"harangue" poems
You make me feel so stupid
When we play chess
The way you en passant all nonchalant
You chase me into castle
From there I watch you intently
The way the Russians watched Bobby Fischer
In his hotel room
But while I wait for a move to develop
I become the Boredest Spazsky
My mind in a stalemate
As I try to crush your Sicilian defenses
As much as I harangue
You leave me in zugzwang
Which confuses my feeble mind
For I may be a pawn
But I'm the king pawn
Which means the board usually revolves around me
But your queen takes that instantly
And I'm left in a fool's checkmate
I wish you could see things from my side of the board
You'd see how desperately I wanted the king
All the complex and unique obstacles in the way
But instead you just sit there
And laugh at me losing all my pieces trying to reach you
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
Laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous hypotaxis apomixis strive
Rainbow mare aura roan exude emote derive
Syntactical propinquity habitation harbinger harangue stoic hive
Colloquialism vernaculars prurient adage jargon idiom clichés jive
Mirador bartizan panorama stalwart bastion bulwark tableau live
Canny cleaver crafty cunning furtive sneaky stealthy connive
Poignant cogent piquant ephemeral effulgence temporal refraction arrive
Paradoxical dichotomy greaves gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts survive
Hectic mayhem , proximity parameter perimeter peripherals , annihilate rive
Zingy zesty zany zenithal azimuth entity zeal alive
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Here is a tale of blood, guts and war
The war is over but its still raging within
I can hear the bombs going off,hear the screaming as they hit the ground.
I’m back in Rhode Island Street, Highland Park, Detroit.
War has turned my heart to stone.
Now that you're gone I live alone, in this empty home remembering every word you've said.
Didn't bother to learn to become a father, old school all the way.
A 72 gran torino on display, I lived to work
Retired from 30 years in the auto plant.
Slowly the world has passed me by.
More black, more brown, more slant eyed
Still I know right from wrong
It’s the same here as in Hong Kong
When coward gangs seek power and control
I have to let them know they are digging themselves a hole
The weak and defenceless look with tired eyes
They let themselves become victims of a drive by shooting
I never express feelings of regret or remorse
In the night I made a plan
Go without a knife or gun in my hand
defeat my enemy with my brain
Making them believe I was insane
In an attempt to take on the entire gang
Yet they listened to my brave harangue
So I reached into my jacket for a lighter
They reacted like any street fighter
Opened fire to stop this threat
The church bells ringing
My body now in a casket
If you listen closely you can hear me say i'm the one to finish things
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 4:06 PM UTC
my feet are extremely sore
this afternoon
as I've been on them
well before noon
standing on a cement floor
which hasn't any give
has made my feet feel
like they haven't long to live
I've just put them up
for a reviver and rest
and in about three hours
they'll be full of zest
the arches of my feet
is where the discomfort lies
I've just heard them
let out one or two sighs
it is hoped that I can stand
to cook my dinner tonight
for if I can't I'll know my feet
have given up the fight
so often my webbed feet
do harangue me no old end
it's as thought their telling me
we're not your friends
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
"Don't drink that coffee," my friend shouted at me,
"That caffeine will **** you!"
he said impatiently!
Drinking water is bad for your health,
the feds put fluorine in it
to **** you by stealth."
Paternally he whispered,
"Whatever you do, don't drink cows' milk.
the sucklings its made for
aren't close to our ilk.
The consumption of pigs and animals that ****
most certainly will keep you
from obtaining sweet bliss.
And stay away from creatures that swim in the sea,
their svelte tasty bodies are filled
with deadly mercury."
And then he looked aghast at my plate,
"Tell me you're not eating that excrement," he sighed,
"Do you really want to die...
from eating french fries?
Don't you know that fried things are the scourge of the planet,
cooked in hydrogenated fats by
some woman named Janet?
Avoid eggs, if you can, and by no means eat the yolks,
your cholesterol will rise,
that's no funny joke."
Then, with a scowl in his voice he said,
"Avoid plants grown in this country,
sprayed with pesticides and poisons
by corporate monkeys.
And stay away from foods grown in the East,
they're probably fertilized by
humans, dragons and beasts.
Potatoes, tomatoes have starch and acid,
that eats up your guts and
make you grow flaccid.
Lemons and limes will ruin your pretty white teeth,
making you go snaggle
right in your sleep."
With a superior air he ended his harangue,
"Beer, wine, and all forms of liquor,
Can you think of anything that
will **** you quicker?
Don't eat rich chocolate--it'll make you a ****
humping everything in sight
like a mad deer in rut.
Cakes, breads and cookies too,
contain sugars and flours that's
sooooo baaaaad for you.
~~~
I'm hungry and starving and don't know what to do,
I want to eat something
but afraid to give it a chew.
Though all of this leaves me feeling quite uneasy and queasy,
I'm closing the door and
doing as I pleasey!
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
I found you.
Among the dust and water that makes up each one of us, I found you in all of your uniquity.
For a lifetime I loved you without knowing it.
And then I met you,
knowing immediately it was you I had loved all along.
Eventually life, pride, ambition took me away from you
to worlds where people sit strangely, eat strangely,
even walk strangely and sleep strangely.
But strangely enough, we were all the same.
And we laughed at this realization.
I took you with me.
We walked along the Bosphorus drinking pomegranate juice,
listening to the drums and strings and rhythmic Ottoman voices that caused our souls to ache.
We tasted sand, brought in on the wind from that barren desert rich in so little but greed.
We visited cities in jungles, where local fare made us thankful for our many hours spent cooking, and perfecting the flavors that help define us.
I took you with me, my love.
You helped me don my suits and tie my ties and kissed me as I held you close before another day's harangue.
But in your mind, you were never there.
And you made me see:
A world separated us. And so I moved it.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
SIN...is too kind a word, for a God **** ****** Queer
ABOMINATION is a better fit. Does this seem austere?
-
Not austere enough! Condemnation it does lack
Damnation for eternity...for a sin so vile and black
-
Why is a Queer a Queer? Was he born that way?
God Almighty gave him up [1], soon his soul He'll slay
-
"Gay"...euphemistic slang
From a Faggot's mouth, an insult and harangue
-
How gay do you suppose, do you suppose you'll be?
When every ****** burns, for all eternity
[1] Romans 1:24
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
bristle cone pine, a wine-stained, burgundy -
conniption of green fires, yellow tinged. sunset.
a fresh net of spun gold, roasting fecundity -
a bristling of midnight at day's end, thundering.
a harangue of unyielding pattern
her hair down; now as always... conquering -
all of me.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
Oh ache I ache
Look at my aim
My ache is the answer
Block that shame
Father that baby
Baby that father
Shame your brother
Blubber and bother
Bother that blubber
Sober, I slobber
Clobber that slobber
Aim to smother my lover
With harangues to the beat
That will bloom in this box
I harangue till the end
Blooms ends with tick tocks
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
Numbers of the lights still don't add up. The dream station on the orange bridge's sands, is so totally too far away to fly to. My life according to the animadversion of my dreams. The harangue and opprobrious odium whilst wandering about aimlessly in the square, on the blackened honey trail where I was cast around like some pebble lapidated by the wind. I barely stand, a hyaloid column soaked in fear and ambiguphobia; one girl's face is blurred by this maddening diplopia. While the haze drapes me in its suits of cinereous gray, I crawl sadly up the rise while I am bruised from the battering. My fuscous body heaps itself, exhausted and pandiculating, all I can make out in the advesperating and cloudy night, in all of its dourly silences- the gold hair fixed against the banner of light in the darkening sky and her beautiful blue eyes.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC
Only some things make sense.
Like full stops. No, they hardly make sense these days too.
The sun? No, not when you get down to it.
One tries not exaggerate,
but when the laws of physics
start to state
that the
only order is chaos
and that our Universe
for most of time
doesn't exist.
Or exists in different contexts
with different people
and different outcomes.
so either we exist in multiplicity
or not all.
One tends to exaggerate.
Why?
Saying nothing makes sense.
Sounds appropriate.
Sure.
We can function.
We know how to ********
But that’s the thing,
We make sense through lacking
This is it
Entropy
The natural turn to chaos.
Makes sense,
When you try to hold the handle
It breaks,
And you’re stuck
Entropy.
When you
Saw
Heared
Smelled
Touched
Tasted
Her for the first time
Entropy.
You – I? – were too far gone
Entropy.
You’ve fallen into chaos
Interesting...
As opposed to falling in love?
Makes sense.
Many would say it’s not at all like that.
Some of us are a little damaged.
Bruised. Scratched. Broken.
We don’t squeak.
We don’t light up.
We don’t walk.
A little damaged.
Some you can only hear the damage
When you shake them.
Broken bits are flung around.
Others, you hear nothing at all.
Full stops.
They use to make sense.
Now they look like commas.
Or exclamation points. Bang.
but yes if i flung my punctuation out
the window it would
not make sense as we
wouldntfunctionintheslightest
without the whitespace.
Let’s bring back the Universe
The sun
The nothing
The everything
The full stops
The periods
I’ll end my cryptic harangue
And step back from my rant.
It was grand to know you
And I’m ecstatic to consider
This:
Maybe in one of all those other
Universes,
It made sense
Rather that
Than not
Existing
At all.
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 7:51 AM UTC
a teeny tiny
whited-out blank space,
the tenuous boundary that separates,
higher man from untamed beast,
so powerful when respected,
the crowning hallmark of human acclamation
we all do wear by right of birth and breathe
you see it right?
that invisible peaceful white
spatial, tiny yet palatial dot that separates
us from rack and ruin,
the mighty differential pause between
in civility and incivility
come not to preach or harangue,
my counsel kept within the
between beats of a mournful drum,
respectfully and slowly banged
each silent separation a prayerful plea,
the inserted peacekeepers of our spoken words,
employ well those powerful pauses that refresh
the speaker and the listener so well
leave behind your
self-righteous disbelief in others' beliefs,
that morphs into no toleration,
an arrogant surety,
that surely the anal-ytical results of
your thoughtful processes,
inevitability correct and brook no resistance
the shrill strumpets
of either side
confidently worship at no church
but to the false gods
of their own mirrored reflection,
who smiles back approvingly
at those who scream the loudest...
outlaw the outrage of your rage,
come to my white clothed table,
put aside the wrath of overbearing,
represent your disparate conclusions
with harmonious, breathable pauses
to reflect and respect
our distinctive and distinguished differences
no one ever lost a reasoned argument
that began with a considered, well tempered
good morning
*what has this to do with
only love poetry?*
***well, everything...for you must love thy neighbor
as you love yourself***
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
This moment,
Now,
I hear your soft voice.
The one you use only for me.
I feel my arms around your hips
as you stand **** before me.
I smell you.
My god, your smells!
I am listening to the London Symphony Orchestra
perform Carmina Burana.
One of your many favorites.
Tough morning. Enough said there.
The air is cool and a slight breeze is coming through my windows.
I hear the incessant traffic on cuming street,
the fans I have in my bedroom and living room,
the music of Carl's primo vere,
and your voice.
It whispers to me across centuries,
softly, sweetly.
No trace of sarcasm
or acrimony.
It speaks to me of mountaintop cabins,
of quiet moonlit ponds,
of autumns last victim slowly falling to the ground
to join it's cousins.
It speaks to me of music,
timeless and universal.
It does not harangue, or plead or spout.
Instead it soothes me, caresses my body
with an undeniable comfort.
This moment,
Now,
I feel you deep within my core.
You are safe there.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 2:58 PM UTC
a good thing is a Unicorn. but one that bleeds.
in the Harlem of our garden, a Cyclops plots
against our flock of sheep.
we are teetering on the brink of an awkward laughter
reverberating off of false Gods.
we are dithering the quince and the steam
from our dull kitchens, casting pots,
against the harangue of bleached dreams -
and the nethers of our sworn clot
virtuous notions
and dim
thought.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
slithered
harangue,
crow's nest's
caveat:
quo warranto,
Echo,
obliquity weaver...
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
You haberdashery hauberk harangue of a hornswoggling hiatus . Your arrogantly delusory blasphemous dementia of odiously ominous diabolically grotesque gives me a decadent distraughtness of desultory debauchery and ghastly gnarly abysmal abjections . It causes hysterical deliriums of maniacally macabre . My swashbuckling surreptitious spatiotemporal telemetry tactician is tacitly inured in a phantasmagoria fantastication of fabulist façade fantasias . I could positively kithe a futurity cudgel phantasm and bonkers bluster boggle with your phrenetically frenzied phrenic and forget my phyletic you preterit rendition autonomy equilibrist .
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
Whiz-zip-bang shenyang ang;
Mang mangue flang hang prang pang;
Pinang lalang unhang kang youth defang khang;
Marang schlang gang wolfgang ying-yang xuanzang.
Klang sea get wrang.
Sang tsang li-kang gangue langues.
Thang drang crang tang harangue sprang zhang shang siang whang strang hang verdinsgang chuang;
Brang lang nang bhang xiaogang mahuang durang huang.
Hange hsiang und;
Zang rang kuomintang ourang section gang hang.
Krang pahang boomerang fang guilt;
Spang gang;
Hangsang xinjiang tunkelang slang tangue nanchang clang chang bangue vang ziyangbaoguang hwang pang the tsiang alang dang ylang-ylang.
Tang liang.
Overhang langue pyongyang.
Cangue sangh mustang stang frang yang lange kukang farang **** care sturm t'ang;
Zamang drang chiang road a jang;
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 2:51 PM UTC
*don't harangue my life with care for pity at woman's idiocy, not having adopted Caesarian birth as universally adequate and prospering her, to instil this barbaric guilt in me wondering why women, of all mammals had no natural anaesthetic produced when giving birth... **** your little guilt-trip argument! Caesarian or no argument!*
to be robbed of a glorious death, and be given an
inglorious birth, esp. when women were given an ease
with a Caesarian birth diplomacy... what's there to retain for man?
ardency in labour? old age? i too was robbed of what
Caesar described as the ideal death: the sudden one...
am i to wait for my sickbed...
if i only chanced the thrill of life
within one sunset and sought no night
to encompass my life as worthy compensation
of nothing.
a life lived to the bell-tone of a replaced
uvula, no care for charity asserted...
in that one momentary exception of all life prior,
to have lived it, and hence entombed,
readied for the element acquiring me to
further its signature... as sustainable...
i'd rather die a painful death that live
a comfortable life: pain is eased with its short-lived
establishing awareness when the glory prior is "prolonged"
ascribed to the fates akin to Achilles... and indeed pain is
merely pain with its prolonging on the sickbed...
counter heroism, so defeatist;
how many times am i to be robbed? to thus experience
such shallows of thieves with cheap constantly
expedient thievery? i've had enough to concede to a juggle
of fates and fortunes! one smooth stroke of the ace
rather than the many axe-hackings of the neck
of ****** Mary. bothersome agitations via pride, honour
and braveness, only if they do not happen,
and should they, they'd be undertaken, but to no quest
of celebratory non-enactment, i.e.: farting rather than ********
prior: to be given a wave of the standard acupuncture
of infantry: as guarantee of mythology; and a nobleman
on his horse without a stirrup prior to the *** intervention.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
The Flying Squadron of Church Ladies
At First Communion the Flying Squadron
of Church Ladies surround the children to:
Reprove, reproach, command, censor, chastise,
Berate, exhort, implore, upbraid, adjust
Chastise, upbraid, embarrass, harangue, rebuke,
Enjoin, dictate, direct, require, apprise,
Advise, inform, beseech, explain, uphold,
Impart, compel, remind, forewarn, correct:
Because since Peter’s time, all this is what
The Flying Squadrons of Church Ladies do
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 5:19 PM UTC
here i am, waxing poetic and waning harangue
learning to quit but teaching to win
if losers don't win, and winners never cry
why can't butterflies be heroes and all battle cries obscenities?
what a nice way to put a scar, right down the face of a city
how cruel of you pope, to mend it with rubber, and **** it with snow
and if you've never seen him **** a tower, let me tell you
don't live in the silver one down the road
it's haunted with rumors that once were lies, now printed for chains
stop the press, we can't bend any lower, and i don't fear death as much as i should
and there you are playing a life, and living a maze
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 11:03 PM UTC
You haberdashery hauberk harangue of a hornswoggling hiatus. Your arrogantly delusory blasphemous dementia of odiously ominous diabolically grotesque gives me a decadent distraughtness of desultory debauchery and ghastly gnarly abysmal abjections . It causes hysterical deliriums of maniacally macabre . My swashbuckling surreptitious spatiotemporal telemetry tactician is tacitly inured in a phantasmagoria fantastication of fabulist façade fantasias . I could positively kithe a futurity cudgel phantasm and bonkers bluster boggle with your phrenetically frenzied phrenic and forget my phyletic you preterit rendition autonomy equilibrist .
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 11:06 PM UTC
As each ball falls
I juggle less *****
in the end there'll
be none left at all.
Try to do right and
keep perspective,
my sight
is injured by the
onset of night.
And you lot harangue me,
you'd strip me
and hang me if
you had your way.
But today I'm the juggler,
the word
I'm the smuggler
the pirate that sails in
with the goods.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 5:06 AM UTC
With all the delights that this day has pumped in me,
I shall exhale,evaluating.
Nothing frights me though,
Yet at times my humility easily goes.
A fearless vagabond that I have turned into,
Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare.
I am in no haste,
Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps.
Your stares that I descry,
No more make a difference to me.
For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires.
It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same.
I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life,
I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.
For all the stabs faced,
Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame.
The truth could be my lingua franca,
Forlorn be the brethren of my creed.
Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border,
Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.
To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement,
For it is never an evanesce,too late.
I fear no hell or purgatory,
For I have witnessed worse in some eyes.
Victimization is a poor retreat,
To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat.
Patience is my dagger to time,
And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand.
To trail back,
Is not for me that fatal.
I emancipate the baited,
And buster am I of existing parasites.
Liberty is my boundary,
I would dare not to annihilate a choice.
But I do not condone either,
For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go.
I am relentless,
I would not mind if you address me as a bovine.
I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here,
An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC