"meddling" poems
What if love became so overwhelming, such an inextinguishable force that its true purpose betrayed itself completely?
To the point that even the utterance of those three powerful words, that at a different junction had held such promise, now left a distinct taste of uncertainty on the lips and a ringing of insanity in the ear drum. What else does one say when the most pure form of expression and commitment echo with distain and regret?
Even as I slide into introspection, diving deep to the point of no return, there seems to be no logical path, no penance for the monster I have created. Through my own autonomous actions and neglect I have reached this dark place. Perhaps I indulged beyond a point where thoughts and actions have boundaries. A broken compass , spinning without meaning. All indicators in tact, every cog and point in place, magnetism lost to exaggerated memories, fears and regrets.
Self delusion is a drink that is best served with company. With companionship the mind tends to believe its own meddling. Delusions are mistaken for truth and biased opinions blur with reality.
All roads lead to pain. Every so often a spark jumps to the surface of my consciousness. A pin ***** exclaiming hope. It’s a glitch of my own creation. The belief in happy endings and love prevailing. That love is more powerful than any disappointment, mistake or breech in trust. My reality had been resurfaced and augmented by the media. Love stories are just that. Stories. A wave of manufactured hope, washing over the beach of the human psyche. Every grain of sand is washed back to the sea just as it has arrived.
Happiness, a flame burning on a tiny wick. Enjoy the heat while it lasts for it is going to be a cold winter. And the power is out.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
#
***My mind to frolic, with words of Frost
Slides between and then is lost
Drifting ‘round to fellows long
My thirst is deep; desires strong
Filled with all that Maya says
Flits in and out my meddling head
And ah, when Pablo speaks of love
My heart's aflutter with pure white doves
Around the beat, who else but Poe
A deep dark place I've come to know
I stop to ponder the words worth
As if I've nursed them from their birth
I settle to hear the rambling brook
Where Gwendolyn baits my eager hook
Then ‘long comes Oscar, running wild
I listen like an eager child
When Langston paints his colored hues
His canvas fills my point of view
Not just the finest spinning me
To this state of flux and reverie
For verses drift from near and far
Forever reaching for the stars
Feeding on the gentle night
I languish in the word's delight
Finding rhyme from ‘neath the skin
The place where passion's settled in
To fill my cup, appease my soul
Till hunger's sated, fat and whole
The empty space behind my eyes
Is filled with life's sweet lullabies
And when at last, I lay to rest
I'm filled with cadence of the best***
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Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:24 AM UTC
You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ’twas no make-believe with you today,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers.
’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasking flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once—could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might out meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven’t any memory—have you?—
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.
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I hear the thunder meddling
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
and realize
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.
God is but a ******
he and I stammer upon the same boat.
Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.
Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a shit-stained smile.
This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
So Putin helps Trump win an election
And subsequently feels elated.
He is still anticipating
How he will be compensated.
Who are the ones who cheer and clap
As Putin takes a victory lap?
Watching the Trump administration
Blame and distrust the FBI
Also tickles Putin as Trump
Makes it a target to vilify.
Watch Putin cheer and clap
As he takes a victory lap.
When Trump says he doesn't believe
Our intelligence agents here
But eagerly accepts whatever
Putin tells him, one thing's clear:
Trump is willing to cheer and clap
As Putin takes a victory lap.
When Russia starts a conspiracy theory
And blames Ukraine for election meddling,
Many Trumplicans here believe
The devious lies that the Kremlin is peddling.
How can Americans cheer and clap
As Putin takes a victory lap?
When Trump speaks with the president
Of Ukraine and crudely tries to extort
Favors from the Ukrainians
And threatens to pull U.S. support,
Putin supporters cheer and clap
As Putin takes a victory lap.
As here we see a chilling loss
Of democratic values, we
Will ask ourselves whatever happened
To hope and opportunity.
Who then will cheer and clap
As Putin takes a victory lap?
-by Bob B (12-12-19)
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 9:28 AM UTC
Why can't I fly? Because, I am caged in the bowels of bitter, deceit.
Why can't I dance? Because, my body is bound to the gravity of unacceptable, honor.
Why, can't I sing? Because, my lungs are choked by this haute reservoir of insanity.
But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the ladder of awe, itself, and walks the silver lining of death.
Why can't I write? Because, my hands are bound in the filth of my past,
meddling with broken things.
Why can't I speak? Because, the honor I am bound to, is to live, life, behind closed windows.
Why can't I see? Because, the blindfolds that sheath my eyes from sin, are more sin than any satan incarnate.
But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the rungs of the narrow road, and walks over the pit of doom, to save itself.
There is no explanation for this act.
So, why can't I shout? Because, I am voiceless to the concerns of the audience.
Why can't I beg? Because, the world has no room for weakness, fear and more loss.
