a time and place in which human rights, if not completely achieved, are fought for and taught.
Chloe K Jun 2013
Bile in my throat
at the thought of you with another set of hands,
another pair of lips,
Deserved acid rising.
Face like tar baby, maybelline smeared
a black film to each eye.

Scald my case of a body with shower spray,
I remember when your torso pressed against mine
as water spilled down our misshapen noses.
I forget what your lower lip feels like
to be pressed between mine.
Forget what sound stumbled out when teeth left marks
when crescent moons kissed your clavicle
and freckles became a map of my sky.

We never kissed behind any vending machines,
but every moment felt preciously stolen nonetheless.
Too perfect to be ours for long,
we desperately traded in bits of our adolescent hearts
in the lottery of fools.
Doled out vulnerability
in the hopes that
maybe the happiness
would stay
just
a bit
longer.
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
One of Barry Hodges' (aka Edna's)  charming "Memories" poems

I was in the office with my colleague plump Bet
[totally one of the filthiest ***** I have ever met,
a woman so indiscriminate in selecting a bloke
that no one could be ugly enough to miss out on a poke]
When we heard the news about the Twin Towers attack,
And dear Betty was seized laughing, an aphrodisiac
So fervent it resulted in her gobbing out a lump of phlegm
Green and hideously noisome, a truly lovely gem;
"Splot"* it went onto the floor, lying there reminiscent
Of a frog hit by a passing ten ton lorry laden with cement.

I recognised the symptoms of her desire unfolding
Only too well; I knew that when she got really going
With a frenzied bout of combined giggling and regurgitation,
Only one thing could bring her back to cruel reality: mass copulation.
Thus you will not need to be a polymath to realise and know
That what fat Bet required was to be ******, fast not slow,
By at least half a dozen strong hairy men of lengthy measure
And preferably up her fat ******* for max sensual pleasure,
Whilst she doled out ******* to anyone who offered
To risk their ***** in her mouth so kindly proffered.

Thus it came to pass that I rushed through the corridors
And yelled out to one and all "Betty's got the ******",
Whereupon every red-blooded chappie in the office
[including the one-legged dwarf printer Smelly Boris,
he of the infamous wart-encrusted, donkey ****]
Dropped what he was doing and rushed to the fray headlong
Eager to get their hands on waiting Bet, without fear,  
To give her one up her quivering flabby rear
Before it got too well-stretched, with gape and sag,
Like an old, empty, recyclable, inverted shopping bag.

So, we turned on the TV set to keep an eye on
All the happenings in distant Manhattan
And to keep Bet's state of excitement on the ball;
Dear reader, if anyone ever asks me "Old chap, do you recall
Where you were when the WTC came down?"
I can't forget
That, eager to get stuck in, I had just got my turn with waiting Bet,  
And seeing I was twelfth in line to give her a good poking
Her ***-hole was well and truly greased for action, O 'twas soaking.
In conclusion, my hearing was seriously damaged by her sublime
Multi-decibel screams of lust. Begorrah, but I had a grand old time.
"Trick or Treat"
Clamorous voices demand at the door.
A cry that you've heard so many times before.
You open the door face plastered with a grin.
Wishing you could cull this rabble and stop
their screeching babble.
Sweets doled out,  "be safe" you shout at their backs,
after all you wouldn't want to be hacked by a ******!

Knock-Knock**
Its sound echoes all around.
You hate these midgets at your door
looking cute and asking "give us more"
You'd love to keep the door closed,
but well then you're known as the weird house.
So adjusting face and keeping pace you open the door,
only to be heard of no more.
© JLB
31/10/2014
13:16 BST
Frieda P Oct 2013
Drink your Hemlock down
    as you've doled your poison out tenfold
choke on your own ignorant arrogance
     and grandiose excuse for self worth
your filthy lies caught up with you before Heaven's gate
    Angels snagged your ***** *** before it was too late
now burn in Hell you lecherous, hostile ingrate*

CHEERS
Zaynub Elshamy Mar 2016
The poor letter "f" is used so lewdly
Next time it wants to trip off your tongue so rudely
Challenge yourself to choose more crudely

Try Oh, fantastic; Oh, fabulous,  or maybe
Frolic you   or Finesse me
What of fudge, fruitjuice or flapjacks

There is a fanfare of flavor
There is a flutter to savor
There is a flame from a lover

There's felicity , freedom and fortune
Not to mention: faith , family and fun
All doled out in flawless portion

So the next time you feel the urge
To throw out an "F" bomb ; please purge
Don't forget to be flamboyant
Find a flair and be radiant

You will feel more friendly faces
Forever in your familiar spaces
Waiting for your fragrant graces
unnamed May 2017
It's funny how I remember everything.

