"machinations" poems
The greeting is the same
the minutia is the difference
Point A and Point B
are always constant
Like a craftsman with
his toolkit and techniques
nothing is out of sync
with expectations
It's not a game any longer
it has become a chore
motions to go through.
Ten minutes in....
You....you threw in a wrench
into my machinations of
dialogue and movement.
You....you don't bore me.
It's a game once again,
and we both intend to win.
Let's play
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
You slowly walk down the avenue of normality
Ignoring the side streets and oddly placed alleys
Change, you feel, is strange and unnerving
You stay straight and narrow, no veering or swerving
You look at us weirdos and our strange machinations
you speed up your pace with much trepidation
You're so busy keeping to the road that's more traveled
that you are completely unaware that it's turning to gravel
You're walking alone, and the road has all but decayed
the streets that you passed up, now bustling highways
Your fear of the odd and peculiar, the offbeat uncommon
has led you to become alone, forlorn, and unwanted
Everyone's different
Everyone's weird
Everyone has secrets that no one will hear
You wanted to be normal, and normal you are
now you're a minority, among the bizarre
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
All that we know maybe distorted
Or a methodical manipulation
Where truth is obfuscated by few
Which spreads like an epidemic
Words used with vested interest
For us to play a role given to us
Memorizing the scripts, to deliver
Speeches with someone else’s ideas
Thoughts and feelings engineered
To suit the machinations of few
With sinister ideas to play with the mind
A conscious and intelligent manipulation
Bereft of the tools of our own judgment
Our perception is not even ours
For the mind has been violated
With the scheming and methodical manipulations
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Sequacious demonstrative mongrel fantastication
Overt fantasias and monstrance clarification
Rhetorical rote of empirical justification
Whimsical enervations elicit ramification
Incite legendary fables of rectification
Tempestuous mendacious erudite personifications
Endemic epistemological semantics of edification
Evocative illuminism engenders mortification
Judicious spontaneous phantasms of gratification
Numinous salutatory statutes of ratification
Heuristic existentializing empiricisms alleviate confusion
Adamant machismo machinations eliminate delusion
Eulogizing enigma entity’s illustrious illusion
Torridly allusive revelries of reverie effusion
Educing morose maniacal moribundity’s inclusion
Epitomizing empathetic revulsions to corroborate elusion
Probitous erudite solicitations evade contusion
Raunchy riotous accoutrements appreciate exclusion
Optimizing subjunctively torpid recalcitrant collusion
Scenario syntactics of mythically epic allusion
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Disheveled, staggering
Consternation
The debate surreal
The participation
Is optional but I decide
To talk to the man
To hear inside
What do you think
of manipulation?
What causes these
machinations?
Lies to force and to control...
I must admit
He was on a roll
And then the same day
In the eve
With a woman
About to leave
She talks about
This very thing
Same behavior
With a different ring
And then I came
To realize
It can't be hid
Nor disguised
Both fools in rags
And ladies in style
Can spot a liar
From a mile
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
I love a good debate,
[science mixed with illusion]
and this year was no exception:
the debate on the best shapes for a kite
from design implementation, inception and execution
some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue
the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo
and of course built by your own fair hand
such was the intensity of discussion it continued
with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles
drew their prize-winning geometry
with a primitive stick
in the sand
a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside
its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals
and documented film of it successfully tested and tried;
years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood
to know instinctively the difference
between the brilliance of genius
and the borderline
just plain good
If nothing else has come from this
I now
know
[so as not to lose]
K = p/q over 2
or
K = ab – sin Ø
[are the formulas to use]
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
While I don't suffer, or suffer from
Normal, eurocentrism, northern malaise,
Nor, academia, a blood disease,
I do mind manners in which doings
And not doings are done or aren't,
As it brings life and light to them,
Or it doesn't, for those most attached
To living or dying are most closely death.
This while acid rain from your closed eye
And an acre of rainforest falls each second.
Thus Earth's tears bleed for all you see is gray.
As machinations of travailing winds,
Miraging, veil, mirror narcissistic nihlistic
False-ego as self, do "..we(e),.." evince to be?
A republican chides, "put another poet
On the barbie", his idea of conservation.
Prump has had his exec. branch criminally:
Edit the official video and script of his
Helsinki news conference where tutin was asked,
"Did you help prump become president and did you
Have your gov't do the same", with tutin's answers,
"Yes I did, yes, I did..." + premeditatedly separate
Latino families at the border to torture them,
Dictate that "if they want to see their kids again
They have to sign away their rights and leave".
He just said, "don't believe what you hear, see",
Almost a quote from Orwell's '1984', in which
Is written, "this dictate of the gov't was most
Important of all, don't believe what your ears
Hear or your eyes see". Since altright universe
Invaders were installed in the Blackhouse we've
Known things will only get worse, what other
Reason could his "military parade in 11-18" be for
Except military rule, will the American daymare end?
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:13 AM UTC
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
Round the wagons,
and call on the dogs!
For there is fury in that mist,
there is malice in that fog!
Arm yourselves wisely.
Shoulder steady, breath slow,
give in to eye’s end.
Shower sky with shot,
And do so
with fatal intent.
Line, volley and rising smoke
Un-surreptitious spending of saltpeter,
leaves quiet rise
to billowing choke.
Loosen formation
Send scouts up ahead
“How many the count?”
“Report:
none dead.”
“How can this be
we took distance,
aimed well, aimed true
And still count you no heads?”
“Sir,
machinations of the mind
…maybe it was instead?”
Pleated-dress-pants
barks back his threat,
"Court martial, you!"
"March,
forward,
ahead!".
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 3:12 AM UTC
~ i am a preamble, seeking to evolve ~
~ my every emotion, thought and deed, cascades, consequence ~
~ your every touch forever impacts, in cascading consequence ~
~ we are all sacred, equal in our worth, may we each, behave so ~
~ paradoxically ~
~ our security is rooted in our acceptance, of insecurity ~
~ our cyclical attractions, and repulsions ~
~ are the forces which bind us ~
~ while i don’t understand all the motivations ~
~ or all the machinations ~
~ of the forces applied, to divide, conquer and control ~
~ i deem they are parasitic, and thus ~
~ reliant upon our cooperation, to survive ~
~ when i haven’t worked myself out in perfect coherence ~
~ i’m in no position to pass judgments upon any other ~
~ in absence of fraud, deception or manipulation ~
~ embracing sovereignty and free will ~
~ i vow ~
~ to wage peace, cooperation, creativity and love ~
~ to seize opportunity to nurture ~
~ our garden planet ~
~ as a humbled gardener ~
~ there is no spoon ~
~ it was only an illusion ~
~ there are no sheep ~
~ just tactics to divide, and distract ~
~ we are only ~
~ children and parents ~
~ friends and lovers ~
~ sisters and brothers ~
~ cosmic conscious explorers ~
~ shaping our reality ~
~ nurturing OUR Garden ~
~ namaste ~
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC
There was death and gore,
During the second world war.
Many people died in extreme violence,
Killed before they could call out to loved ones.
Young men were trained to ****
Often against their morals and will.
So when I see your 1940s weekend -
Your 'war was fun and cosy' pretence,
Your clichéd polyester and fibre glass mockery,
Aiming to re-enact a mostly imagined happy-go-lucky camaraderie -
Forgive me for not joining in,
As I happen to feel it a cardinal sin,
To idealise and romanticise a decade,
Made up of austerity, rationing and air raids.
I've read a little social history,
The 1940s were not idyllic or crime-free,
Just as now, there were heroes and villains,
Among the soldiers and civilians.
Heroism abounded but so did black marketeering,
There were brave sacrifices but also racketeering.
City-wide black-outs were a gift,
To those who would rob and grift.
Your jolly nostalgic tribute is an annual celebration,
Celebrating your own fabrication,
Of a time when the machinations of war and a crazed ideology,
Saw the near extinction of an entire ethnic minority.