Why can't I scream? Because...
Because...
Because the Trapeze artist dropped off the high-strung ledge of wonders...
And plummeted into a darkness, that has robbed my audience, of all conscionable thought.
Because... the Trapeze artist, is dead.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
Manipulating information
To craftily plot your lore
Is necessary if you want
To continue an information war.
Specific example: Deny Russian
Collusion and interference in
U.S. elections, and do not stop
Seeking info that you can spin.
After months of denying Russian
Cyber attacks and election meddling,
Then admit the possibility
Through a little backpedaling.
Say that well…maybe they meddled,
But hastily add: so did others.
Say you'd still end all queries
And probes if you had your druthers.
It's vital, of course, that you keep
Bashing the press. Be sure to accuse
Investigative journalists
Of making up tons of fake news.
Finally, say the Russians will
Interfere in the U.S., and that's
How in elections this November
They plan to help the DEMOCRATS!
Why? Because you're so hard
(Wink!) on Russia. You'll be winning.
Your fawning fans will eat it up,
And you will have all heads spinning.
Your friends on your favorite TV station
Will help you criticize and demean
Those who don't agree with you.
Praise to your propaganda machine!
Who cares what the world thinks?
You've got your fans; you've got your base.
There's no match for a stable genius
Who says to the world, "In your face!"
-by Bob B (7-25-18)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
The flapping of the listeners ears.
Their meddling noses.
Careering through the undergrowth
Thick skinned and worthy of massive respect.
Their ears listen,
But sadly their eyes didn’t see.
The poachers passing by the Baobab tree.
The huge noble beasts.
No-one supposes.
That elephants ever forget.
That’s what the people say.
I guess they forgot the sound of the poachers’ guns.
And they’re probably not scared of mice either.
Mice are pretty nice as well.
© Livvi
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
*I'm tired of beauty
incessantly meddling in my affairs
luring me to venture outside myself
revealing hidden radiance within
disguising life's dismal undercurrent
reducing it to a superficial veneer
randomly appearing by surprise
stubbornly eliciting a smile
performing alchemy on the mundane
dousing my awareness in the elixir of life
beauty...
the pulchritude of spirit...that's all it is...*
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
I know it's heavy, the burden you carry,
But it's yours, and yours alone,
I know you’re tired, eyes weary,
But carry on, carry on.
So rest your heavy head,
On my comforting sleeve,
And as for that meddling heart,
Let it bleed, Let it bleed.
I'm amazed at how,
Your fragile bones don’t break,
Under that crippling weight,
That you have to carry alone,
But you must, so carry on,
Carry on.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
Dear Russians,
would you mind not taking Crimea?
This is not the Cold War
nor the time of Imperialism,
so I suggest that you go back
and think empathetically about
the Ukrainians pushing to be
part of the European Union.
You must try to walk a mile in their shoes, understand?
There is no more Soviet Union
or the Iron Curtain,
so you really shouldn't be meddling
in Ukraine's affairs.
Let the revolutions play out and
what will be, will be.
Sincerely,
Wistful Wanderer
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
you're too busy targeting the next spot
you'll bury that knife
pierced not into my back
but in my heart
what we have is real and we're genuinely happy
and it's rare to find in this world that's ******
so stop meddling with ours
it wont do you any better
i hope you'll find yours
but you're clouded and bitter
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
in darkness i hide
deep inside
comfort light does provide
hiding deep
vision of night
grants moon's bright
looking in the dark
finding night's light
looking deep within
the problem's meddling might
hiding in the darkness light
light hiding in the dark
dark living in the light
fire and flames
dances do the games
dark hides
in lights provide
hidden is the key
to the mysterious me
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 5:09 PM UTC
Perhaps I peered too closely into the abysmal potholes of other people’s souls
of whom I had no business pilfering through in the first place.
Now I ponder about feelings and memories that do not belong to me
some of which are long forgotten, disregarded, or even irrelevant.
Of this information that I have unearthed and processed, I know not what to do with it.
I am perpetually preoccupied with what lies beneath the surface point, which is what pushes me forward, yet could propel me to my downfall.
I just sit here and anxiously ponder this arcane information I acquiesced
through means not noble to my standard of normal morals.
There is nothing else to do.
For I rest here in the realm of reality.
This is no novel of fiction for me to figure out.
I can’t flip through the pages of people’s plights.
Something like that does not fall within my rights.
I am a mere meddling mortal amongst other mortals.
I am no god who sits proudly upon their plethora of others’ secrets.