Every moment that you made me feel special; made me feel seen.

Only to suddenly turn around and give me the cold shoulder...

Giving self-doubt and self-consciousness a little more wiggle room to settle over me.

But stupid little me didn't take this as a warning sign.

Instead, it made me hungrier...thirstier...for the scraps of attention you doled out.

For the rare smiles that i thought i got out of you.

For the rare moments when you would look at me and the world would fall away.

For your one one ability to make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world.
lazarus Apr 2014
last call,
she wrote, with her fingertips still tangled in the wire wrapped around her faulty heart.

each breath laced with shards of glass, an aching pull that was simple in the darkened sheets and quiet. an answer that seemed too simple because there was no question.

i'm dying,
she cried as her hands slipped on the tear-slicked phone that couldn't quite convey the way that she was trying to be so, so brave with each labored breath.

there were no words in the screams that pounded off the yellowing linoleum.
a desperate, hoarse cry pleading that she needed someone on the other end of the static to wipe the sweat off of her brow and call an ambulance.

when are you coming home?
little bouncing ponytail of four is grasping fingers and trying to fix injuries with whole-wheat goldfish. her pink salt-scuffed snow boots are breaking hearts down the hall.

and i'm here again. once cheery monkey slippers worn through the toes shuffle down hallways lined with trepidation and antiseptic. this isn't old-fashioned, white-apron clad matrons grasping hands and adjusting crisp peaked hats. medicine is doled out in plastic sheets like candy, accompanied by bent knees and scanned bracelets.

privacy concerns, signed waivers, no liabilities. hospitals are less for healing and more holding cells, storage lockers, fraught with too-thorough questionnaires and grasped pens like swords defending trustee boards from lawsuits.

my mornings are finger ****** and sunlight that seems empty without those sweet trills and a whipping reach of wind. stagnant air, the faint smell of ***** hiding under regulation bleach wipes. this is what i wake up to. soft chimes aren't rousing, nor soft, at eight am lulled through too-new loudspeakers.

the ***** mint green trays never lose that sickly smell of rotten food like the undergrowth of a fallen tree. the only coping skills i've mastered this far are how to effectively channel all my breathing solely through my mouth. hospitals never lose that smell, the ache of death and sorrow that clings to the floorboards and plays cards under the bed, waiting for its turn to reach corners much further than the cleaning crew can.

eyes draw to the torn edge of my sweater, revealing the milky white skin that lost it's sweetness. i've been ravaged by needles and rubber tubes and electrode pads full of gel that shouldn't sting, but does. i spent fourteen hours climbing the walls of my subconscious while gloved hands made adjustments flanked by heavy shoulders and eyes that seemed to never shed their bitter tears.

fourteen hours, i spent with my id. it passes in jumbled snippets of emotion that are still lost in that haze.

i was a creature,
without reason,
or cause.
february 20th, 2014.
Srishti Mundhra Jun 2018
Under the dim setting of,
A forbidden dwelling of pleasure,
He sat and stared hard at her,
Brushing off other exotic dancers.
Her amber skin shined,
Her golden curls waltzed,
While she tantalised,
The men with gold-filled vaults.
He sought her attention,
In pain and rage,
Desired to seize his possession,
And to get her out of their cage.
Sensing his fiery gaze,
She turned towards him,
Leaving behind her forced play,
To end his unceasing whim.
“I am in misery, let me go,
I am not worth you, let me go,
You deserve better, let me go”
Her words hit him with a strong blow.
He shuddered, broken into pieces,
His world collapsed in front of him,
Dominant hues of blackness,
Sadistically smothered him.
Unable to see him pulverised,
She leaned in closer,
To savour his lips one last time,
And secure closure.
He delved deep into her mouth,
Demanded every inch of her soul,
But the timeless fire spoke out loud,
T’is the last kiss their destiny doled.
"The Last Kiss" poem is about the yearning for love in a place with no hope for love
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
We hung out on the edge,
in the border towns,
creating havoc,
a little bit of mayhem,
injecting Boone’s Farm,
perusing the streets
with insurrection etched
into our skins,
crying acid rain.

Imbibed,
flying higher
than the highest kites
& fluttering in the wind,
we walked scarecrow-like,
against the grain.

And if you looked in our eyes,
you’d swear we were touched,
touched by more than
anything sacred,
not from above
but from far below,
in a place near Hell’s gates,
we doled out pain.
Lawrence Hall May 2017
True Faith and Allegiance

A retired admiral peddles insurance to
“My fellow veterans,” still ripping off
The enlisted with bogus bonhomie
About how they all were merry shipmates

Retired generals ooze into something new
Suits for the business of dealing in souls
Souls bought and sold internationally
Where careless talk could cost discreet kickbacks

The surviving enlisted, wounded and sick,
Are doled out vouchers for a bus ride home
Genevieve Aug 2014
Living on love is fickle existence.
Tears can’t buy back a broken heart.
She doled out her love like pocket change,
Letting strangers turn her over in their hands,
Counting her worth,
Like the year she was printed had anything to do with her value.
She tried to swallow the guilt but the deprivation just didn’t sit well in her stomach,
So like those around her she dismantled her pride,
Put away her self respect,
And got rid of it in the only way she knew how.
JP Goss Jan 2015
Their eyes did the judicious scan down to our shoes,
Muddied silence gave us away,
Cartographers of the naughty ditch we huddled in for warmth
Alight go the zip-lock bags are knuckles giggled in
Pulling the drug like creativity,
Often enough to it portraiture;
Spacily, we followed their eyes, lay flaccid fixéd
To there, they stay, when precautions cross and made
Punitive pleasures of the proxies, and all.

Rest assured, we did not care.

Blush for the dervishes, aslant, a chin
Ravaging to the eye, a glance, a smile,
Hoping a spin, awry a touch is enough to motion the room
Sheepish, onto the other,
From there at poles and solemn way: yearning.
Sticky lips, servile mementos
Wishing to be the real thing, palms
Inexorable ones, warmly tie loose ends of the world
Together, sharing as some do the spectator’s space
So twain between him and the moon: mind, body, soul
A coupling of felicitous breadth
And her come-hither stare, clung to lusting silence
Dim, in throes of mere taboo, they stay
Safely, that personal place, the jeers of teenaged love
They buried under blankets to escape.

Rest assured, they did not care.

“Replay, diligently, the last song and keep,” she said,
“Your sarcasms to yourself. I lived it before
Before, oh, it fell all into place; the fiction of photos
Will not keep food in my mouth,
Turned down in nostalgia—to be birthed
Is first in the long thread of loses,
Doled out in tips, the ringed coffee, holding each other together
While I move between tables too eagerly,
Unwelcomed contentment
Wears the dancer’s shoes mockingly
A still-life, still life just gets it, the sad times
Are written, my still life has bills to pay
Arranged like puerile bursts, blossomed hearts
Wanting to pull you through the hole in the earth
And show you the center/poetry buried in still
Lifeless end-times we gave up for access
To green roads of experience and all their contradiction;
The rest was all just small talk.”

Rest assured, she did not care.

Her and I wept away from the palpable, at feelings
Knowledge of solutions to pathos, Love begs itself
Remediation, wrong at every turn, swiftly
Excising its possessions:
Do you love me, or is it ought?
Do I love you or merely the thought?
Long, is it, to have or be—
An aspect of a thousand chattering sounds
Plentitude of voices harken answers we
Bear not to hear, but form in the absence
Bliss, enscribed on parchment, out lovely whole
Complementing our moon,
Bringer of the yeasts of child, of its own siege
Full of what we’ve only given room.
I say, recourse for our maddened state, what we promise
In rhinestones, bands us together, in too small a space,
Too short a time, is that of theft and thing—
Undo, undone the marks the sane voices’ command
We, thus, are to be lectured, tongue-in-cheek
The portmanteaus of proper affection, bed-pleasures: individuality,
Its arithmetic and the modals virile, my destiny divisible
Or walk divided, infinitely one,
Autoerotically in praise of my bottled ***, given to all,
Shared with none, taughtfull-wellknown
A love may never love but itself
If it has choice between—it chooses self,
Indulge, indulge the unlovely ecstasies sure
All lessons lead to conclusion, different in their by-ways
Restlessly falling short of dreams, for the fallen fruits
And sour with despair.

Rest assured, we did not care.
Sidney E Johnson Jul 2011
I am counted as grass,
The leaf on the bough,
the scattering of seeds,
The earth and the plow.

The Lord of our years
The siphon of time,
has counted out days,
Both yours and mine.

My fields has he set,
with a swiftness of flame,
ashes to ashes,
And nothing the same.

Is enough but a number,
the counting of days,
The Lord of the harvest
a man justly obeys.

The shell is now empty,
his skin but a rag,
I pass by the grave,
its marked by a flag.

The Lord of our years
a master of age,
Has doled out his judgment,
and given his wage.
Blue zoo hue true through due stew brew flue crew boo to you grew jew new ooh poo rue sue shoe

Pain stain bane rain Cain feign sane train brain lane main inane grain

Gold bold sold mold scold cold doled fold foaled hold rolled

Feel seal real deal meal keel heal heel kneel wheel zeal steel steal peal peel

Melt felt belt dealt knelt pelt welt

Pent mint sent rent lent vent bent went dent gent glint spent tent rent

House louse blouse

Curt shirt

Bridge ridge

Pocket rocket socket walk it

Crank dank frank hank rank stank bank tank yank blank sank

Tout pout rout route lout bout clout doubt shout scout

Knoll shoal foal bowl coal dole mole whole hole roll soul toll pole

Bust rust dust crust lust fussed just must combust trust

Lewd dude sued rude crude booed aptitude mood food *******

Fort sort court report tort port quart consort contort retort cohort cavort snort

Maid raid jade laid paid ***** obeyed aid made weighed evade parade afraid glade

Ounce pounce trounce bounce

Porch torch scorch

Flounder rounder

Trace face race lace ace brace case pace waist waste

****** haunch paunch launch

Long song gong **** wrong strong tong belong

Fast mast past vast crass glass brass last aghast hast

Gulch mulch

Survive alive hive rive jive live strive

Twirl whorl curl hurl furl burl girl pearl rural whirl

Flaunt taunt haunt daunt vaunt

Hoot moot loot boot toot shoot cute jute root suit newt

Weep seep steep keep heap deep creep leap beep jeep reap

Hide side abide bride died guide lied glide bide vied wide ride tide slide

Serene ravine green gene careen obscene demean

River quiver flivver giver liver

Fin pin sin men tin wren Zen

Bought naught fought caught ought distraught drought

Meld weld held gelled knelled quelled emerald withheld

Left heft deft

Verve swerve curve

String thing bring sing king ping ring wing sting ding

Boon soon moon tune loon **** noon rune croon

Knave grave brave rave save wave crave pave
Combating poetic writers block
rations of passion
are doled out to me
these rations of passion
are tinier than a pea
Please hold for an obligatory moment of silence, mute in its act, wordless in its perpetration.
Place artificial flowers on outer lapels, held in place with no concentration.

Feudal rivalries resurrected for resources and land…to be ripped from the native source’s hand.

Pitiful glances at battle worn soldiers, still praising ideology projecting them as a supported saviour.
Unregretful acts lead one to question their behaviour.

Service dogs doled out in bulk, preventing an army of PTS Banners from turning Hulk.

These discretionary acts of ill will mutilate the concept of freedom, and men who fought to uphold its worth.
These incendiary pacts on parliament hill, fumigating for roaches of aspersion, are bastardizing a new world’s birth.

Carriers’ return home, housing the long departed, not to be thanked, not to be appreciated, but to be ******, for unholy, sanctified acts.
Permitted parade zone, rousing the socially guarded, to be spanked, depreciated, and deemed unworthy to stand, before coyly rectified rats

— The End —