I do not wish to be a party pooper,
But don't just step into the fake shoes of a fictional trooper,
Please occasionally remove your rose-tinted glasses,
To remember that beyond your nostalgic narrative of the routines of the masses,
People lived with the daily fear,
Of the likely deaths of people they held dear.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
If I could simply overcome
Possessive nouns and vowel sounds
I would not need to study ******
Heavy lies’ beheaded crowns
But you make martyrs with your charter
School exclusive service sector
To systemically condemn me
To the destitution nectar
Of the corner story ******
Potential Cinderella caged in
The statistics of the mathematic
Overdose equation
Comatose’n like a Holy Ghost
Of tranquil ranking party skanks
Whose tanks plan out the projects
For the boys still shootin’ blanks
And then the slavers liberate
Some nation-state of god forsaken
Oil barons salivate
To taste the poison Apple’s stake in
Stock in stuffer markets takin’
All the products people makin’
Privatizing profit-docket lawless
Mother Nature rapin’
For some scarcity disparities
In wealth I can’t attain
You keep me feeding on the bottom
From the top, you make it rain
So as the brains continue drainin’
In amenity dependency
I tinker with the inner-machinations
Now the enemy
You’ve made me out to be you see
My generation’s future’s bleaker
Than the past in full HD
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into fiendishly handsome toreadors.
I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct. Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Poetry is sometimes easy like the wind rushing
to where there is not much wind, caressing in waves,
invisible and pliant like the air, as effortless as
breathing it. Poetry is sometimes impossible,
like turning the tumbler of a lock with your fingertip,
like climbing a mountain barefoot in a blizzard
of screaming, sliding sleet, like a tearing cry
that dies into a whimper in your throat as you
realize the futility of that which you do,
the implacability of the beast you fight.
Sometimes, there are no words that can describe
the machinations and the subtle ticking of a clock
that beats in time to the human soul. Not hearing
the rhythm, you forget the music until your heart
sings again and you dance free like a young ballerina
cutting ballet. No poem is a picture that captures
the fluttering, soaring and sinking in the heart’s chambers.
You choose a word that fits, discard ten of its brothers,
yet feel surprise when your sentences have no answers
for the questions in your chest. You mourn every phrase
you have lost as you fell asleep. Knowing not
what you forgot, you move on to new questions.
You cannot miss what you’ve never felt, but you can yearn for
something you’ve forgotten. What is the difference to you
if you cannot remember the difference? The embryos of
the heart and mind are fragile. Your heart sings of a country
it cannot see anymore now that your back is turned,
you cast fishing nets behind you into the past blindly.
You remember that you have forgotten, and you forget
what bears remembering. You remember a day long past
not as the day that passed but as the memory of its passing,
yet feel surprise when years later and many forgettings hence,
it happened to someone else altogether.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Chum floats the pool
encircled by sharks and piranha
a pity, nature's fool
as fearful teeth do their work.
Could they be as bad as I?
Apex predator, Invasive species
where it means to die
as a means to live.
Growth from a spineless cherub
to a spiteful formless entity
possessing a cunning golden scarab
controlling wheels of fortune.
Slaves to our own demands
aren't we antagonists to someone else?
With machinations of wicked plans
to justify righteous intentions.
Hypocrites line the tank
tapping their fingers in rumination
Abandoning morals, faces left blank.
I am not your foil, I am a mirror.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
The machine
Has taken on
A life of it's own
It has become purpose
Without reason
Purpose alone
It is wired
With rules and regulations
Written for compliance
For blind obedience
For it's own perpetuation
The cold machinations
Have no desire
No meaning
Other than purpose
To survive and grow
And we, we are
The lubricant
Crushed between
The gnashing gears
To aid the machine
And make it
Run smoothly
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
“Sometimes love is stronger than a man’s convictions.”
– Isaac Bashevis Singer
1.
There are wars, and rumors of wars—
machineries, machinations
of singular dark days,
and clouds that hang
like props above our city.
We shut the windows,
refuse to watch their play.
Hungrily, we take refuge
between each other’s legs.
How comforting it is
to love without armies,
without tanks,
without generals of reasoned love.
---
2.
There are wars, and rumors of wars—
machineries, machinations
of singular dark days.
From the narrow street, they see us
wrestling with an angel—
the tug of limbs, the tangle of hair.
You whisper low,
your seditious talk of love—
as my callused hands get caught
in your low moaning—
while I hold you down
to the bed,
my captive.
The occupation has begun—
your occupied body,
my country of ardent prayers.
---
2.
There are wars—
machineries, machinations
of singular dark days.
The soldiers are leaving for the front.
Not us.
We stay behind,
to wage our war
of tenderness.
They leave this morning.
Applaud their sad theater—
the warships, the planes.
Soon,
letters will arrive
without them.
A few men will return—
gaunt, less than before—
with more silence,
less dancing.
And when they do,
our war will have ended
under a flag
of white bed sheets.
Only a little blood.
Victorious,
we’ll write love letters
on each other’s bodies.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 3:20 PM UTC
Strike a mark on a sun kissed shrine
Cheek bones, dance within the sand's light -
Lambent spore sprig -Rot - beneath the mine
Lay the tourniquet fused, marble eyes.
Center stark stork - wracked to atomic bliss
Forked tongue minotaur, auric troubadour -
Machinations of bellowed amethyst,
Composed the flowered Aum, raising thy *********
Arachnid's webbing - strung of turquoise beads -
By what are the viscid lines severed clean
That they convolute binaural progeny,
And lure the soul to breathe?
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
accurate matchstick chimneys
1x1x1x1 thrice loaded hill
plume crisp smirking billow
(sapphire cheek smudge)ed
colossal cog wielding minute
machinations mesh adroitly
amorphous child of hot mouthed stacks
brittle precisely under airy duress
manifest a slow d e c a y
o
f
y
o
u
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
Our Father
Woe! to these demonic determined downtrodden deceivers,
Woe! Oh Thine merciless mendicants of misery and maleficent mendacity
Woe! Oh common corrupt conniving cunning calumnious crusaders of crucifixion...
scurrilous screeds scribbling sorrows
The Lord will sharpen thou pencils...
Thou pocket protectors whilst melt into thine *******
Thou spectacles opaque and permanently smudged...with other assorted
myriad miseries
Thou mittens will be smitten with interminable degeneracy...
Oh languid leaders of licentious lubricious larceny..
Oh craving calculating copious concupiscent calumnious falsifiers...
Oh maudlin mocking manipulators, multitudinous marauding machinations
**Thy God is an angry God
a vengeful God
a jealous God**
Oh **** pots and gall! Oh sordid ****** insalubrious denizens of depraved degeneracy
Take heed thou names mightn't appear in the almighty book of life when judgement deigns an
opprobrious order of objurgation
terrible tragic tempestous tribulations of treachery
Oh Woe! Alas!
They are fallacious febrile fabricators, fallen , fragmented flawed fugacious furtive falsifiers!!
scalawags and rapscallions..rascals of ribaldry..forlorn fallen away backslidden recalcitrants…
Oh misguided miserable miscreants, maladies and agitation be thy lot!
This rant has been brought to you by:
The Most High and Holy Priest of the Ignoble Church of Alliteration & Utter Skepticisim
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Though I am bold and young at heart,
Tempered by the varied winds,
I must not forget
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine
I saw you.
The taste of lime and dim light
Fetter as I took you away from the crowd
From strangers to lovers,
We came and went,
Our fondness disheveled covers
Subtext, riddles through course encounters
I lay alone those nights and reminisced
The touch I sought was yours
Periodic formal dinners
Gave way to more late nights as
Friends followed the informal
And soon, no secret
I see our friends come and go,
But we, we never leave.
On crowded sunlit beaches
With the rest
We step on rocky sand
I take you for granted
Juggling careers,
Dreams we dreamt since we were kids
It all falls short of machinations
But that which stays had no division
Rarely speaking
Those words which grow ill with repetition
As we grow together in flore
Now dim lights keep the flowers by your bedside table
Subtle patter of branches against a doctor’s window
Is all I hear against the swell of loss
I see me old, but still young at heart,
Weakened by the varied winds,
And I never forgot
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine
What I know is I’d love you
Worthily through life
And, as life leaves, preserve it
I see it in your eyes
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC