"elects" poems
PER NOCTEM IN NIHILO VEHI
( TO VANISH BY NIGHT INTO NOTHING )
my death approached me
but: went on by without
recognising it was I...
i hid in the filthy alley
of a passing hour
Death now furiously searching for me
no...Here: here
no...There: there - either
this tiny piece of time
the once and once
only
but Mr. Death had missed the moment
had to return empty handed
I finding myself madly in love with
the next second. . .
****
Mr. Death elects to speak in Latin...thinks it gives him a certain je ne sais quoi...
It's always great to cheat Mr. Death and his henchman Mr. Heartattack. I swore to myself that I would love the next second with all my heart!
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
Widow
The word itself is dreadful
It has no synonym, only a definition
It has a color, black
It has words
Grief, tears, loneliness, poverty, panic, guilt and anger
Experts abound
Describing feelings
Reciting the most recent stages of grief like a rosary
With the promise that time will heal
Only she feels ignorant, confused and incompetent
Widowhood a club that no one elects to join
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
what does (s)he see in me?
my heart feels like lead
all the color in my life is gone,
but all the cones in my eyes are intact.
I never should have woken up
am I that dispensable?
I can't remember what it felt like
before the darkness came.
That just invalidated all my efforts
I’ll only be a burden
They’re just being polite
Why should I even bother?
I wonder if my family sees
the hurt in my eyes
and elects to ignore it
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
You’re just a pumped up,
Jumped up pile of blather
And I’d rather hear a cat
Yowling under my window
Than what you bellow
When someone is stupid
Enough to hand you a mike.
And I’d like to remind you
How unkind you are to many
That you daily look down on,
Calling them losers and morons,
When the title refers more to you
Because of the incredibly crass
Times you are an *** a buffoon.
I pray that soon, you will wake up
And take up some kind of therapy
That will bring clarity to your mind
That is fogged by hair products
Or some early conduct of a parent
Because it is apparent you suffered
From lack of parental training.
Or it was raining on manners day
And you stayed home to play
Or count your pay from dividends
From your trust fund. That’s just one
Of the multitude of benefits you had
That made you barking mad today;
That made you say horrible things
About women in general and inaccurate
Statements about Mexicans and about
Better politicians than you will ever be.
If suddenly history goes completely nuts
And elects your *** a misogynistic,
Unrealistic a sophistic stranger to reality
As you turned out to be, it will be sicken me.
You had more given to you without effort,
And in that desert of a mind of yours,
Which bores most of us to tears,
Somehow the years of plenty
Denied to so many and gifted to you
Have left you with nothing fun to do
But brag about yourself.
You’re an ugly elf.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Inspired by Vicki Acquah (Mama Oladeji)
God Save the Queen
Long live the King
Hail to the Chief
The Lord of all Lies
I dredged the swamp
For the bombs bursting in air
Oh, say can you see
That justice is blind
That we are all color blind
When all you can see is
The White Hot dawns early light
That might means right
Always fight with the Son at your back
And the darkness in your soul
But don’t be black?
That’s worth the bullets whizzing past
A soldier’s job is never done
Never won
A draft dodger’s never run
Never One
With the multiplicity of our multi-ethnicity
Of a nation of fools
That elects a derelict jester
Who taunts our puppet strings
Strikes the chords of the lamentations of our hearts
Heartless ********
We are no longer whole
Just a sinking hole
A pit of despair
That stares back at us
Look up
Look down
Stay down
Lock down
Look out!
Here it comes
As above, so below
The devil’s in the details
That are reduced to black and whites
We are weapons of mass confusion
Taking aim
Hiding behind His Wall
To build a nation of prisoners
Too afraid to yell out our battle calls
To seek retribution for our disillusion
To clear up the noise pollution
And fall on our knees
To take a knee
Because we NEED
We are a world of truth benders
Rule breakers
Criminal instigators
Unforeseen fornicators
Ego MasterBaiters
Serial verbal defecators
We are nothing
No One
No where
Just present
At this moment in history
When we realized we ****** up
Hindsight was blind sided
Blinded by the light
Speckled with red, white, and bruises
Masks of shame
That we were complicit in our own downfall
The Fall of Man
The blood is on our hands
Be cause we did not stop
When we knew we could
Because we thought No, meant yes
And that she didn’t really mean it
And Boys will be boys
With their unruly lethal toys
That cuts through what was Right
And Left US divided
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 7:55 PM UTC
A wayfarer gardens
and yeaning wake his soul
on this Market Square
still he shops and sleeps
where his abode is nigh
and their goods are cheap
like his barbecued cecils
now such gazes he's met
that fires their clement
if City Hall landslide elects again.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
I wrestle you out of the cupboard under the stairs
Every weekend
Scaring the ******* out of the cat
Who by now knows what is happening,
Perceived as a fight to the death
Filled with electric noise, until finally
I tame the monster and put it to bed
He elects to hide
In the kitchen, under the table.
We dance the waltz of cleanliness
Over carpet, lino, round litter trays
Up stairs and across bookcases
Just you and I, an odd couple
Locked in a battle against dirt and dust
The build up of bacteria (yuk!)
Cleaning away the footprint of a week
On the possessions of our life.
My wife doesn't know about us
You and me and our OCD
We share for an hour, or so, while she's out
Shopping, drinking coffee, with her mum
Ours is a secret affair
******* cat fur out of the crevices,
When I am done we part company
Hiding our passion behind closed doors
Until we meet again, next saturday
My love.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 6:28 PM UTC
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 11:59 PM UTC
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 6:15 AM UTC
misty day if she mistakes her
lens for the world. every breath
elects new particles to the surface
of her sun. every now and again
she twitches in sleep and it's like
electric dream time spits seconds
in hours. hours in minutes. minutes
in mine. once in awhile she wakes
to stroke my back or my arm and
if holy moments are all the time, us
together float the illusion of Maya
away to be here. I look in her eyes
and tell her were just God playing
hide-and-seek. she nuzzles my nose
like a sweater cat and speaks. a
multiplicity uncorks the wine and
tells us to dance. I'm dancing. Keep
dancing.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
a̶d̶d̶ had me; quickly -
i'll fix me till it kills me
crimson sins -
discuss disgust with you again
til' w̶h̶i̶m̶s̶y̶ stingy me neglects instead elects
we **** cut our ties - those most bound to me
because trust is just a state of mind
but with lust i find it trumps mine every time
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC
The photo freezes
us into
this exact
instant.
Yet leaves out
the intense heat.
We locked into this
kiss forever
happening in colour
frozen in B&W.;
Curiously there are no
insects in this
photographic world.
Yet so many
on that "then."
We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.
Our friend's song
also is not
captured
as the world stops
for just that
instant.
Her naked voice
stripped of words
her vocalise
tangled amongst
sunlight and leaves.
A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )
is not visible
on this
day of days
a thing tangible
as a soul
made visible
in deep purple.
The photo also fails
to convey
your lip's softness
the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.
Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open
our breaths
mingling.
I take in all
the photo elects
to leave
out.
The kiss
hidden now
by death...
...the death of days
and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
Assignments, tests, exams,
I spent my days behind a desk.
White shirt, black skirt,
yes, all I do is type and page.
Oh, don't worry,
they're very fond of reminding me what a disappointment I am to humanity,
me who elects to be a well paid slave in someone else's company,
me with no good ideas.
Funny,
I've been down this road before, I've faced this criticism before,
but I was not deterred, not me,
I'll work hard and I'll be successful, that'll show them.
They told me I was destined for great things as they handed out trophies of merit on that stage,
I believed them,
they lied.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
THE WHO OF WHAT WE ARE
The fog strips us
right down to our
voices
only
leaves out the shape or
the skin we're in &
even what ***
we are
we lose society's references
how it elects to see us
stumble around in
this cotton wool
& somehow now
we re-emerge
our selves
tentatively again
you most definitely woman
I made man again
white skin
embracing
black skin
nothing now
but
love
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 3:52 AM UTC
LIKE MUSIC MADE VISIBLE
You forever always
like music
made visible
running through my thoughts
memory's shaky home movie
here a grinning granny
with half a head most of the time
or an uncle
with a cloud upon his head
there the camera elects
to look at only the grass
or an aunt always on the edge
of a frame
quiet but not quite
one of the almost theres
an uncle represented by
his shiny new shoes
and a sudden falling
shot of skies
and a passing bird
these black and white people
in their black and white world
moving through silence
as if they were swimming
through time
flirting now
or shying from
the camera's gaze
as the footage comes
to an abrupt:
stop.
But you forever always
like music
made visible.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
Made in America it says
Underneath my wool cap: Made in America
I’m wearing in on top of my head, leaks into all the involuntary parts
And forms a nest egg
Made in America plenty to go around, on the street and intersections
Elects to find a nest egg
Cradled by its loyal subjects
Made in America, on boats now to find other homes
Fit for travel now
Waiting to interject other nest eggs like a spider in a web
Swaying with the waves, nobody in the ocean, fish can’t understand
Made in America, like a grand BOOM outside your door
Ruined another wedding
Collapsed another home
Made in America runs your car, gets you to work, and picks up your kids
Made in America, lifted up my hat and found another bomb
Made in America, proud to be buried with the guns again
Sometimes I say it differently
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Sitting at my doorstep, gazing at moving clouds
There came a thought of a story, of a timeline called life
How its changes and waits for no one, making circles that drift humans apart.
Some say life itself is a race, while others say it’s a course
It’s a contest to conquer, a fight that should be won
All depends on the power that dwells within each body
Each soul makes its bid, but the inner power elects
Questions keeps rising, is it worth the buzz?
What should we make out of this race, an unpredictable series?
Each action being scripted, every scenes being watched
Yet revealing, leaving each soul with a story to tell
Thoughts of unraveling the deepest mysteries engulfs each mortal
Yet they say itself life is a tutor, who can define it better?
An aged mind or rather from a youthful might
It’s like a blindfolded touch on an Elephant; One’s goal might be the other’s discard
Life is what you make of it, each phase set to thrill
Dreams become reality, fading fires are rekindled
Some deigns to surmount, others stand to triumph.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC