"inspections" poems
Visiting a friend on his Quarter
Horse farm, the day sunny and warm.
We walked out to his brood mare
pasture, the ladies were running,
awaiting and sunning, anticipation
in the air and their nervous behavior.
Noble his name, consistency his game,
a reliable aging stallion, sire to many
fine sons and daughters, years of proven
pairings, came halter led and prancing.
He had their scent and his spirit awakened,
the three ladies believed to be in season began
to snigger and whinny, their excitement growing
as the stallion entered their grassy domain,
the dance was about to commence.
The handler led the big fella' forward,
both sides began their quizzical inspections.
one young filly more aggressively willing
than the others. Noble excitedly returned
her heightened interest.
Within a few minutes Noble began to rear up,
he knew his job, his august appendage extended,
trying several times to mount his mate intended,
adrenaline pumping his back legs began to shake,
on his fourth failed attempt the eager proven
suitor fell to the ground, rolled over, paused for
a moment and struggled to stand on unsteady legs.
Appearing even somewhat embarrassed.
The mare moved aside, kicked her hind legs in
the stallion's direction, whinnied loudly and
ran away. Rejected the old stallion stood looking
perplexed, failure was something unknown to him.
His spirit was willing but his aging body was weak.
The old stud slowly returned to the barn, his head
hung low, no longer prancing.
For every time and being there is a season, aging
is part of the cycle, like this stallion, we all reach
this moment of understanding. Sometimes gracefully,
most times with stunned disbelief.
From Noble to nothing in one afternoon.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Determine meaning of toxic
probe quantity of goodness required
to cease metabolic function
Give space to inspections
of remaining affect-reserves
Adjust interior humidity
to +/- decency
Console yourself.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
.
The special speculative speculum
examined an orifice one day.
Upon its initial inspections
it was clearly heard to say
'I've been in some holes before
but this one takes the biscuit.
I should go in a little deeper
but don't know if I should risk it.
For there is a blockage here,
one I would rather not disturb.
I should really try to describe it
but I am struggling to find a verb.
It was always going to happen,
one day it would come to pass,
when in would walk a patient
with his head stuck up his arse'.
© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.
The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.
The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.
When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.
It might be a bomb.
The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.
Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.
The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.
Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.
You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.
******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.
This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.
Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.
A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.
The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.
By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
Constricted bronchioles and anxiety had a baby
Within my father's chest
They named her asthma
And it is him she does possess
Coughing fits and nervous breaks
Are not easy scenes to bear
Stomach injections, lung inspections
Soiled clothes and messy hair
Then the coctails come, one by one,
Morphine, Pulmocort, Seroquil
An IV is the quickest fix
But it doesn't always fit the bill
Long inhilations, short exhilations
It increases rapidly
It's full blown now, she has attacked
Asthma, you're a mystery
Why do you posses such a man
That cares for others more?
I guess everyone has their weakness
But other have it worse, I am assured
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
While putting on her shoes she remembers
Father calling her from a far room to
Prepare for church, to wear her best, and to
Shine her shoes. She slips her foot into the
Shoes, placing a finger behind the heel
To lever in, the foot sinking down with
A tidy feel. I want to see my face
In the shoes, Father would call back then, and
She remembers spitting phlegm onto the
Black leather of her shoes and brushing with
The old yellow duster Mother used to
Polish the furniture. She pushes her
Other foot into the shoe, ********* it
In with ease, sensing the heel fit in snug.
She gazes at her black shoes, unpolished,
Unkempt. How Father would turn in his grave
To see them as such, she thinks, drawing a
Tongue licked finger along the toe of both
Shoes. I want to see my face in your shoes,
Father would bellow, his loud heavy tread
Entering the room twenty years before,
His hawk eyes scanning her dress, her hair, her
Shoes. And woe betide you, my girl, if they’re
Not shiny, Father said, towering tall
Over her, peering down overhead. She
Sits up staring at the door of her old
Room. No more shoe inspections; no more smacks
And smarts. Father’s silent now, Father’s dead.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
They say the neon lights
Don’t often burn that bright
Splintered from my urethra
Swollen in this hex
Devoured by the Eve
Brought to justice by the guilt
And when they said
That all I had to give
Wasn’t worth a fitful look
I’ve been duped by sedative
The artificial power
Has swollen in my head
Wrapped around an ice pick
Can be found my fleeting shell
As our defunct cohesion
Masticates my head
Disintegration will lay me to my bed.
