"inasmuch" poems
The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.
It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.
And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.
Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.
There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
“Inasmuch as you did it to one
of the least of these my brethren,
You did it to me,” proclaimed the Master.
Inasmuch as the body is one
Tuning out the least among us
Is an act of self sabotage.
The mystery of many members in one body
Precludes apathy- abominable ambivalence toward the elect.
The epidemic of savage inequalities in the church
is a glaring act of self-sabotage.
To truly thrive is to transcend temporal tendencies–
it’s measured in connection with the brethren.
To prosper alone is alien to the gospel.
In such a mundane state, shiftiness and perfidy abound.
In an age of narcissism where tokenism thrives,
The redeemed spin out of balance
by taking their cue from the world.
By minding the least of these,
and by shunning an unholy, self-absorbed trend,
We are spared the cataclysm foretold.
There’s comfort in the unity of the faithful
That other state is pure self-sabotage,
added to the drudgery of life.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 10:02 PM UTC
Because before they meet each other
they accentuate the bad in themselves
that want someone
to say
that there is bad in them,
to validate that fact
so much so,
that they intentionally push the good down,
They want to feel evil and ugly
and horrible, because those feelings are safe.
So,
I think, when a lover meets another lover;
meets their residual and their main source,
they feel something beautiful,
something inexplicable,
something they can never put to words,
and so the ugliness returns because
they look at their lover
speechless,
they can't say what they truly feel,
it is the encroachment of everything modern
and fleeting that holds them mute.
But when they see a flower,
they see
something that grew
from a seed,
out of the dirt,
and out of sewage
and ****
and ugliness,
to a stem
climbing against
forces whose entire reason
was to bruise it;
to a bud
holding optimism in its womb,
to a budding,
to the final bloom
to those naked petals
luscious with the perfection
that is watered with pain,
they feel beautiful
because the flower is natural
it remains unspoiled even though
that is not to say there have not been attempts
to spoil it
because the flower will decay.
But
that instantaneous, and inexplicable oneness
they felt when they first encountered the flower
and the beauty it encapuslated;
that moment of clarity,
that moment of pure euphoria
so wordless it became a hurting void;
that feeling will never die.
So, they give each other flowers,
because that memory of instantaneous
and irrevocable beauty, in all of the work
it took to create;
inasmuch as it seems spoiled
and hidden underneath
a canopy of weeds
or in the millions of commercial growhouses;
returns constantly when
they are together,
because humankind has created nothing
when it comes to love,
we have classified it,
objectified it,
destabilized it,
even destroyed it,
but we do not truly know it,
only the unnameable
and inexplicable forces
inside of us
can name it.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
Ideas are bulletproof that is why they are harder to win over,
Especially when affirming instances come one after the other.
The body succumbs while the mind knows better,
Hopping from one stone to the other hoping we get to a constant somewhere.
Throbbing wind whispers a beep,
Rushing cars swooshing their trip,
Her voice looking at me knowingly,
“You know it but here’s the story.”
The high improbability and the comparisons,
The stretch that echoes unfounded sounds,
The conversation that could’ve been,
Shall and must remain as a romanticized fiction,
Started, peaked, jumped, risked, failed, hoped, failed, and left for the conclusion.
As you have absolutely no choices,
To raise your eyes and ears is something to give your best.
Everyone’s kinda moving,
It’s not a race but for everyone the road is ending.
I would still have that grin, whisper, and crookedness,
Inasmuch as nothing of those are even close to any semblance of realness.
I must remain the best parts of what I have to offer,
A refined, mature, swaying, itching, panacea of everything you wish I wish I could cater.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
It's not that I don't think about you.
I only don't think deep.
Not that I don't miss your presence,
your only presence was in my sleep.
Not that I haven't cried
but not for your memories that I've got.
I have always shed my tears,
for the ones that I did not.
Never did I regret,
those emotions that I never knew.
All that I wanted
was just another moment with you.
I'm helpless that I don't. . .
remember your voice or your touch.
Pity that in all of my existence,
I haven't learnt to miss you, inasmuch.
Well,
It's not that I don't think about you.
I only don't think deep.
Not that I don't miss your presence.
Your only presence was in my sleep.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
Queen Victoria of Lorraine.
Queen Victoria of Lorraine.
Ultimately the Queen of my heart
Established on our first meeting
Equipping me to know my life’s quest
Never doubting that she was the one
Victoria of Lorraine allow me to rescue you
Imagine if our minds had not been entwined
Can you not believe that my task on earth
To rescue you from out of the Castle prison
Over years a prisoner of circumstance
Realising things could have and should have
Inasmuch like the stories Daddy read you.
