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629

I watched the Moon around the House
Until upon a Pane—
She stopped—a Traveller’s privilege—for Rest—
And there upon

I gazed—as at a stranger—
The Lady in the Town
Doth think no incivility
To lift her Glass—upon—

But never Stranger justified
The Curiosity
Like Mine—for not a Foot—nor Hand—
Nor Formula—had she—

But like a Head—a Guillotine
Slid carelessly away—
Did independent, Amber—
Sustain her in the sky—

Or like a Stemless Flower—
Upheld in rolling Air
By finer Gravitations—
Than bind Philosopher—

No Hunger—had she—nor an Inn—
Her Toilette—to suffice—
Nor Avocation—nor Concern
For little Mysteries

As harass us—like Life—and Death—
And Afterwards—or Nay—
But seemed engrossed to Absolute—
With shining—and the Sky—

The privilege to scrutinize
Was scarce upon my Eyes
When, with a Silver practise—
She vaulted out of Gaze—

And next—I met her on a Cloud—
Myself too far below
To follow her superior Road—
Or its advantage—Blue—
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
that's what ****** me off about western journalism,
there is a satirical newspaper in Poland,
there is a counter-culture,
but you obviously don't see it...
NIE is a decent newspaper,
    because it is satirical, but also serious,
at the same time...

  and there is anti-Catholic sentiment among
the people...
   i should know, my grandfather
was a communist party member,
   a strictly atheistic, humanistic,
secular upbringing -
              
   but when did nationalism die
in the western nations?
         16th century? 17th century?
you know... before nationalism morphed
into imperialism?
  obviously these post-nationalistic states
are looking at states that regained
their nation-state status like
**** sapiens looking at a bunch of
******* retards... sorry... neanderthals...

well... d'uh...
it's because the western states do not
understand the concept of a healthy nationalism,
oh a collective citizenry,
  of solidarity...
                   these days, anything right
of the center is... FAR RIGHT...
   there are fringe groups everywhere...
but you're talking about nations
that don't have the privilege of
   the imperialistic interlude...
instead: subjugation by other powers,
in the case of Poland... 3!
      
          maybe the western states just
don't know how to express a healthy
nationalism,
           maybe imperialism really
****** them up....
                    what?
   in H'america don't they call nationalism,
patriotism?
   last time i heard,
   i've been the subject of H'american
nationalism since an early age...
      cultural exports...
             more cultural exportation from
H'america than anywhere else...

/ interlude:

new additions to the jukebox
(and no, i haven't listened to these tracks
so even i don't know whether
i'm going to like them):

kokoroko - abusey junction
quantic - time is the enemy
lafayette afro rock band - hihache
gramatik - just jammin'
anthony brancati - neo-funk
savages - you're my chocolate
funky destination - the inside man
       (soopasoul remix)
kiasmos - looped
thurisaz - endless
LTJ - i don't want this groove to ever ends
low - lullaby
blonde redhesd - for the damaged coda

o.k. i knew this one already -
cymande - dove                               /

yeah... concerning
this:
the curious case of suzanna berlinsky

i can understand being blocked
for, incivility...
      but the Mongols really did sack
Moscow...
   and they had to traverse Siberia...
so...
             well **** me...
if i get blocked by someone for writing
such a comment,
as i wrote...
       just a **** shame...
   have to block them back...
    if anyone is available...
please tell suzanna berlinsky
   that's she an outstanding poet...
                  i would have liked to read all
of her works (yes, she is on this site).
Michael Amery Jul 2014
Do you ask why the angel has fallen?
What is it the mermaids and sirens sing their song for?
Are jewels and princesses all the dragon keeps?
Who banished the troll beneath the bridge?
Do you demand an answer of your lord;
Why preach forgiveness in written word even while your children give voice to harsh judgements and incivility?

Where have all the faeries gone?
Who tends to their forests now?
Did the angels cry out as they were caste from heaven?
Do their wounded wings bleed?

Again,
Do you ask why the angel has fallen?