I am just another human being.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
As a silly spoilt child
Disgruntled I grumble
Throughout my blessed life
Complaining about my loss
That God does not give a toss
But abundantly in my life
Scattered in my garden
Live deep hidden forests
Sacred special spaces
Forgotten mossy places
Things I can not see
In my soft mossy pastures
I am drawn into sound
Soft rich earthy ground
My meddling hands resigning
And my heart softening
To the treasures God is bringing
As a child I am sometimes
still screaming for what
I am not receiving
Even though chosen
But my loving Father
Always refusing to
serve me poison
But he keeps on giving
Life's unexpected gifts
Full of presents and parcels
An unknown cultivated Karma
A forgotten ignored pleasure
Actually look at all the treasure
Everyday a Christmas tree
If I could only look and see
So in my adult days
I learn to look on
In different ways
With a mossy heart
I nourished and softening
receiving parcels tenderly
passed down from heaven
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
blushes
tips, brushes and spills and the willingness of physics
dip the quill
blending a full face of colours trippy
tipping my crown, my head,
my thinker becomes creation winning
inks
i wink faithfully lacy into the universe pirouettes and eddies
tinkering
i divide myself couple and quad and oct..
flood my breeding into the cosmos
spoon-feeding peddling out into the mutter
the great relax of the creative meddle
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 8:21 PM UTC
too much interference
has been extensively run
by those who hold
the kingmaker's gun
as a consequence
of this kind of thing
the democratic process
is under a clouded ring
the flow of votes
which were meant
for the out in front candidate
got subverted somewhere
in the ballot box's victory pate
foreign countries meddling
with other country's domestic autonomy
so the results of elections
will satisfy their sovereignty
transgressors are employing
their technics from nations far away
to determine who'll wear
a crowning array
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
(descent)
Hindered by progress, or the idea of progress:
evolution-in-waiting bellows me to hide,
tattering becomes ruination.
Animism creeps,
not-yet hands pushing at dim velvet.
Peeping one-eyed through the past
where had borne such potent promise
immutability lain intact
flumped into snowy thickness
and thrown hard against Georgian glass.
Here comes the stealth of unillumination
thankfully blanketing
they were tied at the hips
and neck,
then wrapped as old mirrors.
That door went nowhere
it always does
those Victorians, forever meddling,
will folly themselves into any trouble.
(resurrection)
You haven’t changed one bit!
I say to myself,
showing you their brand new niceness
***** as copper pans.
Go on, spit in my fire
the hiss is the thing that’s real.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless—
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—
We ****** to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
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I think it better that in times like these
A poet keep his mouth shut, for in truth
We have no gift to set a statesman right;
He has had enough of meddling who can please
A young girl in the indolence of her youth,
Or an old man upon a winter's night.
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Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.
Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting
To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry,
We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.
She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.
We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.
Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!--
Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .
She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.
Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?
She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.
Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,--
Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . .
She thinks she's heard a message from one dead!
What did he tell you? Is he well and happy?
Don't lie to us--we all know what he said.
He said the one he murdered once still loves him;
He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken;
And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . .
But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,--
Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know!
That's what you get for meddling so with heaven!
Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going?
We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits.
Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry!
What have you got in an envelope, old lady?
A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye?
How do you know the medium didn't fool you?
Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it.
Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son.
What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair?
We know your secret! what's done is done.
Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful,
Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry?
You don't think you will find him when you're dead?
Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,--
Look at her eyes all red!
We know you--know your name and all about you,
All you remember and think, and all you scheme for.
We tear your secret out, we leave you, go
Laughingly down the street. . . Die, if you want to!
Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!--
. . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body
Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her?
Was no one with her when she fell? . . .
We eddy about her, move away in silence.
We hear slow tollings of a bell.
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Your flawless exterior, shines like a self-righteous diamond
Gleaming and reflecting, deflecting and beguiling
Meddling in the emotions and perceptions
Laying waste to the argumentative non-believers
Of your worth
This one is not pleased!
The light that shines on your walls is so much brighter
Than the darkness inside gives it credit for
Is there no path towards the center?
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
The king of cover-up is at it again,
Downplaying financial ties
And close connections with other countries,
Especially when questions arise.
First it was with Putin and Russia.
How much collusion remains to be seen.
Conspiracy in election meddling?
Whitewashing is now routine.
And then there was the hush-money
To cover-up some hanky-panky.
Dissimulation's easy when
You've got money in the banky.
It looks as though you must deny
And try to hide actions you rue,
But calling your fling "horse face," is that
A gentlemanly thing to do?
Now the cover-up deals with the Saudis--
With the crown prince and the Saudi king.
Denial…admittance…rogue players…
It has such a familiar ring.
After bragging over and over
About the millions of dollars he's made
From wealthy Saudis, his words are now
Exploding like a hand grenade.
When the leader has conflicts of interest,
Critics, pundits, and others who know
Where his interests really lie,
Shrug and say, "We told you so!"
He says he has a "natural instinct
For science." Isn't THAT a joke!
I wish his "natural instinct" was for
Telling the truth whenever he spoke.
-by Bob B (10-18-18)
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC