"gainsay" poems
_Acceptance that in this life
Blood and sinew define me
And yet my mind can fly,
Doesn’t come easily.
To find the pivot point,
The sweet spot where form and fancy
Co-exist in perfect balance,
Eludes me most of the time.
To lose myself in the dreck of daily life dulls my spirit;
To reject the limitations of my reality
Leaves me stranded in the in between spaces
Where discontent, longing and self-doubt flourish.
Engaging in this power struggle
Between my earth and my ether
Leads me to gainsay one half of my whole,
Either or, vice versa, within or without.
To find a ***** in my own armour,
To prise open the gap,
To embrace the paradox which is this person named “I”,
And walk the tightrope with panache...aha!_
Oct 21, 2021
Oct 21, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
ON thrones from China to Peru
All sorts of kings have sat
That men and women of all sorts
proclaimed both good and great;
And what's the odds if such as these
For reason of the State
Should keep their lovers waiting,
Keep their lovers waiting?
Some boast of beggar-kings and kings
Of rascals black and white
That rule because a strong right arm
Puts all men in a fright,
And drunk or sober live at ease
Where none gainsay their right,
And keep their lovers waiting,
Keep their lovers waiting.
The Muse is mute when public men
Applaud a modern throne:
Those cheers that can be bought or sold,
That office fools have run,
That waxen seal, that signature.
For things like these what decent man
Would keep his lover waiting,
Keep his lover waiting?
1.7k
Behold merrily dancing eyes! moonrise-hued that delight in surprise,
Waterfall-cascading hair, sleepily stirring from a golden lair,
Heaven-glimpsed in leafy disguise, powerless to resist I surmise,
Elven locks frame an Eden-parterre, a majestic Springtime fayre!
Banished Winter’s-strife, unveiled a collective bursting into life,
Love, laugher and blossom hold sway, a dress-parade in full panoply,
Nimble Elven hands serve as nature’s midwife, their deliveries run rife!
This is no chaotic affray, but the Almighty order we never gainsay.
Their unbridled gaiety I watch in wonder, but I feel such an intruder,
Stiff limbed I shake off love’s-hibernation, a lifelong affliction,
Shall I be welcome I ponder, or will they flee in panic and anger?
Their joyous souls offer salvation, unleashed a grim determination!
A rapturous-smiled greeting! handshakes and hugs - our first meeting!
Blinkers-away restores my sight, from this embrace I must not take flight,
Alas! this is mere wish-dreaming, awake my face is aglow and gleaming!
This kinship-reverie serves to ignite, a joy and happiness so eager to excite.
Gone are doubt-swirling mists, hopeful lips plead to be kissed,
This alluring Elven-dream, lures me into passion’s fragrant-stream,
No more envy-bound wrists, as I fiercely battle loves-duellists,
Folly pursuit of Crusading esteem? no courage with a steely gleam!
My brow burns with the fierce rays of Summer,
My soul plunges into despair, with the decline and fall of Autumn,
My feet are mired in the cloying-clay of a sodden Winter,
But heart-contentment sings aloud with the uplifting beat of Spring!
© Robert Porteus
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 7:00 AM UTC
bludgeoned to believe
in ever after stories
by the endless yarn of lies
I wear in pride,
eyes shining in glee
wondering...
when does the mirror break
and the witch call an end
to my dark fairy tale?
I shall referee,
just to gainsay, I'm afraid,
that I continue
to leap
from ledges.
And flee.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
XL
Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth.
I have heard love talked in my early youth,
And since, not so long back but that the flowers
Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours
Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth
For any weeping. Polypheme’s white tooth
Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,
The shell is over-smooth,—and not so much
Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate
Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such
A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait
Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,
And think it soon when others cry ‘Too late.’
1.2k
On thrones from China to Peru
All sorts of kings have sat
That men and women of all sorts
proclaimed both good and great;
And what's the odds if such as these
For reason of the State
Should keep their lovers waiting,
Keep their lovers waiting?
Some boast of beggar-kings and kings
Of rascals black and white
That rule because a strong right arm
Puts all men in a fright,
And drunk or sober live at ease
Where none gainsay their right,
And keep their lovers waiting,
Keep their lovers waiting.
The Muse is mute when public men
Applaud a modern throne:
Those cheers that can be bought or sold,
That office fools have run,
That waxen seal, that signature.
For things like these what decent man
Would keep his lover waiting,
Keep his lover waiting?
1.1k
How beautiful is the voice of my Beloved!
She makes music of words the most mundane.
When we need milk, its like the Siren's song:
She bids me to go and how can I refrain?
If perchance, the trash o'er flows the pail,
she commands I take it out and I comply.
Like Circe, her voice bewitches still,
and to resist her, I no longer try.
Some fools gainsay the power of her voice,
but I so love to hear her lyric line;
" Honey, will you wash the dishes, please?"
in tones so sweet how could a man decline?
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 8:12 AM UTC
For those who view abortion different;
As the ****** of an unborn innocent,
There’s a Newtown massacre every day
with nameless victims for whom they pray.
Not wishing to gainsay the law
of privacy or woman’s right to choose.
Praying more for a change of heart,
for children not to be refused.
For there are songs that might have been
That never will be sung.
Blank Canvases, devoid of paint,
That never will be done.
In truth, a generation lost,
As one was lost before;
The first upon the fields of France,
the next on Clinic floors.
No firearms employed this time
but the carnage is the same;
Helpless bodies torn apart
Their blood poured down the drain.
I’ve seen the people up in arms
When Madmen use their right to choose,
But abortionists grow fat and rich
Please understand why I’m confused.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
“Beautiful” she said;
And none can her gainsay.
The poetess who spoke,
then, in quiet, passed away.
Cossetted within her husband’s arms,
frail and small in death’s repose,
Never again would she put pen to paper.
No more sonnets would her art compose.
Her illnesses had dogged her all her life.
Only morphine kept the pain at bay.
It also gave to her a heightened sense
of the beauty of mundane reality.
How vividly did her expressive eyes
Put words to thoughts and thoughts to
printed page.
She was the wild enthusiast of life,
whose poetry was the spirit of the age.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
I have come head bowed and barefooted to your door
I genuflect and lay in supplication at your feet
I leave my grievances at your altar and implore lore
For I have been wronged by knaves and vixens' deceit
A blameless life shredded by steaming turpitude galore
Meshed in the inglorious machinations of gainsay replete
In the formidable vista of the Most High I bared my soul
Worn sackcloth and ashes inviting to be smite and buried
In that epoch if by deeds or misdeeds been to others foul
Or if in grimness I seek deliberate harm, injury or such varied
Upon this salient oath I stand for I know no sword will be levied
Except the Most High desires me a sacrifice of which is unqueried
The Divine atoned a fearless spirit within His chaste chosen
Blessed with gifts talents and the Light of Everlasting redemption
Whether on earth's ground or the Majestic Throne of the Most High
Oh to have the rare honour of hatred and nays from the ******
A pristine Charisma so sublime as to furiously unsettle darkness
Only graces earth by Divine ordination and steps with ArchAngels
[email protected]
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
Saintliness
Mother Teresa is a saint now
The woman who loved poverty and death
But what she did is a truth
Like the six million dead Jews
It has been hammered
Into our heads no need to argue
The truth is told by historians and some of them
Are sent to jail for the sake of truth
When a big lie has been established as veracity
Anyone who gainsay this
Is vilified shut out of the tame press and
Given no credit
Mother Teresa has reached sainthood and
Is in the best company of the untouchable just as
It is impossible to discuss the holocaust 's
Secular saintliness
The truth is what you make of it
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 5:30 AM UTC
hello my lover
there are a few words i´d like to share
but please
forgive me if this is something you can not bare
i have quietly been living my eventful life
but please
do not see me as some middle class trophy wife
i know my rare thoughts can forge peculiar actions that are a little hard to follow
but please
tell me in time if you will not be able to swallow
i told you of how i stamp yours truly as dumb
but please
do not gainsay when i speak of these matters while your mouth it is that these words are from
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
Everything is poetry and poetry is everything.
I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~l
Everything is poetry and poetry is everything.
Variegated and multicoloured rich rhyming
Every line a rich tapestry of finest work.
Rhyming refulgent words brilliantly shining
Y-chromosomes with male characteristics
The male poems less feminine than the female
How do you tell the gender of a rampant poem
In everything is poetry and poetry is everything
Naughty poems are food and drink to youths
God fearing Catholic Poems are ubiquitous
In praise of God these poems are school fed.
Sunday schools singing their hearts in praise.
Prayers set to the music of the mighty *****
Oh the Victorian poets were the masters of it.
Everything is poetry and poetry is everything .
The modern poets have lost the art of praise
Redemptions are hard achieved in gods name
Yet more poetry written on a toilet wall.
As six mumf ago they cuddent even spel poet
Now by Jove they are one. Hallelujah.
Desuetude books of self published remainders
Poetry being all things n all things being poetry
Osmosis of a dilution of simple talent lost.
Epistemological studies of poetic knowledge
Tied up in blue ribbons in chronological order
Rarely seeing the light of day on a dusty shelf
Years on a collection of dead poets published
In everything is poetry and poetry is everything
Sagas of eponymous hero’s before a nation
Escalading castle walls to rescue fair maidens
Vexatious poetry going nowhere but hanging
Every stanza a cliff-hanging story of old.
Refineries built to recycle old poems for new
You know everything is poetry as I have stated
There is not so much on web-sites ever seen
Hundreds of poems viewed n little critique
It gets brushed over with a simple thumbs up
Now next time you wonder ...Can I inspire. ?
Gainsay with gusto the death of the verse.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
November 16th 2018.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 7:59 AM UTC