That sweet nectar
Lingers on my tongue
An inebriated hour of reverie genuine
A claustrophobic detainment
Incarceration with power windows
As your effigy is left behind
These shiv grasped hands
Awaiting exertion, transpierce my eyes
Upon introspective re-inspections
Ichor transmogrifies
Necessitate me
Remain vacant here
As our defunct cohesion
Masticates my head
Disintegration will lay me to my bed.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:11 AM UTC
Skin cancer isn't funny
so cover up when it is sunny
so slather on all sorts of ointment on your skin
It might just be a rumour
Every skin tag's not a tumour
You don't want to think of what just might have been
If you find you have a pimple
On your back or in your dimple
Go and get it checked out all the same
You don't want to die of cancer
When you could have had the answer
You have to know that cancer's not a game
So, do not be indignant
It might just be malignant
check it out before the nightmare comes to pass
See a doctor if you're worried
Go real fast as if you're hurried
You don't want your name read out in your church mass
I hope you get my meaning
And you know which way I'm leaning
I don't want to hear you died when you should not
Take care and do inspections
Of all your parts and sections
Remember, this is the only life that you have got.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
He's so perfect! He's a great guy to bring home,
He has a fast, expensive car, he works at a good job,
He's got his own backyard, a house all his own,
He's got a lot of "decent" connections,
He's always around to be a wisest leader,
Loves to take you down if you failed inspections,
He's just so perfect!
And so this is what "real love" is all about. How unrealistic.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 2:06 AM UTC
In life, there are so many instances where we see some of the most amazing scenes but regret of not having an SLR camera with us to capture 'em. I have so many such beautiful pics captured in my brain and just wanna put them out here!! ;)
It was a beautiful sunny day in spite of being rainy season…I got ready to office in a very typical hurry – burry leisure and came out to bus stop. I have one good habit of not getting i-rated even if the bus does not show up for half an hour or so. That’s mainly coz I start observing every minute thing during the wait : P Like the way people walk, the patterns on morning sky, various fonts used on shop names, people’s expressions in vehicles…what not :D .
Amidst these inspections, one view caught my sight in delight. I saw a middle aged lady in her dusty clothes. She looked pale and thin with curly hair that looked not so neat. She was sweeping the shoulders raising a lot of sand. While all was nothing so special, came a little girl running from where I donno!!.The lady looked at her keeping aside her broom and took over her on her shoulders.
As I moved my eyes a little to the right, I saw a dirt cart which is usually kept to throw the garbage. Here follows the most astonishing scene. To my disbelief, the lady placed the kid in it. She continued sweeping. From the background of many huge trees, the sun rays escaped out and lightened up the whole natural setting that was created. Now all I saw was laughter on the little angel not bothered about anything in the world but the dust that was rising. She clapped and clapped her hands while it looked like the sun rays also joined their hands to make an unheard tune. So unintentionally and innocently, did her movements create various stunning patterns of dirt that created a foggy look.
This was the moment I wanted to click it J
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
Did I tell you how I prayed
on knees before the morning came
and listened to by bells that rang in mighty decibels
and fell to crush and stay my uttered syllables.
Where in the singing of the psalms did blood appear to flow from palms
and calm this torture
played out as a platform game on X box three or was it me
who could not grasp the significance
of an abeyance I would deign make
what if fakery was the order of the day and would then the bells ring out to say in sixteen chimes or as many times as I could bear
Would the lines that led to crucifixion day be written any other way?
Did those legionnaires despair
or on the darkened unlit stairs did they rejoice at choices made?
And we fade as thus we shine and in another time we'll do it,did it been there and bit by bit we bid this happening to reoccur
so we the unfit,unloved,unwashed,unholy,outcast ones can join in and share
the melancholy felt by those the ones who knelt before the cross
in the loss of things
or in the losing and the grief it brings another lonely bell rings out
with heartfelt pleas and once again I'm on my knees
and giving thanks for these the moments when the light has flashed
and bells have crashed to smother me with talk of other times
the chimes
the chimes
and would there ever be the time to hear them all before the call was sent
Did I not rend the air with blasphemy and would he see the truth behind the curses that I spat into the gutters
when in utter abject poverty
blinded by those who could only see
the misery and not the man?
I wonder if that was in his plan to make the beggars saints and vice versa
or could it have ever been the plan to make a man who felt so bad
that man who knelt would go quite mad
and wrap into a bundle tight
to trundle off with head down in the night.
I kneel before the altar
altered irrevocably
I don't need to see what others see
I now see me in my many faults
for I have walked and talked deep within the vaults of introspection
and selected only those the pieces suitable for my inspections of my soul
and now the hole there was is filled
and stilled the raging mind
and stilled the storm and tempest
instilling what is best and disregarding all the rest
I go to take my rest
and am at peace.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
" According to the Earth's gravitational pull
He threw his handkerchief up,
Deceleration would take place as it goes up
And there, It'll always come down
May be hard hitting your head..."
But it didn't as it was stuck in a switched-off fan
Innocous, curious laughs poised the atmosphere
Breezed a wind of arrogance and disapproval
"Wait..", he hopped and uplifted by table
Attempt to rescue, tide, brand handkerchief
As he rotated the fan,
" G' morning Ma'am" bowed the class
There he was
In front of the honorable principal
Sweat-Wet, Stuck on the table
Bewildered in a circle of loopholes
She giggled, wished and said,
" Oh ..My inspections truly reveal me the unseen parts of the story
That must be an integrated fun learning"..
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
Every year
the same deal
treats
obtained too early
under the
seasonally seductive
store lights
nestled next
to the fake fall foliage
become mysteriously
rerouted
from their final destination
as intense inspections
conducted
under the guise of
quality control
these pilfered provisions
perform a vanishing act
visions of sad
costumed tots
at the doorway
with empty bags
hurry a return visit
for rapid replacements
tragedy narrowly
averted
once
again
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
a sparkle in your eye
a baby girl's cry
how's she going to spend
the rest of her life?
reaching for perfection
fixing her complexion
and sense of direction
dodging
society's inspections
her father's aggression
her mother's traditional-housewife obsession
trying to escape their
suffocating protection
became an adult
run away across the country
for a new angle of reflection
trying to forget
trying to have no recollection
of their projections
on her own perceptions
learn who she is
over and over again
question question question
she's spending time making
connections between
the past and the present
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC
The end is coming soon
Contracts are inked
Agreements and inspections done
So after the deal is done,
and the house gone, soon to be razed
what will be a mother's legacy?
A new home in a town nearby
A secure business on the west coast
A range of new possibilities waiting to be taken
College for a granddaughter
None of which
A mother knew possible
Before she was gone
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 7:35 AM UTC
If you see through eyes of vanity look past me.
A point compared to an idea, you can't grasp me.
Stepped outside The box, ideas expand vastly.
The image of your every emotion, you can't mask me
Rumor goes the road to hell is paved with good intentions...
Eternally enveloped in flames is the part not worth my mention.
With God as my judge when I'm subject to inspections,
Sorry sinner I filled the quota on divine interventions.
Sticks And stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,
Made from the rib of man, it'll take more than him to pervert me.
I'm blind to the ugly and deaf to the dumb,
I have ten souls if not more inhabiting a body of one.
The body and the blood served through wine and bread,
So who will eat my pieces when I'm 100years dead?
The sorcerers stone buried in the sands of time...
If I'm alpha to omega the secret is naturally mine,
The fountain of youth is the tub in which I bathe-
I'm a thousand lives old, a thousand girls enslaved.
My depth inwards far exceeds any ocean
While for many each day is just a minute, and a memorized motion.
I'm drowning in myself, deep thoughts are shallow breathes,
The world is my last supper, eat me until there's nothing left.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
they sit
anxious,
attitudinal,
replete in
hospital gowns,
almost glowing,
angelic in their
whiteness.
below the knee,
the young queen
bee wears peach
fuzz.
my own grasshopper
has a forest of leg hair.
(puberty' s gift)
they look
at one another
not quite
like two strangers
at a singles bar,
but almost.
the moment dies
seconds after birth.
they transition from
insects,
scrawny, gangly teenagers;
becoming hawks.
now,
they perch,
staring at one another,
eyes full of defiance.
each one measuring
the other's plight
against their own.
inspections concluded,
they retreat,
separately,
each
back into their
own fauna of
electronic isolationism.
***
-JBClaywell
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Current society shapes the capability of our complexion,
Therefore giving us low probability of self succession.
We mentally prowl for this desired affection,
But we just can't link like bad wifi connection.
Constantly looking at our phones to see who's textin',
The thought of today's constriction is so perplexing..
If we don't mesh in with our peers social sections
then we feel unwanted, putting us in societal depressions.
All these little factors add up to a collection,
Which then follows up to a pivotal reflection
on whether we're good enough, constant mirror inspections.
Trying to figure out what other people see out of our projection.
No equality comes out of this culture, the hunt for perfection.
A figment of imagination, a vision of oblivion.
This should serve as a sudden ejection from the mindset we're in.
Hopefully this serves as a life changing lesson
to let our world free, & gift them with expression.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC
*Over and over,
this smooth sound is going through one
ear and the other, the settle sound
of the rushing of blood
flowing through my ever shedding,
ever alleviating body, by nature? NO.
Still accompanied by the "truth," my human
parts being made without molded clay,
all of them free now, a part of something many
find "naughty."
You can find similarities in the mountains,
in the various hills arches, like the back, the neck,
the lift of the full volume of your chest,
You reach for the toothbrush, the comb,
ashamed; your hair in tangles, of the teeth that decay,
though one time you shall see how the
chest is so filled with pain. Nevermind.
We all don't care about that pain until it happens that
eventual day. This human body made "without perfections,"
it continues to smell, to pleasure or suffer, to be hungry,
to find itself wrapped up in it's sole need for ***
We must remember to be clean for inspections.
No exceptions, no matter what is being said.
It will keep clawing, keep scratching, until it finds it's
way out, once it escapes it's metal cage.*
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 4:44 AM UTC
His herd trudge in binary directions.
Faceless they march to their fraudulent feed
Opposing the one, their ransom, his seed.
False food disguised as noble inflections.
The truth shrouded from all inspections
With frivolity from who need pay heed.
To words of the one, through him that did bleed
As payment for the herd’s imperfections.
Not for them but for him, the one, the all,
For their actions would tarnish his clean name
Should his creation lay under a pall,
His perfection it would only defame.
When he takes a stand, upon him they call
It is written he’ll win the wicked game.
For many chasing jenny, a short shrift
For lack of atonement for losing tone,
Their restitution shan’t come from that throne.
Their heart’s reticence sends love far adrift.
Truth can mend Lucifer’s damage, the rift
In their hearts instilled by stealth from day one.
To hear the word, the onus is their own.
To hear the truth is to receive its gift.
With wisdom, utilise our time we must.
Escape the herd in their binary trudge.
Basing beliefs on knowledge we can trust
They know to do but continue the drudge.
Heads hung with disgust they’ll return to dust
To dust, they he will adjudge.
The canvas currently clean as satin,
Upon which, with their freedom, they may paint
That which their hearts desire, but not to taint
Or tarnish the words before that Latin.
A bastardisation was that Latin,
Wringing and wrangling till the truth grew faint.
Questions unasked as questioner’s constraint
Set in motion the persistent pattern.
Little with distance between are those eyes
Open and receptive to deviate.
Blindly open and blinkered by the lies
For their daily drudge down the wide road, fate.
No hope for what awaits beyond the fires
When they see will it all be but too late?
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
its okay
its okay
and maybe the words i speak
seem so appalling
i can only look at you
without blinking
it feels weird now
since im used to
flanking you
preventing excursions
now i rush towards the center
and take my cap off
for security inspections
you go the other way
i punch the card
ride the train
clenched fists
a faint hint of shaking
its okay
its okay
i was seriously thinking of
falling off of that footbridge
reflections of buildings glaring
but i continue to walk
all the while scratching my arms;
baseline for replicants
im way off the mark
there's a bit of sobbing
near-tear ordeals
god, its like im being crushed
on an everyday basis
i wish it could stop
but its okay
its okay
im meant to be this way
unhinged and mute
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC