"massed" poems
how sad to be misunderstood
to be evicted from life
to have the full tenure
of a torrid human existence
gesture horribly at you
in faultless reputation
like that of a rancid rage
over a lost trinket
or to be quarantined
while fingerless skin scolds
and noiseless voices are raised
in a donated generosity of savage ignorance
striving to make copious amends
in vain efforts to regrettable
slow acting poison that boils the mind
oh how sad to be misunderstood
such varicose viciousness
oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood
to live through and inoculated hour glass
giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy
and when your breath speaks they laugh
black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths
shudders
knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils
oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood
to be drenched in the rain but not get wet
in which antiquity rests with its
mythologised stupendous ill effects
getting vivid shadows massed all around
oh how sad it is to be misunderstood
until dactylic, hexameter, elegance
completes and slithering syllables
by their antiquity focus a shuddering shriek
that sends an exploding heart through your chest
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--"
We can very well imagine
that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta
to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians",
but naturally. The Spartans were not
to be led and ordered about
as precious servants. Besides
a panhellenic campaign without
a Spartan king as a leader
would not have appeared very important.
O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians."
This too is a stand. Understandable.
Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus;
and then at Issus; and in the final
battle, where the formidable army was swept away
that the Persians had massed at Arbela:
which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away.
And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign,
victorious, brilliant,
celebrated, glorious
as no other had ever been glorified,
the incomparable: we emerged;
a great new Greek world.
We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans,
the Seleucians, and the numerous
rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria,
and of Media, and Persia, and the many others.
With our extensive territories,
with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations.
And the Common Greek Language
we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians.
As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!
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Some days I am Ana's teacher, some days she is mine.
This morning, we look through her kitchen window,
the one she can't get clean, cobwebs massed
between sash and pane. The sky is blue-gold, almost
the color of home.
Ana, I say, each winter
I get more lonely. Both of us would like the sun
to linger as that round fruit in June, but Ana says
it's better to forget what you used to know...
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I wish I could give you much more-
Than my mouth's every empty sound;
Words; Like long abandoned shell homes.
More than the mere reality of being around.
I wish I could give you more-
Than my body; physical presence.
Than my touch and warm embrace-
Heated in the lust of every past instance.
I wish I could give you more-
Than gifts; my time and attention.
My voice, support, smiles and laughter.
Wish I'd give you my heart's pure affection.
I wish you knew me way before-
The loss of every ounce of love I sought.
Before the space between spaces filled me,
Before the scent of love was eternally forgot.
See, every failed fairy tale-
Robbed my love of its mass;
Left my heart cold, unloving.
Empty, like a sand less hourglass.
Every shattered future-
Taught me how not to love;
To cherish only what's left over,
Fading innocence; everything I have.
Every end of a new beginning-
Curved a beast out of my soul;
A sweet, charming, beautiful beast.
Opposite of what you think you know.
I wish you knew me before-
I could smile and say I love you-
As I whisper praises to the next girl;
Of last night, in bed, how she was beautiful.
I wish you knew me before-
I could hug and hold you tight-
With the very warm arms that will-
Passionately caress your friend at night.
I wish you knew me before-
I knew a forever that comes and goes;
Before the bits of hurt and nurtured lusts;
Before I my pain was of a like nobody knows.
I wish you knew me before-
The pieces of my broken heart-
Spread through my thick, vast past.
So I could love you, whole and not in part.
I really wish you knew me before-
My tears massed into this smiley mask-
That stuck to my visage. Before being nice-
Was merely my poker face, and not a willful task.
But most importantly… I wish you will teach me-
To love you with the void space where my heart was;
To say I love you in silence; with every beat of our heart;
To be one with you; to love with my rights and my flaws.
Keep Smiling
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
A large red elephant jumped on the trampoline.
Somewhere in the distance a blue eyed babe cried.
Rednecks clad in Paul Bunyan shirts inhaled the fumes of their barbecues.
Moving gracefully, a trapeze dancer tip-toed across the river.
My wife slumbered on our couch,
And wind blew a kite out of my hands.
I fed a goat nectar from my hands.
A crowd encircled the trampoline.
My family purchased a new couch,
And later that day we helplessly cried.
Our wailing could not be heard across the river,
Where rednecks continued to inhale the fumes of their barbecues.
Neighbors massed to celebrate barbecues.
I looked down at my blood stained hands,
Then joined the beautiful trapeze dancer across the river.
My red elephant broke the trampoline
And we were surrounded by infinite crying.
Nobody sat on the new couch.
Many problems arrived with the new couch;
There weren’t any more barbecues,
And my teeth crunched on granola as we cried.
Silky fabric embraced my hands.
Ingrid, my wife, dies on the trampoline.
She was buried across the river.
Some guy drank all the water from the river,
And started living on our couch.
Who would have thought I met lily on the trampoline,
And who would have thought I took up barbecues.
Now I felt warmth on the back of my hand
And I no longer cried.
Only the winter wind cried,
Howling over Ingrid’s grave across the river.
I slapped an elephant carcass with my hand,
Proceeding to cook it with salt and pepper on the couch.
I bored my wife with barbecues
So she went to jump on they trampoline.
Lily died on the trampoline; I always cried.
No longer did I host barbecues, the wind continued to howl across the river.
I gutted the couch, and killed myself with the back of my hand.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and the day was past.
Sombre clouds in the west were massed.
Out on the porch’s sagging floor,
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly striking at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret my be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
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Core—molten caramel center but
dead. dead. dead.
Hot.
Bleeding.
Then cool, small and massed. A
little red
button in the sky more than 400 times
the diameter of—*I snap
my fingers.*
Magician
star
gives birth to carbon, oxygen, and contract
gravitationally toward
the black clasped to
nowhere—an end melting
rock, evaporating ocean, stabilizing
expansion caught in
helium
flash—the metals of yesteryear
believed to exist inside
of you.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 10:33 AM UTC
From where I sit in this bicycle rickshaw
everything is in motion.
Balloons, massed into colourful clouds,
ride in the rickshaw just ahead.
Brahmin cows walk by, unconcerned
by the tiny cars speeding and honking.
People of every age and description
walk towards the stalls and shops.
From where I sit in this bicycle rickshaw
pale pink sari fluttering around me,
all is completely still and silent,
even as everything is in motion.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
troglo-what?
look it up, those who
do not know the word
for
I am
a lover of words
obscure exotic esoteric poetic pedantic petty greasy slimy odoriferous clanking cacophonous melodious odious arcane archaic
all
a primal pleasure to hear,
to write, to read when perched
in the right order and place
to take flight and allow
me to soar above
or hide below
the massed multitudes of monkeys
who share my deoxyribonucleic acid
(and you thought
I would simply say,
DNA)
for they
find solace in the day
shared with simian soul mates
but I,
the true troglodyte of Texas
prefer the singular scent of words
on trackless trails
over the sound of lovers
and their breathless tales
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
4/20
99
indescri-
bible,
colum-
bine.
This launched,
a devious
plan-
something the whole
world needs to
understand:
Society makes its mark,
their wish came true.
&elieve; me when i say
they thought nothing of me
or you.
they only drew you near.
You be-
lieved,
to them,
you we-
re dear.
But then one day, you realized, you were no longer their peer.
Leaving their reputation:
smeared.
You told them your worries
you said them LOUD and clear,
they didn’t give a ****
instead they riddled you with fear.
they really shouldn't care.
but you had to leave your mark, when
living in their massed produced ware
forced you to spend your days in the dark.
it is true
within everything they do.
they do not really care.
society serves to exploit me
while exploiting you, too.
------------------------------------
So this is where we stand,
among all the **** in the land.
and we still wonder why another man’s grass
is far more grand.
we must eradicate
everything we were told to ever know
do you know the devil
may live within your own
very home?
So many sit and wait
with their message in a bottle,
but what we need to do
is go heavy on the throttle.
Build yourself a sanctuary,
somewhere in merry's land
become Mr. Manson,
or maybe you prefer,
Scarlett Johansson.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
It is a vastness of cerulean,
A pool of blue which surrounds clouds that are strewn together.
Tumbling, accumulating, towering formations of remarkable depth and awesome beauty.
Billows which blanket and envelop a sphere of life, turning the almost infinite and indefinite blue to grey,
Massed with the heaviness of forthcoming precipitation.
As time turns, and the big blue planet rotates, sunlight is reflected and refracted by particles unseen—painting swelling clouds with pale yellows that bleed into succulent pinks, deep reds, royal indigo, and then
The flowering violet of conceived night.
The sky portrays a huge entity, a formation of solidity and stability.
It does not contain, nor withhold from the terraces and crevices of the Earth’s surface.
It is as close to infinity as the basic human mind can grasp,
The uttermost extension of one’s realm of existence.
To look up at the stars is an annihilation of Ego,
A humbling reminder of one’s relevance,
Of one’s fragmentation of being,
Of one’s essential insignificance in the immortal turning of the deep and everlasting vibration of the Cosmos.
Stars, barely conceivable at times,
Act as portals to the past spilled carelessly across an inky nighttime sky.
These subtle flecks, minute glimmers of incredible explosions, are billions of light-years away
Across the fabric of space and time.
The sky is an incredible portal to those things outside of mortal grasp,
A manifestation of all that is unknown, yet shared by every state of consciousness.
A familiarity and a comforting reminder of eternity that will exist far beyond the human experience. With its undulating formations, precipitation, protection, and sheer exposure,
It is a paradoxical beauty.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
There was once a drought that thundered through the land
It stormed from north to south sparing neither head nor hand
It came on the heels of may, to rob fields of their right
Giving hunger to day then taking respite from night
Sun came and moon thereafter, time and time again
Yet the skies yielded no answer to the outcry of men
‘Cause fortune did reject the farmer’s desperate plea
For sin of thankless neglect towards soil of sower’s glee
Clouds massed in mocking grey, winds whispered hopeful lies
Telling of a better day when we would hear the heavens’ cries
Such was the willful drought that ended harvest’s reign
Starving land of fruitful sprout till Mercy brought the rain
I should say no more of the gloom through days of old
But with words long withheld, tell of that which should be told.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
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The pitched shrill of the whistle sounds
the explosions can be felt deep underground
the mass of men scream and shout
the conscripts are all moving out
the Germans sit there waiting for us
all we can do is move forward, its a must
They took over our land, it makes me so mad
So I am here, at Stalingrad
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
I feel this inhuman suffocation
when I step out into
that officially sponsored
fog machine artificial haze
to start the music blaring from
speakers that don't say a thing
Spitting throat lumps and grinds
lurching like scary monsters
controlled by raving mad super creeps
hiding behind walls of
electronic lies
and vinyl appropriations
committed to automation
in
beats making stage cages swing like
stray lanterns filled with
questionable electrocuties -
wild tarts that can't be broken
but you can stare all you want
at
Black-light-blemish-broken-razor-testimony
obscured with slashed fishnet and
splashed neon body paint
Move to the wavelengths
going to grave lengths
as
my dead beats facilitate this
Deja Vu machine world
of
backdoor audition submission
courtesy of half massed scrubstep poser pseudo-players
and maneaters planted on dance floors
Wearing short skirts low cut shirts
high heels long hair and plenty of
emotional baggage
and
I find myself feeling somewhat sorry
and guiltily enticed by the decadent
conspicuous consumption and sinister
seduction I cannot escape
until
The song crescendos and I slam an invisible hand
into the wreck chords
from now until the end of rhyme
I want to stop the whole thing
but this is what I signed up for
this is my punishment
so
with reluctant crossfader switchblade hands
I scratch the noise back into the air
and out of my head
because
the
beatings
must
go
on
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Mao Zedong’s revolution deposed the ancient, 5000 year old rule of Dynastic China.
In doing so he espoused the continuous violent struggle by contradictory forces within society to produce a perpetual disequilibrium of revolt against intellectualism and Confucian principle and practice.
With the global collapse of Communistic systems, the wily genius of the diminutive, Deng Xiaoping, breathed new life into the faltering rule
With a cunning rebranding of “Socialism with Chinese Characteristics”, he maintained the stability of Chinese Communist kleptocracy until relatively recent times.
But the middle class awakening of Tiananmen Square and the recent Hong Kong massed protest, has brought into focus the demands of an increasingly educated, increasingly affluent, Chinese society’s expectation and demand for increased democratic rights and freedom and a more just system of the Rule of Law.
The day of the old, strong arm, autocratic rule is over.
China is emerging, quite naturally, into a world of increased information freedom, where the seeking of each individual’s betterment and independence promises a brighter future of personal dignity, increased self-esteem and an emerging sense of high anticipation.
President Xi Jinping’s Chinese Communist Party is now presented with the challenge to moderate in order to survive. To endeavour to embrace and meld the old concepts of Confucian harmony to the vaulting expectations of China’s new world beckoning.
M.
Denmark, Western Australia.
5 October 2014
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Ever reaching
And so serene,
So briny and clean,
Is, the mystifying sea.
The fish inside it,
Together flock,
Swimming around,
A **** or rock.
The peaceful lives
Will forever last,
Where all is massed,
Beneath, the boundless sea.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
bronze statues sit along the fence
singing through multi-coloured-
feathers and beautiful beaks
they mimic others song putting-
a twist of their own into the mix
they take off from their plinth
massed air acrobatics in sync
one bird with a thousand wings
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
I opened the floodgates
and let the tears flow.
Ribs in the ribcage
shreds of muscles
veins, tissues and bones
all that seemed to be massed
inside the *****
holding the pain, the hurt
all have to wash away
with all the floodgates open!
And yet they don't go
no matter how hard I cry
no matter how my being shakes
sobs and heaves,
I try to clean up
and yet those messed up feelings
won't wash up.
No crying, no tears , no anguish
no shouting, no grief
seems to be enough.
Tell me what can I do
to erase those pains?
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
hair tied with
a nitrile glove cuff
carved a sacred space adorned with muffled tile
porcelain throne pod amongst the ruckus
hohumdrum gods stampeding towards
a visionary empty meeting with screens
greeted with massed bodies, butter, and dust
the divine light behind the porthole still shines
even as crowds continually shuffle forwards
backwards and past, that bouquet of projection rays
remains sheening with eye to light machè heaven
until thunderous overstrokes over indulge and begin
to over and undertone every feather upon ears
resignation of a certain kingship upon standing
and yet wealth of ethic remains demanding
so, stand.
Jul 1, 2022
Jul 1, 2022 at 5:17 AM UTC
Your imprint's emplacement
Massed fate's apogee,
Where words become pavement
Whilst time sets them free.
Too bad you didn't like it.
I actually wanted to make you feel special.
I don't write love poems
For this reason.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:02 AM UTC
i cry out the massed molecules of this malevolent multiverse
for a cessation of this tortuous existence.
i never want to hurt anyone ever again.
i walk through the field of flowers and leave behind nothing but ashes and arsenic.
i am like a lonely hurricane inside a china shop
i destroy everything i touch
and only wish to be loved.
i have apologized
until sorry is no longer a word
simply a jumble of sounds spilling out of my mouth
with no meaning
and no purpose.
i could say it to you
in every language in this wide world
paenitet
désolé
triste
scusate
and none would be enough.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
November of Sixty-five, at the X ray landing zone
men of the seventh Calvary were outnumbered far from home..
The casualties were mounting, Charlie held the heights.
Four massed assaults repulsed that day, Terror ruled the nights
In the high grass and the heat they lay,
the wounded men and dying.
They thought their fate was set and sealed: No med-e vacs were flying.
Through shot and shell, into that hell, two brave men came flying
into the hot landing zone for the wounded men and dying.
Thirteen trips in all they made to keep some hope alive.
There are men alive today who, without them, would have died.
Ed Freeman and Bruce Crandall flew where angels feared to tread.
They bore the wounds of valor where others would have fled.
His medal of Honor was bestowed for conspicuous gallantry.
today we mourn, Ed Freeman’s gone
and Freedom’s still not free.
this poem is written in honor of Captain Ed "Too Tall" Freeman. the action for which he received the Congressional Medal of Honor was the battle of La Drang, Vietnam which is the core of the Mel Gibson film " We were soldiers" the action takes place on 11/14-15/65
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Today I live in a life that does fight,
in love, and hate, for a resolution;
what is humanity? Revolution
tinkers a vestige. “There people, the light!”
With a glance we seem glorious. The night
reveals a different image; the Sun
of Plato does set. Man’s transformation
has not yet stopped, despite all our massed might.
Like that Creature Shelly’s fear concocted
we, being not human, grapple today
with all our parts. Mankind is an ideal
that Creatures need. I, exonerated,
am not a human yet, and oh! do pray
the Creature that is me unlocks soul’s seal.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC