"guised" poems
it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
Her eyes twinkling like the stars in the night sky,
But he loves the way she takes a sip of her over-priced latte,
He wonder why he's infatuated with those undone maroon flocks,
No surprise, Linda's outgoing personality matches her lovely voice,
Laughter comes easy with her,
She tells her stories about life and lies,
But he's lost in those beautiful hands,
As he pledged his love that spring.
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
A tender touch
Her intimidating tone,
Brimmed my eyes with guilt,
As I confessed my past sins to my only friend.
'Wanting to know all', I finally started,
' I overlooked each particle, containing the whole unknowable.'
she looks into my eyes,confused.
I carry on,
'I missed love's everywhere,
Small presence, thousand-guised.
For I could not differentiate between what was wrong and what was right,
Forgive me, forgiver.'
I heard the trust break louder than the shatter of her favorite coffee mug against the floor.
' I want to know all' she said
And I finally opened.
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
Mind numb,
Heart dumb,
Treated like dirt,
Taken out for a cup of coffee,
With free humiliation.
Feeling so fragile and helpless,
Hiding behind his own shadow,
A single, rebel tear rolls down his eyes,
Then a revolution of them cascading down,
His face is time-chiseled and weather beaten,
Seem a bit spiritless,
As if life and old age are getting better of him,
He still wears that moth-eaten coat carrying a smell of blueberries his wife used to love.
Taken out for a cup of coffee,
An element for show off,
'Look how much I love my uncle!'
But the truth lies in those contorted fingers.
A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.
'Come my baby girl!
Let's celebrate!'
Such words coming out of a man so precious to her soul,
'But something's missing',
She says with long lost courage,
'Daddy I've regretted all the pain,
I'm exhausted now from all my thoughts,
Science is not what I desire,
My heart lives in free spirit.'
Daddy's eyes didn't blink for 20 seconds,
A portrait of a man having a cribbed Abe Lincoln beard,
The daughter is ready for rejection,
But he's thinking about all the cards she gifted " my papa, my hero",
Deciding it's time to show.
I don't know what was so special about that coffee shop.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:29 AM UTC
Why you'd ask if you saw me now,
My head slung low and shoulders down.
You used to be so big and strong,
Baby tell me what went wrong.
Why won't you tell me what went wrong
I used to be a tower, but now I am no more.
I used to wield such power, likes never seen before.
I used to be a castle, till one crept in 'guised silly and aloof.
And razed my lands around me while I fiddled on the roof.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
The remnants of last night's nova
lay scattered in tatters on the patterns
of ballroom linoleum.
Flattened bottles and kids
full throttle on people petroleum.
They whisper, "we're full of them
deaths 'guised as holy gems,"
but no one could hear
through the decoding of the exploding star,
the eroding of that foreboding bazaar,
not even the one whispering,
loose lips left ajar.
The remnants of last night's nova;
it began with a beat.
Melody sweet was distorted just to show the
flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb,
with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub,
or love the microchips imported just to throw the
blasting bass bubbles of sound
into the ground,
spinning around,
until they come down,
to frown at flowers
powered by the eye of the storm.
Where it's the norm
for their forms
to be torn from their static.
The remnants of last night's nova
was an illness of stillness;
of dripping dead glow sticks
that knows this
fist in your chest clenched tight,
and the sight of last night,
and the fading lights
just show this restlessness
is not the best of this bright.
The love fights muttered
through shutters of others
echoed soft cotton swab colors
in sunrise skies,
and despised eyes,
and reprized "why?s"
to inspire white lies.
The remnants of last night's nova
are gone.
Dec 19, 2010
Dec 19, 2010 at 5:55 PM UTC
.
Creation of a character,
a personality extension,
allows freedom to fly
and all the things wanted,
needed, to be expressed
will explode through
and be birthed in purity
from the core.
So give yourself permission,
play, imagine, conjure,
bring forth a new you
'guised and naked,
broadcast your words
with a mouthpiece
created from your own
deep.
© Pagan Paul (30/06/19)
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 6:38 PM UTC
who will read aloud
my poems
when I'm gone?
that old unfriended thot,
a nagging merry query
was for awhile forgot,
put on the back of an upper shelf,
where dust motes and mites
fear to trend
thoughts,
that I thought
I had dispensed with,
letting time
build illusionary wry walls,
fooling World Trade Center tall
morose forlorn,
pensiveness of
red ant armies,
incapable of
black marker redaction,
there is always one
a lingering malingerer
a sole fado singer,
playing woeful jazz in
the Quarter
on an empty emoty street,
dressed and guised
as the soul of a solitary
cancerous cell
"survivor"
cur overlooked,
biding time,
the surgeons gone,
the drugs flushed,
radiation burning
no more
begins then
the unholy
trilogy cycle
worn out, overused...
invasive categorically relentless
maybes,
what ifs,
then
oh goddamnnotagain
because believed, on knee,
I oathed that
loathed, raven nevermore,
ought
that
cracked door would be open
yet like the
New Orleans levee aged locks
hurricane succumbed
overflowed, overcome,
keyholed, infiltrated,
falllen to the enemy,
mes enfilade,
rumps up the black flag of
surrender
brain sneers
periodically,
like every other
minute, ok,
second,
coyly asking
penny for your
worthless thoughts?
just when you believed
"no mas"
was a prayer that had been heard,
teeth kicked in,
body snatching
hordes and boors
bad boys and ******
sitting high in the
saddle again,
grinning torturous
tarty smiles
at who,
at you, fool!
you're as alone in that place
as insufficiently as that
impoverished overused
word can ere convey
the nagging realization
that when asking
no one answers
when your thinkings
perish you
your cutesy sweatshirt reads
last standing poet alive,
stabbed ded by awful-truths,
you failed and
all the black cats,
have fled the neighborhood,
just when need was greatest
who will read aloud
my poems when I'm gone,
has been silently answered
by silent applause,
the last theater goer
shuffles out, and turns
and extends his middle finger
his review leaves a
singular impression,
he looks familiar,
gauntly ghost,
he has accompanied me always
and his finger is his
triumphal parting shot
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Are we so utterly destroyed?
Are we raised to be lowered
into depths
a man can not physically dig?
Why do we seek a hell
so obviously guised as heaven?
Are we beyond repair?
Can we never be fixed
to match the idea
of a standard model?
Would you want to?
Did these gears in the machine
ever have a chance
to pass inspection in the first place?
Was I doomed upon that assembly line?
Were we all?
Am I the reject
in the dollar bin
of a land
full of selfish
consuming
monsters
who have no teeth of their own
waiting for their masters to chew
and regurgitate back
into their joyous awaiting mouths?
Is the way I write this
too imperfect?
Does this gain me nothing
but a stroke of ego?
Should I expect to deserve more?
too little product?
a lackey robotic?
Not enough dollar signs
to place upon it?
Are these feelings, feelings anymore?
Or are they nothing
but programmed responses?
Am I alive
by falling from the branch
of a toxic Oak
only to pollinate
the oily soil?
Should I just
be a good slave
to the cult of "us"
and earn for myself
which no mortal
has right
putting a price tag on.
Can robots trust?
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
In the world upstairs
Are walls as veils,
Balleting in
Inner winds.
Shadows criss-cross
The songs
That trudge
From throngs
Of masses
Running around,
In chaos
That sneaks over -
Guised in cloaks
That rival its
Counterpart.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
I. Manifest, oh Apparition;
I invoke thee to show me your light
so that I may apportion some inhibition
How I beseech thee, oh illusions of perception;
Masterfully guised as wolves among sheep
II. Materialize, oh manic vision;
For I have listened as the chasms between the Heavens and Earth
both wax and wane
Simultaneously
How I implore you -
throw down your swords;
For it is all the deplorable horrors
(sorrows) you reap
unto this world that I weep
III. Manifest, oh Phantasm;
When deceased molecules coalesce
A breathe of life is given to those ****** and bereft
A resurgent culmination unleashed
Dawning the end of Man
and the rise of the Beast
Is it that you simply perceive or believe -
or lack thereof
that constitutes your reality?
*Bestow the sceptre unto the spectre;
Assuredly, there you'll uncover a sepulchre*
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
Pastors clergies reverends to deacons
Aint nothing but demons leechin
Off false preachin made up teachin'
Say its God but steadily reachin'
Takin all of your loot
For the love of the root
Only to go home broke
Yoked as a joke i pop smoke
Nothing but wolves in sheeps clothes
I expose evilness in the gospels
Using divine principles
As a profit false prophets
Using the holy name in vain
Mentally drained linked by a chain
Straddlin' the fench feet lynched
Cant stand if ya stuck to the bench
They call me a grinch
Cuz my money aint spent
Never gone repent to these devils
Thats hell sent
In the form of angelic scents
Enticin' people through embezzlement
For a ritual settlement moved by an embodiment
Can't pay bills or rent
Cuz they church got the windows tint
So miracles can perform
Then say blessings were sent
From up above but aint no love
Since hell is on earth here
One third to be exact
Now lets subtract
Fake people layin' financial testimonies
Phonies its all bologna
Lies told right in front of your eyes
Serpents guised as the wise
Gentle as a dove pushin hope and love
Off false faith they say im late
But im on time killin the vibe
Once my spirit arrives thrive
Cuz my potency is strong
So must cant hold on
Still singing slavery songs
Like we shall overcome
**** the drums i drop the guns
And let the ammo
Rip through they torso to spinal
And i laugh gracefully as the rest in peace
**** the church hypocrisy
I know ya hate me
But im layin' vengeance with my brillance
Coming back for the sons of Satans
I aint hesitatin'
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 3:42 AM UTC
“the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.”
<>
“Even nowadays, most of us have speeches from plays and films jangling around our heads, alongside things that have actually been said. Both contribute to what Michael Oakeshott called “the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.” Whether in verse or prose, there are some fictional speeches that, once heard, cannot be unheard. You find that you live with them.”
~from~
Things Worth Remembering: Nothing Is Lost Forever
By Douglas Murray 9/8/24
<>
the quote grabs the throat, a two handed grip,
but gentling, to ensure it does not go forgot,
or to the bottom the pile, or just another
never truly born, or premature to die,
guised as a drafty passing breeze,
a tickle too fickle, impersistent,
to be a poem unto itself
my thots impure, for I see, I believe,
that poetry is the conversation in all
we do have,
those that lyric wax when
one of the five big guys,
jive, sensory excited, the whiff, taste,
licks the visionary
of the need to be a completed
exegesis, a work to be telling
told
but I am old, my powers weaken daily,
the resistance training recommended,
by brain muscle, fiercer resisted
so reach for the quill,
blue lined sheet,
a cute puppy looking paper,
up for the “surprise” treat
just for extending a paw,
these humans so ease pleased,
you see,
here comes a poem
bout
poetry being bout every any,
even, the great creator struggling
to put out fresh daily,
new & improved work,
after a six day historic period,
that demanded a poem-alll-day entity,
entitled as a sabbatical day
of rest.
Here I too rest as well,
too many conversations need starting,
fires requiring verbal refueling,
and my own voice hearing a,
“get up, get out of bed,
drag a comb across your head,”
talk, and plant those newly fallen acorns,
**and let the conversations produce
giant oak trees,
and
a plenitude of poems**
9/9/24
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 2:09 PM UTC
She’d said, I, “looked good in black,” and
she did, she did, she did too; So much so
that sooner’d come a swift exit at,
“Martyr’s Park,” a tempt embedded
venture, conjoined, coerced and later
beholden to our ghosts; apparitions in an
ugly early morning, post – biology, words
whispered with only one intent and
eventual ****** under guise of the night
that’d ensue eternity. Blanketed our
beauty wrought twisted skin, it remained
an ugly never aware, whilst she discarded
my newest misfortune, the forgone
forlorn cloth of impasse. I reciprocate, so
much so that beyond her ulterior lace, a
pale yellow beckoned, “ever,” below -
“Kiss me,”
When I grin and I do ‘midst
Admiring the freckly upon
This desperately hidden scripture –
One scarred
Right shoulder,
This greatest discovery, if only a human
kind of crater and just under tear-smeared
mascara, forever danced, come the
lacking light or whatnot. Echoes etched
some prior author, some other lover, and
yet still to bleed, like sweat, like work,
and now, her nails stay to trace another
saga atop the, “bare” only I could offer.
Sacrament, the moments blemished,
“now,” and immortality’s, “future,”
promised, whispered, and guised a
matrimony that’d break hearts come
morning, come the moment when she’d
drip like the rain, bend like the leaf
kissing chaos and gently ask, “could you
be me?” “Would you be me?” “Could
you, please be me?”
Her (English) name was, "Taylor."
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
you know, that if you squint your eyes,
and look
at an object that emits light?
the light travels from the source,
just above your eye, impregnating
your cranium with a brain?
funny... isn't it?
all it takes is keeping one eye
closed, and squinting your other
open eye...
and when looking at an object
that's the source of light,
be it a street light, or the scimitar moon,
the rays of light,
passing your camel's eye-lashes
end up projected into your forehead,
rather than directly into your eye...
squinting your eye
while watching the moon,
you see it, a beam of light never
really entering your pupil of the eye,
but travelling straight up "echo chamber"
of your mind...
i think that people discovered they had
brains, but sitting and squinting
at the moon with only one eye...
look here, a minotaur cyclops...
feeling he over-did-it with
his camel lashes, thinking himself:
a venitian blinds' salesman...
i'm starting to see the use of psychedelics
as a bit pointless...
steve jobs was just lucky...
the source of refraction of light
doesn't enter the eye directly,
it always travels just above the eye
into the forehead region...
i never tried it with the sun directly,
then again, i'm wondering that sort
of element exists on the moon,
that allows the moon,
a dull grey surface to act like a mirror,
and be able to provide the suggestion
of: pythagoras on the moon...
apollo 13, go!
find me the element that acts as
a mirror, for light to bend!
to bounce off the moon, and enter
the sphere of night,
i'll give you cooprdinates:
in the range of red, yellow, orange,
and white...
as sometimes in seeing the moon guised...
what element allows the moon to bounce
off light?
so the night might become
illuminated?
please forget mars... answer me this
simple quetion...
i want to know,
what on the moon, acts as a mirror,
that allows solar beams of photons to
bounce off it, and illuminate the night sky?
can we start thinking about
capturing this question, storing it,
and asking whether it can be used to propel
an object outside of its natural orbit?
leave but one eye open, and squinting,
and look at a source of light,
the light never travels directly into
the pupil of your eye...
it always travels just above the eye,
onto your forehead, to suggest:
the illumination of the mind.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
*My adoration before God Almighty , guised in red sunset , deep blue eyes that ignite night's golden firmament
Guiding Pelican silhouettes vying for home , Eventide peace before Tybee Island shores* ...
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
This is the thrill of sneaking into an open house,
The adrenaline you felt watching Indiana Jones,
The final frontier
And they keep it centimeters away from your finger tips, guised with fear.
Everything you need,
They will convince you you have.
Thoughts are untouchable.
Technology to make us unapproachable.
Turns us into sheep uncoachable.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
*In the name of remarkable stories revealed with each precious leaf , brush stroked layered , hallowed Marigold evenings .. Every ambient , salutatory stand of communicative , native tree ... To the toasty breeze spurring the music of Mother Earth within the guarded canopy
The preordained navigation of Warbler , Grasshopper and Bumblebee
For every cloud seeking finality guised in plummeting rain
The call of Pheasant across the chilled late October plain* ....
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Tolerance seems kind;
guised, it's apathy malign,
silently we pine.
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 9:34 PM UTC
Ignorance is bliss
hell if I know
heaven if I didn’t
Not knowing the in-particulars
Can be evocative
As a child’s drawings
Ignoring detail
Not on purpose
Yet vibrant
Seeing our world
Guised as an infants
eyes
Helps you
remember why
Misguided
And how we all forgot
Those Precious Times
When you never knew
A dislike
Only love
My dislike is that
A love so concentrated
Is infinitely gone
Diluted as we clash
With life
head on
The ability to Recall
those nights
Held closely to heart
Is heart warming
What a reference
To refer
Especally
When the hate
Starts to
storm in
Ignorance is bliss
It tires me
The entirety
The irony
in this
Ignorance is bliss
Hell if I know
Heaven if I didn’t
Oct 22, 2017
Oct 22, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
your god lies dead and buried
in an unmarked grave. a radical—
a terrorist charged with treason.
for defying the Roman Throne,
they shoved a crown wove from thorns
onto his brow and called him "traitor."
but two thousand years later,
if the homeless rabbi
walked the Earth,
he'd be in the streets
with the anarchists,
fighting to end the wars
that plant kids' corpses
like seeds in the ground
that only yield new bombs.
he'd call your president
a ******* fascist.
he'd denounce Israel for bombing
his homeland and try to cease
the genocide in Palestine.
your savior would stand
shoulder-to-shoulder
with water protectors
in North Dakota, shouting, "mni wiconi!"
in the faces of cops guised in riot gear.
can't you see, pharisee? or is the log
in your eye blurring your vision?
snakes like you, who stand on street corners
preaching the "Good News," were the very same
self-righteous fools he detested.
you can't white-wash the legacy of the Nazarene.
you stand on the wrong side of history.
if Jesus walked this earth right now,
your hands would hold him down
while the State drove nails through his palms.
i only wish the fantasy was true,
that i could see your face as he said,
"away from me, evildoer.
truly, i never knew you!"
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
Hypocrisy to what you preach
Expecting standards of another
You, yourself can never reach
Guised as a victim in your speech
Painting yourself the saint
The all knowing prophet
When pointing fingers is all you teach
Your mirror is no more than a rose pane
In it your lacks shine as another man’s toll
Pleas for reason fall in vane
All collapsing at your need of control
Perched upon your pedestal
Passing judgement all the stay
At all costs emotionally vigil
For it’s always “Your Way”
Hypocrisy in what you teach
Learn to practice what you preach
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
I said au revoir a long time ago
To the only thing that made me real
So that I could be an ornament
Of this flesh they know me by
I clogged my vessels with false pretenses
Weighed down by love that's not there
Guised by a beating heart under the fire
And now walking a trail towards nowhere
I can now conclude I am only human
But I was once much more
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 4:03 AM UTC
*and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
∞ = a-z....
the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
sell her tomatoes...
and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
pet a rat!*
and will i dicta villager simply,
qualm?!
you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
avocado fat ****
let us bravado a chin!
that double! half-wit quiff!
fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....
you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
i carve my name in lamb limbs...
so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
into basin...
for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to? ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
a warring tide...
there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc. as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
the foxes rounded the wolf into a hunt they once claimed to be victims of; i only started to pawn my face for a paper mâché mask when, reason being: i couldn't look at your reminding "human" face capable of a white wine toast over dinner to scone and clear a conscience: for a jam lodged pauper in being fed the sweets jelly.
a dry call of a fox couples
itself to a wet cry of a wolf:
the smoker's ha woo
in fox in him
compliments
the northern aquatic frozen
tonne waved in
the atlantic forever in
guised goodbye;
the fox with its dry claim
mates aired, relieves
the lost wolf the lost land
to crave once more
a ripe 1 primed on the digit.
so many foxes
surround the one howled remark
of wolf;
dried up orphic of the one
night song suggested
to the human tongue
lost among fears and onomatopoeias
sojourn with autumnal
gravity of darkened brown
rekindled next year.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC