"lectured" poems
They said
Don’t wear leggings
Or a shirt that shows your cleavage
Because you need to be covered up
You’re a distraction
They said
Don’t use your period as an excuse
For male teachers to let you go to the bathroom
Because you’re not fooling anybody
They said
Don’t shave your head
Boys can
You can’t and don’t
And won’t because we’ll suspend you
They said
Watch the length of your skirt
The colour of your hair
The shoes and makeup
The piercings
And they call that fair
They said
Come to us if something is wrong
if you’re feeling bullied
if you feel unsafe
I guess they don’t remember asking my friend and I
if we heard of anyone in our year with suicidal tendencies
They asked us because
We were the sensible ones
The bright ones
We couldn't have been depressed.
I guess they didn’t see my panic
and my hand squeezing my wrist.
Because school
Is not a place
Where you can express who you are
School is not the place where you feel safe
It's a battle ground on the outside of your comfort zone.
School isn’t about education
Its a challenge, competition
Its a measurement of your capabilities
But what if you don't excel?
You’re called out for not being good enough
You're humiliated. Mocked.
You get looked down on
Judged
Embarrassed
And you don’t get your
Degree
As if a degree explains who you are
What you’ve been through
How much you’re worth
As if a degree
Measures the capacity
Of your heart
And your knowledge
And a teacher can share your grade
Make a joke and smirk
Cause they think you’re not worth it
And they can laugh and yell and call your parents
Who don’t think you’re any better.
Because year after year they’ve been led to believe
that you’re easily distracted
that you don’t do what you’re told
that you’re rebellious
Because even if you showed respect to the hypocrisy
That you can't help but notice,
They still won’t understand that you're just fighting
for what you believe is right, for mutual respect.
Because that’s not what you were thought.
You were thought to raise your hand when you want to speak.
And even if you made a valid point
You would still get lectured on putting your hand up when you want to speak.
Discipline put first.
And that is my definition of school
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
Don't worry, I won't tell her about you.
Don't worry, her first word will always be "Mama".
Don't worry, I won't tell her about your deep love for strawberry milkshakes.
Though, she refuses to have milk in everything but strawberry shakes.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her how good you were at volleyball,
I would tell her its a good sport to play.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her science fictions are great,
I ask her to just give any of them from the shelf, a read.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her that she can't bunk classes.
Because she is allowed to but, also read her textbooks later.
Though, she doesn't know how pridefully your attendance used to drop, then.
Don't worry, I won't bother not going to movies with her and yeah, she can choose them,
alternatively.
Don't worry, I won't bother her to grow up.
She can always have brownies and chocolate ice cream in the middle of the night.
Though, she doesn't know how you used to be lectured for doing the same.
Don't worry, I won't bother asking her to learn singing,
she loves Jazz dancing.
Though you never stopped moving your feet, to those Irish beats.
Don't worry, I won't bother saying how blowing bubbles and balloons were your favorite pass time.
It's her 16th birthday and all she wants is the party hall to be crowded with red and white balloons.
Don't worry, I won't bother telling her that black is the color.
I tell her that she can always wear black to dates and sometimes, they work out really well.
Don't worry, I won't bother asking her to give me a call
every once in a while.
Because she loves writing letters and mailing them to me.
Little does she know, about your handwritten notes that still hold a place in my diary.
Don't worry, I won't question her choices.
But, will for sure forbid her from falling for a man like you,
who will soon fall for someone new.
Oh did I forget to tell you, she writes too.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 7:59 AM UTC
When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
3.8k
Roses are red, violets are blue
A dinner you promised, just me and you.
Reproving winds lectured me in bites
For my barely-there skirt, and lustful eyes.
Sour cream lathered that oily exterior.
The aftertaste lingered, creating a barrier
Of which soft lips could not break through
Nor embellished flowers or chocolate fondue.
With our stomachs full, with more than just food
You brought me back home with beer-stained shoes.
My mind a fog. The Lamb now waits to be skinned
For the Wolf that set the ****** trap to finally begin.
Virginal blush, tinged with her bruises all blue
A dinner you had promised, just me and you.
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 3:39 AM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
I once got lectured by a personal with an std I think that's the last person who should be giving *** advice.
This couple asked me for relationship advice and I'm single what would I know.
The last time I went on a date this girl made me take her out I thought you asked the girl out.
My last girlfriend didn't understand its over maybe she thought I mean I was over being alone
I told my friend I don't drink he offered me a beer.
This girl told me she liked me and got a boyfriend a week later.
Called a girl the wrong name and she never called me again
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
I'm cold
I mean that literally.
Figuratively, I'm growing cold.
I'm staring at this Christmas tree.
Christmas tree
O,
Christmas tree.
I ******* hate you Christmas tree
It reminds me that I'm from a broken home.
Chances are pretty high I'll spend Christmas alone.
My brother and sisters area state away in a house of their own.
With their mother
With their step father.
My mother will be flying around the world again.
Not that I want to spend this ****** holiday with her.
I don't hate her
I'd just rather not spend a day I'm going to be at the peak of my depression being lectured.
My dad, I don't know what he's going to be up to.
I'll see my fiancé when I can.
She promised that she'd spend Christmas Eve with her and that implied Christmas Day.
I was promptly told I was to be excluded from this.
I'm probably going to drink.
I'm so broken around this time of year.
Because when you spend your least favorite holiday alone while everyone you know is living life with "Christmas cheer" it makes you want to be dead. What's the point in family holidays when you don't have a family to share it with.
Bottoms up
Happy holidays.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
To you it was always about
how beautiful I find your soul
how much love I give to it
it was always about
how I expressed love
in all the different ways
how much I cared about
the nights you cried
or the days you were happy
how I pampered you
or how I lectured you
it was all about how much
you could take without overflowing
and how much I could give
Love was a one way road for you
a road that didn't bend or curve
where going the other way
was a wrong way
a road with no stop signs
or signals
It was never about
how much love
you could give me back
or how sometimes
you could care about the nights
that were too dark for me
or how some days were just too bright
It was never about
how desirable I was
or how you could show me love
instead of speaking words that were lies
to you
it was about you
and so was it to me
I was finding ways to love you
you were finding more men
who would love you as I did
or ways to love yourself a little more
Love was a one way road
that went your way
and never turned back
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
*There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.*
No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.
Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.
The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....
whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.
There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.
I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...
good luck.....
have fun.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
In Rājagaha the Well-Farer lectured
On wisdom, concentration, morality…
The monks listened, devoutly, calmly,
To the message replete with practicality.
On to Ambaliṭṭikā they journeyed,
To Nālandā and Pāṭaligāma as well.
The Buddha continued to spread the Dhamma--
Or teachings--at which he was known to excel.
After passing over the Ganges,
To Koṭigāma they made their way.
The Buddha repeated the Four Noble Truths
That still guide many people today.
At Nādikā the Teacher referred to the Mirror
Of Dhamma and said to always begin
By looking first at yourself to discover
The truth that lies deep within.
On to Vesālī the ascetics wandered,
Where their Master continued to share
The power and value of mindful living--
The importance of being clearly aware.
During the rains the Awakened One rested
In Beluva, where he postponed his trek.
While staying there he grew ill, but he knew
It was NOT his time, so it kept it in check.
"Live as islands," he said to Ānanda,
"With truth as a refuge. And grasp not, for I
Have always told you that all things dear to us--
Whatever is born--eventually will die."
After the rains, the group traveled
To the Great Forest--to the Gabled Hall,
And the Buddha repeated the Eightfold Path--
A message of wisdom pertaining to all.
Bhoganagara was their next stop,
And then to Pāvā the wayfarers did go.
Their host, Cunda, served "pig's delight."
The Buddha grew ill. Why? We don't know.
Despite his illness, he continued
To Kusinārā and lay down to rest.
Music sounded and flowers fell
From the sky to honor the One-Who-Is-Blessed.
"The Dhamma will now be your teacher.
Strive on untiringly. My time has passed."
After entering deep concentration
The Great One died. Those words were his last.
Thunder sounded and the ground shook--
As it does when any great teacher "goes to sleep."
The Buddha is Dhamma; the Dhamma is the Buddha.
Because of that there's no reason to weep.
The compassionate Buddha's Teachings have spread
For over two thousand five hundred years.
His Message of living in wisdom and compassion
And loving mindfulness perseveres.
- by Bob B
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
Hank’s mother lectured
Him on the objectification
Of women. Never objectify
Women as ****** objects,
She’d say emphasizing each
Word with a slap to the back
Of his head, (he hadn’t seen
Women as such up until then,
Being only ten), women, she
Added, her dark eyes boring
Into his, are not there for men
To paw over with their eyes
Or hands of any other part
Of their anatomy, poking Hank
In the chest. Yet, when he later
Considered her words, he recalled
That she and that Mrs Baldof were
Always leering over that Jack
Hynde, saying, look at those biceps,
Wouldn’t mind those arms about
Me, imagine those muscles rippling
Over you and they’d laugh and
Giggle like a couple of schoolgirls
Being tickled, and although his
Mother was dead now and his
Father brain drained in some
New York hospital ward, he did
Try not to objectify women as
****** objects, did try to see
Them just as human beings, but
It was pretty hard when a nice
*** went by or a pairs of *******
Casually caught his eyes, going
Down the subway stairs for a train,
Bouncing there like punch bags
In a boxing gym or a slim figure
Came into view as he stood by
The window looking at the late
Afternoon sun, puffing a smoke,
Listening to jazz, a bottle of beer
In his hand, but he did try, and his
Mother’s words were still there,
The echo of them and the slap of
Flesh on flesh still vibrated inside
His head, despite the passing of time
With the clock’s tick-tock and him
Still turning his head and old eyes,
Watching a pretty woman going by,
In a tight fitting, breast hugging,
*** clinging, short shock frock.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
I get ****** into expectations
I'm 25 but can't tell you what faith is.
I shut down when I think about saying no,
I guess I still care about what my family knows.
I'm 25 but 12 inside,
I don't know myself and tend to hide.
I have taxes, bills, a dog; my own life
But I'm still the girl who escapes online
I hate to hear their judgements; their insights
I try to connect through words
But say the wrong things,
and get lectured through sighs.
I don't know what I'm doing wrong,
I've tried and tried to find the cause,
I'm so frustrated, but go in circles
I keep looking for our bond.
What I really want is to disappear
Shut my eyes to the relief of tears.
To wake up as strums in the air,
To be a part of my own song.
Oct 25, 2023
Oct 25, 2023 at 9:23 PM UTC
it wasn't as though he shoulda seen it coming
(God knows he muddled through that one well enough)
and it wasn't as though he thought it in the bag
(the whole **** thing had always seemed ****** daunting)
but these now recurring tasks
and pop-up commitments
were wavering him
*a great big pain the ***
burdensome, machine like
lacking, of any particular meaning
now there was that element of perseverance
that he had read and lectured on (oh, how he had lectured on and on!)
but he was not fully accustomed
(having flown on a wing and a prayer)
to the shattered routines
and fallen plans
obligatory iterations
and post-mortem like sessions
(seemed easier to stack em up, and
shelve em in a somewhat manageable way)
but a rhythm evolved
in simple momentum, and truth
new plateaus, and revelations
transformative unfoldings
and cosmic events
(which appeared as gifts from above)
and they paved a path to growth
eyes opened, to the wonders of the world!
a grounding in an earthly connection
narratives reclaimed
adjustments made
faith, and fellowship
first steps, compromise
and gratitude
filling the center stage
(in kaleidoscope colour!)
in this glorious
and ever evolving
play of life
~
was it worth it old friend?
*you bet your *** it was!
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 10:52 AM UTC
All my life I've been lectured to stay away from the dangerous things in life.
Stray animals, unknown substances, drugs, alcohol, and the things in between.
But no one ever warned me about the dangers of falling in love.
The way it resembles all the listed dangers.
Oh how love can wound my heart as if it has clawed it bit by bit.
Oh how love is so world known yet so strange and confusing.
Oh how love takes me to the highest clouds with addiction being the aftermath.
Oh how love can make me fumble, release my secrets, and bring me a pounding ache the morning after.
But no one ever warned me about the dangers of falling in love.
Maybe because love in all reality is far worse than any spiked drink.
Worse than a pill that drives me insane.
Worse than being mauled by sharp teeth and claws.
Love is more of a carcinogen.
Flowing through my bloodstream, unwanted, hurtful.
A substance I can't remove, despite the many attempts.
Love is far too dangerous for one to speak of.
Love is something so dangerous we refuse to accept it as an actual threat.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.
Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.
Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.
Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.
Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.
Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.
Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.
Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.
The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.
Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.
Its lovely here.
Laughing in the lashes.
Signing my entrapment's.
Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.
Sometimes
It just feels right to be alive.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
I'm sick and tired of catching flak for other people's actions.
Just because I'm timid doesn't mean I have more power over other people,
it only signifies a level of discipline attained within myself.
I am tired of being lectured on behalf of others and their indiscretions;
they are not my mistakes to reconcile.
I am tired of being a middleman for the melodrama
of my fellow spoiled Americans.
I've tried to mitigate, but it only agitates both sides
so I say **** it. They're your issues now."
I hope you made good use of my efforts,
because now they shall no longer be imparted in this regard.
My patience has been abused and worn thin;
not just by others, but also by myself.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
The small dinner party had gone
Off well, Hazel thinks, sitting at
The dressing table, gazing at herself
In the mirror, seeing her hair done
Up just so, the way her maid, Dunne
Painstakingly did it for her. She begins
To unpin her hair, placing the pins in
The small glass dish, her fingers unused
To the task. Dunne is down in the kitchen
With the temporary cook, helping to clear
Up, tidy things away as is her want, her
Tidiness part of her character. She sits her
Hair unpinned, staring at her features,
At her eyes, the mouth slightly open, the
Teeth even and white. In the mirror she
Can see the made up bed, the covers
Turned down, the china hot water bottle
She knows just under the covers, put there
By Dunne. She’ll be there soon, Dunne,
Her maid, her lover, ********** her and
Herself. She has her own room and bed
Up in the attic, but she seldom uses it unless
Guests are there over night or are staying
For a few days. Tonight she will be here,
Hazel muses, rubbing a tongue licked finger
Over her brow, and they will snuggle down
And talk of their day and then make love,
Then sleep. Since her father’s death and the
Truth of his deeds and what he made Dunne
Do and the forced *** she feels a mixture
Of anger and grief mixed into a compound
That makes her tired and confused. She waits.
She wants Dunne there, wants her fingers
To undo her zips and buttons, brush her hair,
Feeling the fingers on her skin, in her hair.
She wants to feel Dunne’s lips on hers, needs
Dunne’s fingers moving over her body, wants
To know each aspect of her maid’s body. In
Her mind she can sense the feel, remember
The point of high sensation, as if her whole
Body was taken to the limits of exhilaration
Of passion, as if she might explode and all her
Being be scattered into ***** of sensuality.
She can’t find the exact words to express it.
She sits and waits, waits sitting, breathes
In, breathe out. Dinner had gone very well.
The evening guests talked of this and that,
Had their laughs and jokes. Mr Phibuster
Had lectured to her on the economy, how
Some upstart in Germany was stirring up
Trouble. She couldn’t have cared less. Her
Eyes kept going to Dunne, watching her
Coming and going with dishes and glasses.
She sits up straight, Dunne is coming, she
Hears her footstep in the passage, her voice,
Some Mozart aria is tunefully humming.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
*it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.*
revision of Enya: **** away **** away,
against the wind against the wind;
mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end
Loud Don... bonkers bunch...
now that is random,
i wanted to make a serious point,
and i will (insert snigger)... eventually.
what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of
von Kleist against Kant...
Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe,
i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously
and lectured on his poetry,
von Kleist committed suicide out of despair
having read Kant's critique...
but what i want to do:
to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and
then use each technique to describe it's origin...
so for example metaphor... given that poetry is
ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v.
series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas
Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII,
and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing
poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall
Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because
she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm
sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian
conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne)
and that offended the king...
so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword
was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking
at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta,
who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk
heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched
to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also
cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz
with fire and sword - the sword
that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)...
so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman
is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean
death?', 'only if she doesn't move',
so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right
ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there
and then with great stealth moves in the other
direction and cuts her head off from the left...
so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō,
an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done:
nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh...
no... you need to drop the anchor:
poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
You come seeking truth, yet retreat unsatisfied when silence is offered to you.
Words or no words; speech or no speech; would thou be satisfied if you were lectured for a thousand years?
Sentences give way to punctuation; speech gives way to silence.
Those who do not pause for breath, know not of what they speak.
Speak, but do not lecture,
Listen, but do not be absorbed,
Master the senses, but do not forget,
That there is no more contained in speech,
Than the silence that gives rise to it.
*Only after I had absorbed generations of wisdom from near and far, past and present, did I realise the joke that those minds were playing.
Only after this, do I realise I am no more than the paper on which they wrote, and their words contained no more meaning, than the meaning contained within a blade of grass, or the song of a bird on an autumn morning.*
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.
Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.
Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.
Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.
Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.
Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.
Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.
Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.
The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.
Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.
Its lovely here.
Laughing in the lashes.
Signing my entrapment's.
Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.
Sometimes
It just feels right to be alive.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
i am angry
they told me who i'm supposed to be
i am not who they wanted in their world.
i am anything but pure
i am anything but sweet.
i am your worst nightmare.
my hands numb,
my legs shaking, toes tapping,
you asked me what i wanted to be.
well what the hell, i haven't the slightest,
i've never really thought about
the person i wanted to become.
"someone everyone loves"
but what does that ever accomplish?
what if no one ever learns to love me the
way that they're supposed to?
but how is anyone supposed to love me anyway.
what if i'm already doomed?
I'm already in the mix, i'm already set up to fail.
so then, you ask me; "who are you?"
silence.
in the spur of the moment,
my eyes widened.
i reminisce of every time i thought
i was doing something because it was me.
i think of every single time you lectured me,
asking what i was doing with myself.
i think of the times my parents were disappointed,
and all of the people I've let down.
I thought they'd hate me, but they didn't even care.
no one ever really gave a crap what i did,
but I, all too much of their actions.
and for what? look where it landed me.
I'm so upset with myself.
I'm supposed to know these things.
I'm supposed to know who i am.
I'm supposed to know what this body contains,
I'm supposed to know what my heart can give,
and what my mind believes in.
but i just don't.
at least not now.
who was i when i popped those pills,
willingly broke through my skin to feel the pain.
who was i on New Years 13 shots in,
kissing that cute boy who's name escapes me.
who was i when my parents divorced,
who was i when i no longer had a family.
when i got my license, or graduated high school.
who was i when you looked me in the eyes and told
me you loved the girl i used to be.
who is the girl i used to be?
if this is the coming of the storm, then someone tell me,
because here i am, 19 years into my life
not knowing one single thing about myself.
not knowing what to feel,
only because at this very moment, i have to think.
i have to give definition to myself
when before, it all rolled off my tongue,
like i read my fate on a gum wrapper.
you never did notice my shaking legs, or my pale face.
you never did see right through me. oh this is easy to fake.
i put my hands together and said "i am myself"
although i had no idea who that is.
but i know i am angry,
i am not pure,
i am not sweet.
i sure as hell am not "myself",
whoever that may be.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
I watched him grow…
From a child into a man.
I helped him where I could…
Still do, when I can.
I was there for his first steps…
Before that, he learned to crawl.
I helped him learn to stand…
and to bounce back up when he would fall.
I gave him my advice…
He ignored it now and then.
I lectured him on values…
Of virtue and of sin.
I believed he could do anything…
If he chose it to be so.
In him, I had no doubt…
Of the places he could go.
And now the time has come…
I must release my grasp.
On the boy I cherish so dearly…
And memories of the past.
He saw me watching him…
As he grew from boy to man.
And those times that I was in need,
He always had my hand.
He watched me stumble,
And after that, he saw me fall.
He taught me to stand again…
and did not judge at all.
He listened to my words…
When I had words to give.
I taught him to be wise…
He taught me how to live.
I believed he could do anything…
And he did make it so.
But now I must teach myself…
How to let him go.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
"What have I said
about rudeness
and disrespect?"
the nun said.
Anne stood by the table
in the nun's small office
gazing at the crucifix
above the nun's head.
"What rudeness?"
Anne said.
Benny stood by the door
gazing at the nun
who stood firm faced
and stiff
as an ironing board.
"Your rudeness
to the other children
and some of the nuns"
the nun said.
"I don't recall rudeness,"
Anne replied,
"do you recall rudeness,
Benny?"
Benny looked at her.
"Can't recall,"
he uttered.
The nun sighed:
"Let me remind you:
two children witnessed
your rudeness
to Sister James,
for instance."
Anne moved away
from the table
on her crutches.
"All I said was
she resembled
a toad."
Benny looked away,
trying not to laugh.
The nun did not smile.
"Unacceptable behaviour,"
she said.
She looked at the girl
standing between crutches.
"If I hear of any
more rudeness,
I will consider
having you
sent to another
nursing home."
The nun stopped.
"Can I sit?
My leg stump aches,"
Anne said.
Benny carried a chair
for her to sit
and she sat.
The nun said
nothing at that,
but carried on
her lecture
of lists of rudeness
on and on.
Benny stood
behind the chair
and stared
at the darkness
of Anne's hair.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC