"doled" poems
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.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
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.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
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!
2.3k
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.
2k
Are we junk? Waste,
Shard and smear,
Empty symbol made by
“Doled out Poet’s papers,
Hoarded like sweets?”
Our awkward secrets
stumble
cislunar.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
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!
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:47 PM UTC
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
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
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.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
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.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 1:23 AM UTC
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.
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 7:39 AM UTC
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/
~~~
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
A plastic bag is snagged in the branches where I can't reach to stop its crackled song. The bag is an organ—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.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
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.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
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.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
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
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 1:58 AM UTC
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.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 7:48 PM UTC
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.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
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.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
*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
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
"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.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
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.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 5:14 AM UTC
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.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
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
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
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.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
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.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC