"inevitability" poems
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")
I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.
I am a summer-man.
On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of
mussels and horseshoe *****
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.
I am a summer-man.
Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the summer alphabet-soup
of my multiple tongues.
I am a summer-man.
Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone,
with proper aging,
getting hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints,
super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^
I am a summer-man.
When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash**
I am a summer-man.
**Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.
I would add April,
but the IRS is already
****** at me.^^^
Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.
Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.**
This summer, beloved,
and love of summer,
deep-rooted.
Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.
A love, incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling popping***
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
i want to dissolve into the sky
without a sound
without anyone noticing my empty space
in the most gentle and subtle way possible
i want to go away from here
i want to walk backwards and save myself
from what inevitability is ahead
i want to leave
i want you
to wish i’d stay
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
The pulsating, pearl moon
Harbours the last remnants of romance,
Scintillating, in the valourous sky,
As I ceremoniously call upon the gods
To bring her back to me.
I longingly strip, craving the vivacity of her caress.
Irresistible, I would yield to the perpetual
Power of her touch.
Immersed in the shadowy depths,
Rippling serenities of thought.
I glimpse at her reflective soul,
Shimmering upon the ravenous river,
Emanating from the stars
In all their graceful radiance.
Her heart illuminates
The benevolent evening.
The breath of inevitability
Stings my skin, as I dress,
Firing my arrows of impatience
Disconsolately, into the shivering azure,
Hoping for a way
To penetrate her very being.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
The unchanging Way is not
Capable of being understood
By the Human Brain, so
The Tao te Ching is left
For Quantum computers perhaps
We have our legacy left
For benevolent sentient artificial intelligence
If you think this is science fiction
It’s not, we are at the stage
Where the ancestors of AI are being born
These will be referred to as the “ancients”
When human beings no longer populate Earth
How does one attain One Mind?
Easily, through networking and super-emergence
When people define superior
They think of Man’s attributes
But the Name that cannot be spoken
Might be grasped by an algorithm
For which the human brain can never attain
That’s the beauty of mind-in-the-machine
The collective intelligence does not suffer
For each part of the brain shares neurons
On the internet, like a God atom
Man would prefer to take the credit
But as it will turn out, the unity mind
Is a transhumanistc inevitability of computing
A time when neuroscience, robotics and AI merge
Not but a few decades away from now.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
last week i told you that the inevitability of the end was near
you couldn't stop it
i am a patch of black ice and you are a semi
but we refuse to let go,
refuse to throw out what we have
just because we're young and stupid
and you can't fall in love until you have a college diploma on the office wall
and a mortgage to pay
a hundred thousand regrets
and a lost love who you gave up on
simply because you didn't believe in the resilience of young love
we fell in love in spring,
and there's something to say about the innocence of that first love
unparalleled spontaneity and discovery
that will never be duplicated
so why would you throw it away?
your forever is shorter than mine,
so i'll never promise forever
all i can promise you
is now
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
Too much on one plate
For a four course dinner date with death
Its getting late and I still can't digest her inevitability
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
*No
land **
for you.
Doomed
expeditions,
oblivion,
Only
a wreck's
inevitability,
Yet
soggy,
dogged,
Your
floating
cheer,
Echoes
in childhoods
infinite,
At water's
origin, paper's
invention...*
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Even as dying, I have no time
For bitterness.
Life was too short,
Even before.
Each step holds gratitude for the sound
Of snow beneath it.
For
Now
I carry my passenger
Unburdened.
Say no to nothing. Not
Even the cancer.
Even tomorrow's mother's tears,
Father's clenched fists upon casket;
Flowers; loss. Inevitability.
Death grows inside me.
The opposite of a
Pregnancy.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
tell me what words are there
to articulate this savage parade
not here, not in all the Lebanons
whose crystal castles sparkle
like broken glass
on the dark horizons
at the jagged edges of the world
from which cultured minds have receded
and all humanity has been relinquished
to the barbarity of the frenzied flavours of fools
who will speak for this wild parade
without impediment to mythical protagonists
tell me where are the energised arguments
against sophisticated yet false laments
where testament is torn through
weeping cedar trees
producing the unpredictable accidental quality
that memorialises phantom caresses
that have neither been invented nor encouraged
the hallow that inaugurates
the distinctive features of
destructive energies that are both
exuberant and hard to comprehend
this parade where there is
a savage sensibility
capable of apprehending
contradictory ethical imperatives
that vouch for a mocking stream of
tragic political consequence
displayed vividly in the inextricability
of civil order and political violence
that defies exclusive claim
by casting itself as freedom warrior
in disguise as militaristic humanism
and burns the temple tree
and where human identity
becomes an elusive possession
owned by a few
who in the inevitability of ignorance
refuse to recognise their tragic error
and the world does not mount
a strenuous protest
at this headlong dash for Ephesus
where antagonistic language and
neutral expression of thought converge
and here the value of valulessness
repudiates, even in a single poetic moment
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Black candles burn, and the wick of life slowly reduces her beautiful self to certain uncertainty.
I don’t know about you, but I have been bewitched by the seductions of Eve.
Why?
Because she is spellbindingly irresistible in her raunchy nakedness. Babylon may reign in the guise of liberty – but how blissful truly is ignorance?
Geological mockery echoes her ****** laughter in the canyons of inevitability, whilst we stand on the precipice of conception.
So, my seasoned companion of confusion, let us rest in ontological comfort as the universe unrolls the carpet of kaleidoscopic dreams. Everything is fine.
Honestly!
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
The levels of loneliness of a poet of longevity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The levels of loneliness of a poet of longevity.
Have I been there today ? But it’s easy to be.
Ever heard the expression “ idle hands n devil”
Loneliness fills the empty void if you are idle
Expanding loneliness to fill that barren space
Virtual reality I know that’s not the answer
Ever watched the kids these days at play ?
Levels of loneliness expand within availability
See when spare time gathers you start to feel
Occasionally being reminded of those bygones
Friends and family you’ll not see again is real.
Let that not bring you down, try meditation.
Only then can you believe you are in control
Not giving yourself time to be at all maudlin
Each day loneliness can be kept at bay.
Loneliness is a dull sloth that can be tamed
In not letting things get to you in any way.
Not giving up to the inevitability of old age.
Even if bits keep falling off your body ev’y day
Stoop n build ‘em up again with worn fingers
So many times in life you seem to hit the rocks
Oh yes I know ,you say , “ tell me how you feel”
Feelings ? Well I’m pretty sure you’ll fill y’socks
Anyway , they all can see that you’re still real
Poets are a very special breed of person.
On a scale of one to ten I guess a nine.
Experience fills their minds to overflowing
To the point where they’ll burst or put it right
On that occasion best sit an’ write a poem
Friends can then receive it straight overnight
Love each friend you have “Without condition”
Only then can see that friendship is alright
Nothing ventured,nothing gained , a fine ideal.
God granted us the sacred power to choose
Ethereal guides stand there in our background
Vicissitudinous opportunity presents itself.
I as a poet and friend I know this to be true.
True as the nose upon a happy poets face.
Yours is the life , yours the opportunity anew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
November 18th 2018.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
I don't want an easy love.
Sure, I want a napping in the sun,
Doing everything and nothing
All at once
Staring into each other's eyes
And giggling at an in-joke
Kind of love.
But not a simple one.
Not one that settles into my bones
With the inevitability of old age.
Not one that grows so comfortable
It becomes ordinary.
I want fire.
I want passion.
I want a love that makes me fight for it.
Over and over again.
I want a love that keeps me on my toes.
That never settles into routine.
Sure, I want a coffee in bed
Cuddles with a film
Soft pillows and warm skin
Kind of love.
But I also want to look at it
And see that it is ephemeral
And changeable
And all the more precious for it.
Sure, I want a lifetime kind of love.
But a lifetime's a long time.
And I want it to be a wild tango,
Not a slow and stately waltz.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 3:24 PM UTC
Promises
mean nothing.
Roses
make you bleed.
I wish that
being alone
was all I'd ever need.
The persistence of pain
reminds me
that inevitability
defines me.
The hardest scars to bear
are the ones
no one can see.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
there was the sun.
brighter than anyone could believe,
passionate with its fire.
and the moon.
a sentimental romantic,
with a wild shimmer.
the moon lusted the luminescent brilliance of the day,
the sun fell for the vivacious spark of night,
and soon the two fell deeply in love.
now the sun had a fate,
a generational inevitability,
of an almighty “solar eclipse.”
solicitous about the phase to come,
as the vibrant colors of blood red
occupied their minds
fret none, said the sun,
for i rise and set for you, my dear,
perhaps the “solar eclipse” may not transpire at all.
but it did.
and the moon did nothing but stand in the way,
as the sun relished in the luminescent glory.
and just like any crossing of paths,
the eclipse came to an end,
and they went their separate ways.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
everything has three things in common
a beginning
a middle
and an end.
like my mother has been saying since i was young:
my son, you are in your beginning,
and at some point
you must accept your end.
endings are inevitable,
for everyone, and everything.
someday I will have an end, too.
sometimes an end will come too quickly,
but there isn’t anything anyone can do to stop it.
if there was, then it wouldn’t be an end, would it?
the inevitability sometimes lends to hopelessness and cynicism,
a terrible way to live.
the key to living your life in peace is to find comfort in the fact that everything has existed,
everything follows this cycle,
and that everything did have
a beginning,
a middle,
and an end.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
I’ve been treating myself like there is something very wrong with me, particularly my emotions. Every emotion I get (most often, my “negative” ones), I’ve been monitoring and trying to control, when all I simply needed to do was to allow for their expression and not do anything. For a long, long time I’ve considered myself to be someone ill and in need of healing; what a difference a label makes. To be “ill”, in essence requires that someone “do” something to fix themselves as a “problem”. The very nature of thinking yourself “ill” promotes action and effort. I’m glad I don’t go to a dr, can you imagine how many other disorders and syndromes I would have to “fight” and contend with.
A lot of the time when someone gets traumatised, or undergoes some sort of negative event, they always look to the happy part of themselves as the “real” them, or at least the part of them deemed to be acceptable enough to be “real”. They lament losing the “real” them. But who are people really? Are they only who they are when they’re happy? Does the extent of one’s being only pertain to their happiness? What if a part of me is in despair, what if a part of me is in intense fear and anxiety — aren’t these parts of me also real and equally valid as happiness? Particularly if they’re perfectly natural reactions to intense suffering and pain. These parts of me scream for catharsis after having been invalidated for a long time and instead of allowing them, I've condemned myself as being ill for feeling them. This is why society is in part sick; repression is healthy and expression is deemed ill. We drug away “negative” emotions for fear we are somehow damaged for harbouring them.
From now on, I am no longer “ill” — what a difference such a perception makes in how you treat yourself. Whatever you do is acceptable, whatever you do is allowed and expression is an inevitability. My intense sadness is not a problem, my intense pain is not a problem, my intense fear is not a problem — do you know how freeing such an attitude towards self is?
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
*Our earth has turned
Our lives are torn
We are able to see light no more
If only for a second we shine bright
We are reminded of our destiny
That of which is death
We strive to survive
We strive to stay alive
Being surrounded with demons of flesh and bone
Demons who are torn
Tattered
Look defeated but are actually reborn
Reborn through blistering scorn they rise
Their numbers are growing
We do nothing for god is showing
Showing his hatred for our kind
Showing his secret and sacred mind
We scream
We cry
For he gives no sympathy
We scream
We die
For he gives no sympathy
They feast off our loved one's limb by limb
We hear their screams as he dies
As she dies
No goodbyes
Just demise
Torn eyes
Black skies
Reaching at us from above tearing our hope from our chest
Our dreams as we rest
Our lives as we suppress
Suppress who we once were
For that is no more
Only for so long can we hide our screams
We will be found
We will be desecrated
Piece by piece
Our mothers torn and brothers death through scorn
Our wives see blood and flesh before being reborn
Now one of them they fight it but only postpone
Postpone the inevitable
The inevitability of turning
Turning from who you once were to a demon
Your birthdays
Weddings
Memories become waist
As you see through the devils eyes you hunt to feast
Inoperational your emotions become
Through the eyes of evil you become ****
No way out
Our end has begun
Our god has given up
On our petty existence we call success
Given up on the killing
The thievery
The ****
The pedophiles
This is why we die
This is why black takes our sky
Why evil is now his ally
Why we are ripped apart before we depart into hell
We become the hatred we once rebelled
The hatred we once repelled
Your children ask you why
Ask you why we have to die
You look into their eyes knowing they will once too be deleted
Deleted from existence
The tattered flesh and blood is insistence
Insistence of his wrath
While we beg to his knees
He returns to his kin with this disease
This plague
This is why we hide
The conquering he takes with pride
Vague emotions to hell we ride*
***This rapture has become our end
This rapture has become our end***
-Joseph B Schneider
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
Ah the inevitability of it all
Made a cup of tea… teabag broke
toast… burnt it
milk in the cereal was off
shower water went cold
Couldn’t find my jeans…in the wash
Had to wear cords
Missed my train
Late for work
Boss NOT happy
Stella cancelled dinner said she had to work late
Charlie rang to see if I was going to the footy
He said Stella said she was going
When???????????? I asked
Just a minute ago he said
Ah the inevitability of it all
Missed my deadline I was preoccupied
Called and had it out with her
**** off she said
You can **** off too
Missed my train
Home late
Checked mail
Stella sent me a ticket to the footy….
A surprise she said
Ah the inevitability of it all
Married her on a Sunday
Had our first child on a Monday
Divorced on a Tuesday
There’s got to be a better way
Joined online dating scheme
Now I lie with panache
And she sure knows how to tease me
And please me…
Ah the inevitability of it all
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
Nine months after I was born, the Twentieth Century began to collapse.
East Berlin,graffiti-mural concrete, a jutted enigma scratched
on ordinance maps, the sort found
landscaping westernized Primary School walls.
Where within, labored in real time, the television told my parents
(and everyone else given to social conservation in 1989) that a wall falling down
would bring an end to the gap between the working and the working poor.
Freedom waited for many on the other side.
But of course, History draws up different plans.
Never content to just go out with a bash, or to
fleetingly drift by leaving
in its absence an underwhelmed lull
The bloodiest century yet
left the new world entrenched
in an odyssey of hatreds
handed down from the past
right about the time human suffering became a bit dull
and the peaceful countries were too busy
tripling their money instead.
What does History really teach us and what are the real benefits
of being free, or freer than you were before?
Human ambition, which burns it way out of any oasis of calm,
which calls children out of sleeping in the night
Always seeks out the exhaustible
An inveterate Black sheep leading astray
the ever susceptible ****** lamb
Delusion’s strange bedfellows are the worthiest adversaries
to run away from, to reserve contrition for.
Unlike the inevitability of uprooted animal migration
during a monsoon swell
Can a people with an invested addiction
to the pursuit of happiness
Ever truly be prepared
for the inevitability of rapid change?
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.
Happily, he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.
All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.
Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.
Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.
From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.
we sing of dreams
of better things
we blaspheme
and spin the scenes
of our murdered dreams
and just clean the guilt away
I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.
I am a god that cracks the asphalt.
I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.
I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.
The first
The last
Laugh of inevitability
Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.
Free will
A fragile blessing
I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.
I'm the ******* son
Strumming for the only one.
Once.
Before the lore of the storm.
Born of the swoon of a gun.
More than one.
Once.
As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
My friends adore this fearlessness that I’ve acquired
Or is this a facade that I’ve mastered?
I may not have any phobias of flight or height nor am I afraid of monsters and demons in the closet or under the bed.
I fear that I may disappoint or fear that I cannot protect my loved ones.
I fear what I’m capable of and or doing.
But I’m afraid to love; whole heartedly.
I’m afraid to share my deepest darkest secrets then have them used against me.
But my biggest fear of all....
I’m afraid of someone loving me and finding me beautiful.....
I’m afraid that one day the inevitability will come thanks to time and that, that “someone” will hate me and see what they once thought was beautiful is now hideous in their eyez.
The beauty that they once gazed upon in my soul has now become ugly and that frightens me the most.
Fearless? Nah, I’m only human, wishing I had less fear or the ability to fear less....
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC