"isms" poems
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
A true semantic literary meaning
awakening to curate
my being
or throw away it all and question
the delivery of
the ics and isms
determining not by me but by the reader
what is true
like Montague
proposing a new system
I propose a meaningful regimen,
one where words are either felt
, make me halt and listen,
to what they truly meant.
Or they don't.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Bravery
I thought I was brave
with the scars to prove it.
My legacy -
broken bones, split knuckles,
black eyes and loose teeth.
Adulation and respect.
I fought both man and isms
Never backed down.
But a black man, driving
an Uber taught me the truth of
true bravery.
Harassed, insulted, threatened by
a low-life passenger,
white racism covered in a cheap suit and tie,
he refused to take the bait.
He denied himself the pleasure of
justified violence.
He told me his story -
and anger for him, righteous indignation,
crashed over me in furious waves.
I admonished him for not
confronting that mans ignorance
with a closed and determined fist.
Never back down, right?
Gently, he spoke the truth of
black men in America.
His eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror.
You, he said, are innocent until proven guilty.
Protected by a system that
oppresses me.
I am guilty - period - and would be lucky
to be arrested, not killed,
in a confrontation with that bigot.
So he did nothing, let the swine in a tie
off at his destination,
and drove on - leaving that pig to
wallow in his hate.
His bravery earned him nothing.
No adulation. No respect. No recognition.
Nothing except another day of life.
Another day with his family.
In contrast - my lifetime of bravery.
A pale reflection, when set beside his truth.
He was brave, not I.
My self-styled bravery, forever
tainted
by my privilege.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
he
him, miralo
he has nothing special
he gets lost among crowds
she
her, mirala
she swears we're beyond racism
sexism, citizenism, heterosexism
classism,
and many other isms
they have something in common...
they think they're free
which is very different to
they think (therefore) they're free
because indoctrination has infected their thoughts
they call themselves patriots as they proudly wear the american flag
on small pins
they even have a yellow "support our troops" sticker on their bumper
i'm telling you
she thinks she's free:
mrs. successful latina
"embraced" by america's corporate world
she "broke through" the glass ceiling
(then sealed it again)
no... other latinas would be too much of a competition
they need to have their own merits
have it as hard as she had it
she feels good about being tokenized
she's glad that "America" gave her such opportunities
"Why her?" out of so many others
she's so lucky
so why bother
**** the rest
as long as "she's free"
He thinks he's free:
"What's with this feminist ******** he says
he raises his fist
but not in an empowering way
instead
he threatens to land it on a woman's face
"that's what she gets
for trying to be a man"
They think they're free
"we're over homophobia
they're just isolated cases of intolerance..."
"i mean as long as you go about your business
and don't bother no body
i mean
don't preach it to everyone
don't show it
don't say it
you're free to be who you are
but just hide it...
why do you want to get married?
it doesn't make sense
i mean it might only be a phase..."
we think we're free
"we do the jobs no body else wants
this is not our country you know,
we need to follow the rules,
be good citizens,
don't ask for too much,
make sure we don't make them uncomfortable,
keep the status quo,
stop...they're starring...
we should wait...
let them set the rules"
today:
they think they're free
but one day
they'll think
and therefore
they will be truly free...
xtp
los angeles, march 3 2008
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
East...and west, are we?
north, and south?.....maybe...
we were nurtured with love,
our eyes and our minds opened
to different isms that helped shape our
values...we were brought up, bearing our
folks' customs, traditions and principles...
we have different faiths...some practice...some
don't...some, don't even subscribe, yet, survive.
we have dry and monsoon season...in
other parts, pleasant weather, cold winds,
and in some parts, snow.....turning to ice
we are a mix of white skin, seeking for a tan,
and brown-skin, hiding from the sun;
one's night, is the other's day,
there are surfers among us, playing with the waves,
there at the cusp...gambling...daring fate...
there are those who hide from silent freezing winters,
finding warmth and comfort in long hot summers...
countless points of comparison,
yet, we've something beautiful in common,
a connection of feelings, of words...our poetry,
flowing like blood, through our veins...endlessly
feeding, fueling our hearts and minds, with classy,
themes....sometimes bold, mushy, or....sassy...
no set skeds...we do it even through adversity...
we write......
we tell about our escape from life's banalities,
mindscapes, landscapes immersed in frivolities
yet, we await the marvels of each morning we wake,
remembering gratitude, in every breath we take...
years have passed us by,
still, plays this soft music that mollifies
and inspires......heard only by you and i
prodding us, through hours, of day or night
while you exist in your own part of the world,
as i, in my hot, humid cosmos, long for cold.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May, 19, 2019
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
The deterioration of society,
Commonly serves as writing material;
Hell, even I could write about changes
That have lessened our souls.
But I also appreciate the changes
That have bettered us as a collective people;
I dream of collaboration between church-goers,
And those that turn from the steeple.
We've evolved to a new level of acceptance,
And equality that was unknown;
Yes, the "isms" still exist,
But in a much softer tone.
Gender roles wreak havoc,
And some feel elite.
But we've inched closer to equality,
And those roles we will defeat.
I have so much hope for this generation,
The kids that have been raised with new eyes;
We possess views that our ancestors
Would abhor and despise.
Unity and inclusion,
Love and tolerance;
I will preach these things,
Until there is a balance.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you?
My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know.
There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism.
It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse.
What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors.
Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism.
And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates, my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism.
So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
The old man said to me "son, timing is key"
I said, "old dude you look like a man who heard about rythym".
Old felines like you come a dime for a dozen, always poppin of yang about isms and schisms .
Naw fresh meat. This buds for you, If I really knew then what I thought that I knew
I wouldn't be grading your papers with exes and checks but I see in your eyes that your vision is short.
You think you hot **** but aint all that smart.
FYI pops I think that you reading me wrong.
You cant see my dimensions nor fade my intentions.
So you think they broke the mold. you have this thing down cold.
This has never been done before you.
Here ,wipe your nose.
Hey Senor senior if your so informed,then please pass along a few high value pearls.
How bout the one telling about what women want cause you really cleaned up in
the female department .
The old man just smiled and said "pearls before swine.
Just drop a few breadcrumbs to find your way back".
Off is the direction I want you to truck he said.
Don't forget Wonder is the best kind of bread he said
You must be slow or just light in the head he said.
Yeah, whatever.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
I woke up thinking about this.
A Thought About Loyalty
I’ve been thinking about loyalty:
A many-sided world of nuances,
The subtle differences.
We all know it means faithfulness,
A sticking-to devotedly.
Unfurled it shows its nasty sides,
The negatives that worry me:
Allegiance and adherence -
-Ism’s steel prepared to go to war
Against all criticizers,
-Isms’ others
Carving up the brotherhood
Of man.
Not for nothing
That a missile system drawn
To sense and intercept an enemy:
Is named the Patriot:
A system to annihilate.
I worry ‘bout obedience,
Compliance and submissiveness.
I like reliability, dependability,
Dedication if it’s not perverted
Duty, if it leads to thought,
A moral sense,
An ethic that agrees with life;
Loyalty without the strife.
Loyalty to think about.
A Thought About Loyalty 9.10.2017
Nature In & Of Reality; Out Times, Out Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
An art movement is a tendency or style in art
with a specific common philosophy or goal,
followed by a group of artists during a restricted
period of time, usually a few months, years
or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the
movement defined within a number of years.
Art movements were especially important in
modern art, when each consecutive movement
was considered as a new avant-garde;
According to theories associated with modernism
and the concept of postmodernism, art movements
are especially important during the period of time
corresponding to modern art. The period of time
called "modern art" is posited to have changed
approximately halfway through the 20th century
and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art.
Postmodernism in visual art begins
and functions as a parallel to late modernism
and refers to that period after the "modern" period
called contemporary art. The postmodern period
began during late modernism, which is a contemporary
continuation of modernism; and according
to some theorists postmodernism
ended in the 21st century. During the period of time
corresponding to "modern art"
each consecutive movement
was often considered a new avant-garde.
Also during the period of time referred to as "modern art"
each movement was seen corresponding
to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it,
concerning the visual arts. Generally
there was a commonality of visual style
linking the works and artists
included in an art movement. Verbal expression
and explanation of movements has come
from the artists themselves,
sometimes in the form of an art manifesto,
and sometimes from art critics
and others who may explain
their understanding of the meaning of the new art
then being produced;
In the visual arts, many artists, theorists, art critics,
art collectors, art dealers and others mindful
of the unbroken continuation of modernism
and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era,
ascribe to and welcome new philosophies
of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists
posit that the idea of art movements
are no longer as applicable, or no longer as discernible,
as the notion of art movements
had been before the postmodern era.
There are many theorists however
who doubt as to whether or not such an era
was actually a fact;
or just a passing fad.
The term refers to tendencies in visual art,
novel ideas and architecture,
and sometimes literature. In music it is more common
to speak about genres and styles instead.
See also cultural movement, a term
with a broader connotation.
As the names of many art movements
use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism,
they are sometimes referred to as isms
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
On good nights, I like to send messages to space, outer
or deeper though direction and dimension are lost on me.
I get answers but no translations, no key or stone to this alien
and spacy thought. What? You say you bet you could
rephrase space in a language even I could understand? After all
you passed algebra, walked around school a big shot, finding X
or its equals. I should have paid attention, but mine was fixed
on Linda, Lucinda, Corinna, Corinna where you been so long?
I might have learned the meaning of words from long forgotten
gods, frustrated issuing commandments, ok in their day, but
ignored now, passé. I was absent for those god talks, apocalypse-isms,
missed out on saints with half-moon halos and beatific visions.
I heard only rumors of women, words like smitten, enchanted,
obsessed with love like striated bark on trees, canals on Mars,
rain and that sound that creeps under sod. And so I wait
for an unambiguous, intelligible answer from anyone in space.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
~
*prelude.
did you know that English stands alone as a written language requiring the capitalization of the word "I"... yet makes no similar provision for “we” or “us; a sad statement of self inflation. it was after learning this that i abandoned the rule in my own poetry.*
~
my i’s averted,
lowered, diverted,
reduced in size,
an exercise of
large proportions;
breaking down the me-isms,
finding room for we-isms,
to take the larger place;
create an i for seeing,
the case for simple,
smaller being;
no need to punctuate,
instead eliminate this
compulsion to inflate;
’tis my i-drop moment,
my i-reducing ointment,
these pupils are dilated,
deflating i and me,
enlarging we and thee;
finding that in i-reduction,
the eyes are widely opened,
thus to better see,
what i really need to be.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
Suddenly surreal
I feel milk upon the water
blood and slaughter
Dada
isms
watching life through coloured prisms.
and it hits me
pits me
against
the lot of them.
The squandered dreams of broken men and I lay me in the gutter dying
( next verse )
why do I even bother trying
It's just a crock, not even gold
Violent Violet sold the story and got her fifteen minutes of fame
alas no glory, but
what did she expect?
I expected just a little more from these ****** where Babylon is gushing from their lips and all I got were camels,
ships to ride across the desert which was I and of my making,
can't fake a faker and so I take you down with me.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
Dear Rosie
I wonder, what kind of black woman are you?
Because as we discussed various -isms, you refuted your womanism, you refuted racism, you refuted sexism. You are "Rosie"
Dear Rosie
I want to know where you come from. Who taught you to tear down women that look like you, that came from a black woman's womb just as you did. Where did you learn to silence us in that confused mind of yours where you said our opinions irritate you and are worthless to your education?
Dearest Rosie
Tell me how the oppressed became the oppressor. Because as I look at your dark chocolate skin I am curious what you see when you look in the mirror. A reflection of privileged whiteness? You say oppression does not matter. You asks for facts. Well, statistics show us that people that look like you are dying whether you acknowledge your blackness or not. Women like you are being silenced and underrepresented in the public sphere regardless if you take it for face value. Women like us have lost sons to officers, husbands to cells, brothers to jails.
Dear Rosie
Wake the **** up. Each time you slice our tongues from the black reality that black women may not matter as much as they do in this safe space, each time you preach of your humanist kumbaya resolution that separates us from race gender and sexuality, each time you say our opinions do not matter, they win. The system wins. Because they'll use some token like you to represent our mass majority and say "She agrees with us so all black people do too." I refuse to be represented by a peer that denounces my womanism, my feminism, my black nationalism because it's not white enough for her (black) skin.
Not inclusive enough to a white population that has excluded people like me for centuries. It is not my duty to make some ************ feel comfortable with my blackness ,to relieve them of guilt when they've perpetuated guilt on me because of my blackness.
Dear Rosie.
Don't let them win.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
At the fire on the edge of the world
To be there, without
To capture life at it's very rawest
I see so clearly
Human nature in it's lightning passage
People tell you much
With some sense of letting everything go
Isms and eons
We spoke of warmed bones and creatures
old
Entertaining thoughts
At the fire on the edge of the world
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The -isms and the -anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
The Fates are subtle girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What come of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls,
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
1.6k
not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist
humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The--isms and the--anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
The Fates are subtile girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
1.6k
I'm not religious.
I'm not even spiritual.
I'm just a cold, soft Vulcan.
The system of the down
has isolated me here
to think, which is what a Vulcan
does all the time.
It's really pointless.
It is desert, hot and cold
served in deprivation,
meditation, and
solitude.
The system has been doing
this for eons.
It's called increasing
systemic risk when stressed.
I make a cognitive chunk
for you to cogitate
over coffee.
Picture this.
Wandering Boy Scouts (BS)
in their pickup trucks,
helpful, strong,
vicious when aimless,
efficiently cruel,
mechanized abattoir makers
mass pit diggers,
merit badge takers.
Smell the BS.
It all goes into baking
gooey brownie BS,
repugnantly pungent,
and redolent of sweet
burning flesh.
Stressed, the down system
spits BS out
randomly to nucleate,
and procreate if possible.
Breeding a new Brand,
with Cult leader Classes
and all the -isms.
Visionaries with their caries;
Pushers with agendas hidden;
Leaders steadfast in conviction,
taking a nation, against
all odds, in Battling Bulges,
****** lines hidden
within clean, pleated
leather skirts
that still reveal penciled
seams up straight
shaved bare legs.
This is how the system
shakes itself; auto
****** asphyxiation.
Vulcan's never shake
the bars of their cells
because there's no barring
except Great Walls
forbidding, with a wink,
killing each other.
To be thy Greek brother's keeper,
is to cut not that brother man,
but the other brother man
down with BS fervor and S&M;
madness, before bondaging
his wounds in mummified
State, taped shut
with a healing kiss.
To have dominion
over the animals
means a bludgeoned
pleasure, or
transplanted
desire.
Dominion to exploit
blunted, unconditional,
emotional resources,
until the system
gels again, vaginally
or astrolly whole.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
origination of Satanism,
tied Buddhism to hedonism –
to bastardize the -isms.
not fitting, not where i am
supposed to be.
if Napoleon were alive this
moment, think he’d be living
the life i’ve led? prememories
causing us to be learn’d
without having ever experienced.
recurring Josephine.
(epigenetics)
to be found implant’d upon all
those slivers. beyond physical.
and Hemingway tactics:
“each line is a waste if
every line is not its own story.”
reason to state, ease up. relax,
drink up and write. all is implicit.
come back less fuck’d up, with
no more quotes, drop hyphens and
speak.
– unintelligent men will
die for their cause.
intelligent men will
live forever for their cause.
reality of once homelessness.
oh, how stark. was waiting
to lose self for a better perspective.
– if you wanna know a man,
know the world when he was twenty.
was restless for wisdom, was
starved for communion,
and my eyes again will ache.
(this time it’s just a line)
and a dog ate the last papers –
how terribly frustrating.
break. and all conversations
are destined to progress.
– don’t you know you shouldn’t
do that? it could stain the carpet.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
East...and west, are we?
north, and south?.....maybe...
we were nurtured with love,
our eyes and our minds opened
to different isms that helped shape our
values...we were brought up, bearing our
folks' customs, traditions. principles...
we have different faiths...some practice...some
don't...some, don't even subscribe, yet, survive.
we have dry and monsoon season...in
other parts, pleasant weather, cold winds,
and in some parts, snow.....turning to ice
we are a mix of white skin, seeking for a tan,
and brown-skin, hiding from the sun;
one's night, is the other's day,
there are surfers among us, playing with the waves,
there at the cusp...gambling...daring fate...
there are those who hide from silent freezing winters,
finding warmth and comfort in long hot summers...
countless points of comparison,
yet, we've something beautiful in common,
a connection of feelings, of words...our poetry,
flowing like blood, through our veins...endlessly
feeding, fueling our hearts and minds, with classy,
themes....sometimes bold, mushy, or....sassy...
no set skeds...we do it even through adversity...
we write......
we tell about our escape from life's banalities,
mindscapes, landscapes immersed in frivolities
yet, we await the marvels of each morning we wake,
remembering gratitude, in every breath we take...
years have passed us by,
still, plays this soft music that mollifies
and inspires......heard only by you and i
prodding us, through hours, of day or night
while you exist in your own part of the world,
as i, in my hot, humid cosmos, long for cold.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May, 19, 2019
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 5:49 AM UTC
Today, the renaissance continues … with any luck
The words flow
So I follow - - > The poem of life
I am in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains
In a town called Okotoks
After breakfast, I’m driving West
First across the Sheep
Past Big Rock
Then west down the number 7
And through a Black Diamond
And again, across the Sheep - - > I don’t know how that works I’m just following the path
Taking a turn at Turner Valley
And on to the 22 and into K-country
Kundalini Country, perhaps
More likely Kananaskis
A vision of a great leader to set aside place and space
For beautiful things to grow
Now down the 549 and into the heart
I’ve hiked hearts ridge
Camped there in the dead of winter once
Only thing keeping me warm was a Nalgene bottle full of tea
And the down of our feathered friends
Insulated on a bed of air
And of course a shell from the face of the north
Tonight, I sleep at Indian Graves (Campground)
Latitude: 50.2417849636
Longitude: -114.362189631
Cause it’s here that I find answers
And I bet, if the land decides to speak, shares poetry
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Now.....
When It Comes To How I Think...
I’m Just A... REALIST...
So Don’t Deal In Fallacies...
I’m Real Like... REALITY... !!!
So Reality’s What Feeds...
My Use of Poetry...
That’s Born From Big V..
Or Yes That’s Right Big Virge...
A True Word Connoisseur...
of... REALITY Verse... !!!
And Truthful Spoken Words...
That REJECTS The... Absurd...
And Unlearns What’s Been Learned...
That Makes Some Humans Turn...
Into People Who Hurt...
As If... It Is Their Work...
To Deal In What’s Fake...
Instead of What’s Real...
And Embrace Things Like Hate...
Like It’s Some Tasty Meal... ?!?
Like What Is These Folks Deal...
Are These People For Real... ?!?
You See I’m Just A REALIST...
Whose Poetic Thesis...
Believes That MORE TRUTH …
Will Be What Is Good...
For Us All To Improve...
Our Unbalanced New Groove...
Which Is Why When I Move...
I’m Aware That My Hue...
Is Too Dark For Some Crews...
So Always Stay Attuned...
For Those Quick To Hate...
Who Start To Make Claims...
That I’m In The WRONG Place...
Just Because of My Race...
Natty Hair And Dark Face... !!!
I’m Just A... REALIST...
When It Comes To Such Things...
Like Why My Writing Talents...
And... Poetic Patents...
Are Not What The Masses...
Are Talked Into Having...
By Those In The Business...
Who Claim To Want Realness...
You See I’m Just A Realist...
So Yes Do Catch Feelings...
When It Comes To Women...
And Seeing Our Children...
Taught To Use Thinking...
Logic And Visions...
To REJECT Divisions... !!!
But I’m... Just A REALIST...
Who Prefers... REALISM... !!!
And Sees That These Isms’...
And Divisive Prisons....
In Which Most Are Living...
Are Indeed UNFORGIVING... !!!
And Have Been... Since Systems...
Have Been Money Driven... !!!
Realism In View...
Like This Corona Flu...
Is Fuelling Conditions...
Mandating Positions...
For Working Transitions...
But Certain Restrictions...
Are NOT Yet Forbidden...
Like Seeing Racism...
On Our Televisions... !?!
That SHOULD BE But ISN’T... !!!
How Much Realism’s...
BEHIND These Petitions...
To Stop Racist Killings... ?!?
Well Here’s My Opinion...
And I’ll Keep It SIMPLE... !!!
If Governments Want...
Racism Extinguished...
When A Male Is Convicted...
of A... RACIST Act... !!!
Cut Off His Nut Sack...
And Keep Him Imprisoned...
And For These Racist Women...
DENIAL of Children...
And NO CONTACT With Them...
And NO BAIL Conditions...
Just LIFE In A Prison...
Where Blacks Are In Vision... !!!
Then Racists Might DIE QUICK...
Or Might Just Start To QUIT...
Acting Like Foolish Kids... !?!
So You See How I Think...
Deals In Being HONEST...
NOT Resorting To Tricks...
Nonsense Or Falseness... !!!
My Poetic Scripts...
And Lyrical Twists...
Simply Represent THIS...
When It Comes To Our Lives...
And How We... Co-Exist...
... “ I’m Just A Realist “...
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 10:16 PM UTC