As the handsome prince set out to rescue you
Loading his horse with all the weapons needed
On a crusade to fight the dragons of the bush
Rejecting you then locking you away for spite.
Relax I am coming for you my beautiful Queen
Attending to all the doubts and stupidity of life
I intend to do whatever I have to do on my way
Never doubt me. You will be rescued my dear
Eventually and will live “Happily ever after “
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
November 24th 2018.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
...Many matters steeped--yellowed...
play the day...inasmuch made as what
play the body.
Tho'...there's will beyond day and body...
to be done...where day outgrew body,
body...day.
Particulars ironed out, at arm's length...
one Adam...ruddy eorthe...reaching...
many matters steeped--blackened...
play the night...inasmuch made as what
play the body.
Nightlong-Daylong...the more, supervised
play by...One at One with Will...tho' seconded...
done.
That it were, yet is...done, done, DONE!
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
Inasmuch as I would like to believe you
In the spirit of keeping things light
Cognitive dissonance is shaking me honest
Let's not continue this plight
Disingenuous w/ myself or you
I cannot be, Please stop saying
These things you know aren't true
Just to feel emboldened and free
Vacuous optimism only helps for
Not even a split second
And ultimately, in the end, hurts the
Feeble and dimwitted who believe
When the illusion is seen through
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 4:43 PM UTC
I am the Autumn wind
blowing its way through...
Harsher than a broken
spring.
Tougher than the tightest trap.
And even yet, Zephyr,
I still feel I've
failed
you.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
A dark entity;
Brings grief and sadness.
Nobody knows
When it arrives.
Physically or spiritually,
Mentally or emotionally;
Death take its toll
And no one is exempted.
Most people pass
In sickness and age;
Natural, they say,
But it’s now different.
How come?
Suicides, killings,
Accidents as well;
But it’s not just physical.
Bullying can be
A social form of death.
Inasmuch as social suicide,
It’s the same concept.
But due to that,
It sometimes lead
To a lethal way of death:
Committing suicide.
Some prefer to end their lives
By killing themselves.
Do they even realize the fact
That they’ll miss a lot in life?
But come to think of it,
Death is just a part of life.
Why don’t we think of it
As a passageway to the light?
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Inasmuch I had found confort
within a self unbeknown,
inasmuch I had found peace
within solitude of reality,
I sought objective truth above all
to cure mine ailing curiosity.
Be it I suffer more tomorrow.
Be it mine eyes see darkness
in the light of truth.
I have discovered the device of mine own undoing mayhaps.
For under further introspection,
the reality of the self has become falsified.
The belief of joy as divine?
A mere chemical addiction.
The concept of deity?
A mere pretense of faith.
The mechanics of value dissected,
exposing their arbitrary innards.
For more unwelcome as it may be,
ironic at its purest, the deeper I dig,
the more grave it comes to be.
The more literality I come to accept,
the less literate I come to be.
Washing off all purity
after affirming my sins,
my being becomes one with nature;
realizing the amoral animal within.
Within...
Albeit a minor change animate.
Albeit a subtle suggestion of expression,
or so I had thought.
Now stripped internally
of the faulty concepts:
of the subjective meaning,
of the unobtainable purpose,
of the illusionary empathy,
of the misguided sympathy--
Constructs now ****** and broken for their purpose within.
Constructs antagonized for their naughtness without.
Naught of important significance.
Culling of transcendent thought
unto an impulsive materialism.
nothing more than what is observed
shall be of any use to me.
I am enlightened.
And the price of this enlightenment?...
Only my soul.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 7:49 AM UTC
Learning for me must come from a need to end my ignorance rather than to further my understanding inasmuch as furthering understanding is infinite while becoming tired of my ignorance happens after a period of time after learning something new.
The universe and all it's organizing power must sing in my soul it's anthem of mystery before I can crack a book.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 11:18 AM UTC
A
Big
Complication:
Dealing
Emotions
For
Great
Heaps
Inasmuch
Jealousy
Kicks
Low
Medially
Now
Over
Passion
Quickly
Running
Strands
Triggering
Unexpected
Voices
X-Ray
Yields
Zest
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Inasmuch as I want to
completely detach you
from me
I can not
the same way I couldn't possibly make
what we had-
what was there
down to the dusty pieces-
any less sweet
because when I opened the door for you
and I was greeted by gentle 7 am sun rays
that were all you
I knew starry nights couldn't compete
the same way I couldn't possibly make
you choose to stay
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
it was in one of those seacoasts in the upstate we managed to stay in, where we just let the surge of waves wet our clothes on, talking about our indelible times and some other pretty things; practically seizing every moment left for fear that we may not be able to do it once more or forevermore, inasmuch as you'd move into a much farther place in search for greener pastures. i can't blame you for that, and i think what's happening is, nevertheless, good in a way it could help us grow individually.
years after years, we never lose connection.
i see you grow. you see me grow.
i found you motivated. you found me hesitant.
i found you carefree. you found me caged.
i found you determined. you found me hopeless.
until you muttered yet another pep talk that has nothing to do but to make me any more resolute.
"missing you comes in waves," she said. "and i'm already drowning."
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Wanted to start with an honest take
On T.S. Eliot's fulmination towards criticisms
Regarding the debater, Mr. Grierson's
Point of view on metaphysical writings
In purview of genuine poetic dissertation and discussion
Presentation of the nuances of poems are intriguing
Wherewithal that there is a diligent approach taken
To study John Donne and Cowley
Marvell, one of the social upheavilists
Of this time t'was real t'was true to naturalism
However, Goethe points out " in their unnaturalism they poised on naturalism"
There is a lot to say for Mr. Eliot's debate
Not too much for Mr. Grierson's review of some good old fashioned
Amorous verse, inasmuch it bewitches the languid sensuality
Often the purer and fairer opposite ***
Through genuine use of wit and impressive stoicism
A thoroughly metaphorical use of the term "stoic"
Can be attributed to the use of complex imagery
It would be interesting if one drew parallels
On the concepts of love and spirituality
It is expressed in reading that deals with rapid association of thought
English language canon and poetic implication are there, of course
Basically, what the poet is trying to say and the implicit understanding
Between a lover and a mistress
One could say it is a conversation or a nuanced conversation
Between the reader and poet
Such is the metaphysics of women and their love for genuine metaphor
It is often the velleity of the poet to write in such esoteric language
Therefore, one could understand the heterogeneous ideas potrayed
In each poetic verse of Donne's repertoire cannot be
Misconstrued as unnecessarily analytic
Almost like the dissection of a patient in surgery
The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 7:17 PM UTC
I find myself in an uneasy stupor, amix of stress and reality.
It seems that no freedom from medication can change the bleakness of reality.
Whereas before I was beholder of every dream, now I live in my own dream-like state.
As though my mind is always at sea.
Like a moat my eye is, from which my feet cannot carry me.
Dependent on the clarity of others.
My eyes beget no sharpness.
As one half-asleep my tale unfolds.
I live halfway in bed and halfway outside it.
No one to save me from this reality.
My daydream journeys are as real as my wakefulness inasmuch as they both carry my soul away.
My right eye cannnot be open
My left eye cannnot be closed.
Every thought takes me to a place.
Every though takes me from here.
No word can be spoken from one place, but is spoken from half here half there.
My inner eye can rarely meet my outer one.
I can't fully get out of my sleep.
Jan 9, 2021
Jan 9, 2021 at 4:12 PM UTC
Some may prefer a sunny sky;
Not I; I breathe the clouds that spy.
Their beauty is the darkest kind
That watches o’er love on the line.
The yellow daisies, I disdain
I’d rather inhale cold and pain.
For on my life, they’ve left their stain
And ne’er will they cease to remain.
I find myself in places new
With different eyes, a different view.
I never thought that I’d come through
But found my wings, and up I flew.
Over waters bright blue and green,
I want to see what I’ve not seen,
To rule o’er lands like the grandest of queens
And to understand what the lightning means.
O’er the valley of the lone rose,
Sad and despondent, a lone bud grows.
Bathing in gloom, thrashing in throes;
Who will save it? Nobody knows.
No fear have you, but much have I.
In one dark flash, my life slips by.
And inasmuch as I do try,
I cannot stop its’ will to fly.
With these old withered hands of mine,
I’ve tried to halt the passing of time.
I’ve tried to make its’ hands rewind
But to me time has not been kind.
For one day at that dark’ning door
When I see all Fate has in store,
I’ll breathe in quick, fall to the floor,
Heave my last, then sigh no more.
For future cannot be foretold
No matter what the runes may hold.
They may deceive with jewels and gold,
Omit the tales of fatal cold.
Trying to see through broken glass
Brings up memories from my past.
Memories from my mind I’d cast
Away and hoped they’d be the last
Sometimes, I dream of what I’ve lost
Then I forget what my dreams do cost.
So to and fro I’m fervently tossed,
Scars of life are on my embossed.
Writing is my only vice;
People don’t hear or give advice!
So hear me, I’ll say it twice:
I am naught but bones and mice.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 9:42 AM UTC