Or do you just follow the path your shepherd cut content with the fable he wrote, with your certain knowledge that all is right with the world.
Laura Slaathaug Apr 2019
1.  Your cornflower blue eyes crinkled and laughing, sometimes flashing like the storms you love to chase

2. Your strawberry blond mop that smelled nothing like fruit but instead of sweat and grime, clinging to your brow when you removed that Pepsi baseball cap

3. Easter egg hunts on your birthday, like plastic flowers in melted snow and you up trees and on the roof of grandma's garage

4. Rare compromises that built tree forts or wound up the tire swing until it bounced and whirled its passenger like a spinning top

5. When everything you did, I wanted to do too--whether it was rescuing the princess or flying an X-wing

6. Diddy and Dixie Kong headlocked and tangled in armpits, wrestling for the Super Nintendo controller or for the remote for the VCR until Donkey had enough and made them both watch Barney

7. The laughter of you and your friends from the basement or slipping around the corner, back when I said “Me too” and meant “include me”

8. Games of war crouched behind the couches when the only war you dreamt about was the one in Narnia

9. The cliff in Hawaii over the smoking volcanic ocean water and Mom screaming for you to come down

10. When you push me, like the dominoes you used to line up and watch devotedly as they toppled over, one after the other because sometimes general incivility is the very essence of love.
#3030April4
sobroquet Oct 2013
Poets make lousy friends because  eventually they’ll  skewer you with their poison pen; their  insulting  writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby  the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger.  The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial.  Like  acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to  unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face,  a shocking starkness of  incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one  off forthwith.  He was a veritable torrent  of abject invectives.
A cynical definition of the impertinent   misanthropic  poet and their love of harsh realism.  The sort of codswallup only a master of erudition could stomach.  Metaphoric overkill.   A portrayal of an insufferable contemptible "artist" who believes that talent is license to have bad manners.  The classic snotty prissy- pants with an inferiority complex masked by over compensation.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2017
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 ****-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. 2017
Universe Poems Dec 2020
Kindness
Connotation,
in mind nonetheless,
thinking naive or weak,
will address
Not the case,
just blessed,
no incivility,
ungraciousness,
or impertinence,
in the goal,
just generous warmth,
not pity,
care and, concern,
kindness so true,
people put,
in their place,
when incivilities
are the case,
and, insolence
is in your face,
remember good grace,
it is a strong lace

© 2020  Carol Natasha Diviney
I am a refugee from the City upon a Hill.

My homeland once a resounding light to the nations; has become a convulsing black hole, threatening to devour any semblance of civility.

My City, once a radiant promontory of enlightenment, its illumination of liberty’s searing torch revered, it’s practical striving for democratic wisdom shaping the long arc of the moral universe emulated by people of good will across the globe; now lies in state as a mordant corpse, serenaded by a funereal chorus of laughing griffins, a dead patriarch surrounded by the ruins of a once opulent now sacked city, a bygone home to the scattered disassemblage of a once noble people.

I recoil from the rancor of extreme partisanship, the gerrymandered apportionment of citizenship rights, the buoyant vindictiveness celebrated by small minded ignorance.

The blind allegiance to jingoistic nationalism, the adulation of Blueline authoritarianism, the fealty to imperial militarism and the dangerous trajectory of it’s awful consequence yet to come, enthralls me with dread.

Compelled patriotism enforced by threats of faux patriots, amoral ammosexuals, their small hands stroking quick triggers of long guns, genuflecting in mastabutory glee to the preeminence of 2nd Amendment atrocities, angling crosshairs of resentments to firmly fix a promise of ghoulish body counts, a rationalized apocalypse a captive people must suffer to underwrite profiteering gunrunners who blindly defile the constitutional tenets of life, liberty and happiness, the blood splattered keystones of our true exceptionalism.

Xenophobia and racialism, are stoked and celebrated by the City’s chief executive, his impish smile mouths Blood and Soil sloganeering, he solemnly salutes the Confederate flag while cheering torchlight processions of enraged White Nationalists marching to the drum of the Grand Republic’s midnight dirge along the once hallowed trail of Jeffersonian Democracy and a sacred place of secular enlightenment and higher learning. His gleeful decrees tweet the destruction of families and his police agents mouth holy scriptures to justify the imprisonment of children.  These vandals rhapsodically paint images of phantasmagoric nightmares trampling and mocking democratic ideals, resurrecting long settled conflicts, terrible tests a once great City rose to extinguish, now swelling numbers of craven citizens ardently embrace Klansmen, insurrectionists and ****’s as righteous brethren.

The madness of chauvinism and racial supremacy has fully metastasized within the body politic, polluting the mind, infecting the bloodline with a virulent strain of a white blood cell disease coursing through the veins of republican citizenship.

A City stolen from the Native inhabitants, ethnically cleansed and its former inhabitants remanded to the prisons of reservations, a City constructed on the backs of chattel slaves, erected on the graves of exploited wage laborers, provisioned by the ruthless denigration of the earth’s bounty, law and order mandated by criminalizing the marginalized, repressing the civil liberties of outliers and subjecting women to a perpetual status as the second *** underclass; has failed to repent and steadfastly refuses to make reparations for its sinful past has made the City uninhabitable.

The embrace of tolerance and diversity is the balm, the curate that can salve the oozing sores crippling the City. Nativist prejudice is a long protracted path that City citizen’s find impossible to exit. The malevolence that consumes the mind and moves the soul of a desperately spiteful people, who take delight and find it necessary to dehumanize and imprison alien races and creeds to maintain vapid notions of superiority, profane the ideals of a republican calling. They ruefully ignore the beacon of light warning of the dangerous shoals that lay ahead. The ideals of the great democratic experiment on course to be dashed on the jagged rocks of ignorance, fear, and anger. The doomed City has set a course that endangers its embargoed citizens. Travelling in steerage, a captive body, believing they are on a course for the rebirth of the City’s greatness are emboldened and chained by the delusions of their self destructive steadfast resentments.

My home City has become unknown to me.  I have become a stranger in this strange land. What was once beloved has become insufferable. What was once treasured has become burdensome. The familiar has become fully alien. A terrible avenging apparition haunts and mocks people of good will. My heart is disheveled. My spirit bruised. My body literally aches from the wounds exacted from the deconstruction of my beloved metropolis.

I stand stranded at the border of incivility. Bewildered I peer through a protective wall of concertina wire, eyeing the imprisoned haughty souls of fully enfranchised citizens, bellowing self righteous psalms, singing interminable lamentations of terminal ignorance.

Condemned by their belief in the salvation of violence and recrimination, secure in their faith that their moat of self righteousness shelters them from the gulags of perdition they eagerly proclaim for others, feeling recused from the bane of sinfulness by meager tithes, tumidity and scriptural specificity and the sweet delusional conviction they are the chosen tribe of God’s favor; their aspirations viscerally dashed in blizzards of metaphysical illusion strewn like meaningless confetti onto a passing parade of barbarians who have taken the City as its grandest prize.

Sadly I must withdraw from my beloved City. I retreat to a refuge where the barbarians dare not enter. Their ignorance and stasis weds them to a place far from my sanctuary of choice. May my sanctuary restoreth my soul!

I find refuge in the temples of jazz. I sing arias of lucent improvisation. The freedom of unbridled expression reinvigorates the mind, alighting the emanation of our better angels. The music calibrates my soul with the syncopated beat of an irrepressible life force, the humanity of my welling heart swells on the sonorous oxygen of a lyrical free spirit.

I take refuge in our vanishing mountain wilderness. The natural world offers a solace of solitude, a unrequited impression of scale and a transcendent communion immune from the trampling cacophony of gleeful vandals running rampant through the streets of the City. In winter the summits are capped in crowns of viginal snow, spring awakens a dormant flora, autumn leaves shout the chorus of a seasons glory and summer flowers bloom in multitudes of brilliant colors marking a startling contrast to the fifty shades of gray tattooed onto the City’s restive souls by the purveyors of power.

I find respite on the friendly banks of rivers and breeze swept ocean shores. The perfume wafting along a rivers streaming eddies or a briney snort gulped from the foam of a cresting wave invigorates the lungs, strengthens the heart and clears the mind. The flow of living water heals lifes wounded spirit. It quenches a thirst for justice and nourishes the hope of freedom for all incarcerated souls. The ceaseless roll of the ocean waves prove the enduring power and inevitability of liberty.

I find a good refuge in books. Here I discover a fleeting glimpse of our forgotten love of knowledge and pursuit of truth and rational thought. Enlightenment is the plot of every storyline.

I take refuge in art. I escape into the multiple dimensions of aesthetic beauty trouncing the twittering banality of fad, pornographic affectations and consumer fethishism. Glimpsing beauty while beauty is there to behold and the diligent practice of its creation is an answer to a higher calling.

I take refuge in my dog. Unconditional love and trusted friendship are values at peril in a transactional world; virtues nobily demonstrated and freely given by our canine and feline friends.

I take refuge in late night comedy. Working the midnight shift, whistling past the graveyard with a hearty laugh helps to while away the desperate hours. The rancid fruits of our labor leave a bitter taste in our mouths, humor is the bread of life that clears the palate and makes the terrible sufferable.

My lasting sanctuary is the stronghold of faith, forbearance and tolerance. I trust the long arc of justice will bend toward the righteous and offer a pathway of redemption for all desecrated souls.

I take refuge in the Blues. Let my lamentations turn to songs of joy and deliverance.

I take refuge in prayer. May my places of exile restore and heal my denigration. May God deliver us to a good destination. May our generational wanderings in the desert of desolation end in the discovery of a good place of habitation.

In the solitude of prayer may I experience catharsis, may my petitions find an open ear, may I achieve clarification, may my pious supplication be genuine , my conviction firm, a direction found, a decision made, a call to action clear.  May I become a healer of the breach.

May Your grace be sufficient for me.

I declare my exile over. I will return to my City. I will attempt to rekindle the extinguished flame of liberty to dispel the darkness enveloping my City.

Selah.

Mark Almond: The City

Puyallup
6/30/18
jbm
Jeffrey Robin Sep 2016
~~

/ ( • ) ( • ) \

/  \



++++++


cool breeze

Carries images of lovers

&
Visions of true love


We met on the hill
It was summer

It was good to be there

••

Babies !

We grow strong !

( we prepare for the war )

)()(

                                                       BLACK LIVES MATTER

)()(

Amid the flagrant incivility

••

Black *******
White *******

On the colorful possible poems !

//

On the cool breeze drifting


Every kid deserves a home


x
Bailey May 2013
In my room, there sits a massive book,
whose only job, for now is to collect dust.
But one day when we finally meet, you and I will take turns writing our story on its crumbling pages.
When we fight and my tears drip on the page as I recount each incivility and purposeful insult, the ink will smear before you can dab it away;
forever leaving proof of the raw imperfection in our story.
When we decide to go on spontaneous road trips, we will bring the book and buckle it up in the back seat;
stopping only to rest as write lyrics to the songs we sing and reminisce about the places we’ve been.
When you and I sit down and make a night of writing in it, and we spill our wine all over the floor, we won’t be afraid to mop it up with the pages because that’s a memory just the same.
Every little moment, the good, the bad, the ugly, will be recorded and remembered.
And when our story reaches its end, you and I will press our lips to the last page and share one last kiss that will forever be held and remembered, like our love, in a massive book, never touched, that just collects dust.
island poet Jul 2020
morning first poem: tropical storm coming north

two days of rain, with a first appetizer of
***** white clouds falling to earth where
renamed, fog, a wonderful guttural word

fog

a curse, a wonder, a summary, an exclamation,
later the rain and the wind will visit to remind
us who’s the boss, if the  blackout whiteness
was insufficient to mind mortals ro their proper
places, basements, closets, and  under the  covers,
thinking of Dorothy, visiting Oz, going home to that imaginary,
wherever it really be, if there is such a place

the avians coat the lawn, camouflaged in brown grass,
and climb the house as an animals-only observation deck,
a big buffet breakfast ordered, (possible delays for a civilized
lunch and a roast beef sup) in anticipation of the change in
atmospheric pressure, which is far more accurate than
the goofy looking weatherman on channel 61, who announces
disasters approaches with exactly the same unwavering, unnatural
damnastic enthusiasm as a gorgeous July Fourth weekend

and here I am watching, observing, thinking
maybe I’ll move the chairs and umbrella into
the garage, you know, be responsible for once,
instead of a lazy whatever pretend poet writer,
but the coffee is warm and fulfilling, the music
randomly licking, hitting my mental G spot,
this creamy easy poesy coming so pleasy so
being responsible just too damnistic boring,
and why start now?

Robert F. and Walt W. wave by, on their way to someone
better, it’s ok, they gave me the old college try,
and the ground is more fertile up North and
tropical storms are not of much interest when
the world is burning itself up and history is
being revised by rose colored glasses to make us forget,
if we clean up ancestral blackness evility incivility

then Jude Johnstone one of America's finest
songwriters sings her Wounded Heart, and I
hear it solo on piano, hear it break my heart,

”Wounded heart I cannot save,
You from yourself.
Though I wanted to be brave,
It never helps.
Cause your trouble's like a flood,
Raging through your veins.
No amount of loves enough
To end the pain.
Tenderness and time can heal,
A right gone wrong.
But the anger that you feel,
Goes on and on.
And it's not enough to know,
That I love you so.
So, I take my heart and go,
For I've had my fill.
If you listen you can hear,
The angels wings.
Up above our heads so near,
They are hovering.
Waiting to reach out for love,
When it falls apart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart...”

~
and now a tropical storm seems like no big deal,
and maybe someday
I’ll write so sad n’ soft, good
and
be at last
heart-satisfied,
no longer afraid of the tropical storms
that live within...
Mary-Eliz Jun 2018
US
first
greed
impede
mislead
misdeeds
supersede
need to lead
people bleed
so much gall
install a wall
no protocol
we'll all fall
~futility~
stupidity
incivility
hostility
ignobility
scurril­ity
instability
vulnerability
insensibility
destructibility
thump­ing chest virility
winning, an impossibility
pathetically  inevitability
~~~war~~~
Rework and add-on.
A paucity of creativity
Brings on a lack of productivity
Which causes incivility
That leads me to mendacity.
ljm
A paltry entry into BLTs Merriam Webster's Word of the Day challenge.
jeffrey robin Dec 2014
(      
(  
(
\/
/\
/    \
                                                               there was a truth but it died

••

Hello

••

The long enslaving

The huddled youth cowering before the MAN

|||

The ugliness

//

I was fountainhead of pure reality

I died 1000 times so you might live

••

In the darkness // A LIGHT !

.//.

You applauded !

And fled

Back to mommy's ****** sheets !

And to daddy 's poisoned bed !

/////

( a bunch a cute little  children really )

As the bombs fell

Amongst the dead

••

••

••

Old man he

Mumbles to himself as he limps on

Thru the cemetery to the empty street

Remembering

Little love poems in his head

Visions of gross insincerity

And it's prison of loneliness

And the lack of courage and creativity

Even though

( he can hardly dare to say ! )

Everyone KNEW it would end this way

But we didn't want to offend

The patrons of mediocrity

Or to appear in rebelliousness

Or in incivility

••

And so we walked on by

Any chance for life

And curled up by the  fire

Imagined lovers

And simply died
It's like I never learned about humility
Like I didn't know tranquility.
or like my mindset is to spawn hostility.
Maybe because I was never taught responsibility.
I have less appeal to you than a book that lacks readability.
and you refuse to acknowledge our lack of compatibility.
We're trying to build on the epitome of instability
and we wonder why we have the inability
to make something with any sort of durability.
It'd be easier if I wasn't such a liability,
or if there was any probability
that I could understand accountability.
I'm sorry for the times I lacked the sensibility
to become a better person, or improve my suitability.
I'm sorry for my actions and my incivility
There were times you couldn't count on me for dependability
and for that I'd like to say if there is any plausibility
or some kind of magic ability
that would allow me the chance to see you again I'd beg and crawl to the ends of space and time on only the basis of possibility.
Mary-Eliz Mar 2018
futility
stupidity

incivility
hostility

ignobility
scurrility

­instability
destructibility

servility
vulnerability

thumping chest virility
irresponsibility

insensibility
winning, an impossibility

disability
morbidity

sadly inevitability

~war~
Don Bouchard Jun 2020
Four months
Memory of unfettered times slipping

COVID-19
Plot or wet market accident, world plague

George Floyd
The fuse that lit the yearnings... and burnings

Protests
The righteous and unrighteous, weeping and burning

Rioting
Usurpation of the call to justice for terrorists

ANTIFA
The irony of the name is not misunderstood

Masks
Those damnable masks....

FaceBook
Blue Book for civil incivility

Statuary
Easy targets for cowardly mobs

News Media
Pick your poison; take your sides; everybody lies

Citizens
To fly the flag or to burn it?

Police
To protect and to serve; to spit upon and to abuse

Politicians
Demagogues gone wild

Jesus
"I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33, NIV)
When I take my eyes from looking down, I gain perspective and lose my frown.

— The End —