"miscreants" poems
"Strength in numbers" as the American says
The Great Unity (dàtóng) the Chinese prevails
"I am because we are" the Ubuntu in Africa
We, the Filipinos, we have "Pagkakaisa"
Houses lifted and moved through "bayanihan"
As solidarity bolstered during typhoon Haiyan
By peaceful revolutions, ousted miscreants
For we are but red ants and we bite as one
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 9:36 PM UTC
Fingers cut palms as hands turn to stone
And a catapult hurls the projectile home
Knuckles collapse from bone meeting bone
Down in the alleys where miscreants roam
Suggestions of violence fill gutters with blood
Fill heads with the sense of nefarious thrill
Their skin turns to ash and their brains into mud
Rage in the kingdom of eager to ****
The children are soldiers who train everyday
Cowboys and Indians, Robbers and Cops
****** is plot and the actors will play
Portraying the place life will come to a stop
Violence is cancer, and love is no more
Edge of our seats waiting for the next war
Dedicated to the deceased and forgotten, Love and Peace
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
slept and soaked
the sabbath Saturday away.
the body, achey breaky,
cranked and croaked,
slewed by a slew of common miscreants.
one, a stitch in my side,
feeling like someone's inside,
wanting to be born, feet first,
coming out the side of my chest,
instead of my ******
so,
promised poems and bills to pay,
put aside for a more poetic bill paying day.
awoke once near midday,
an unusual wake up call,
my nostrils do attend,
when the honey odors of
cinnamon and vanilla invade
the french shores of my subconscious.
I love three things French:
the elegance of their language grande,
their frenchified fries and frenchified toast.
was fed some french toast,
bathed in vanilla and cinnamon,
thus drugged,
went back to bed again.
as I drifted off for the third time today,
heard the woman dramatic say:
"must have, must have,"
two words that I from my past,
consider a curse,
a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife,
her way of saying I didn't measure up.
*must have
paprika
to roast your chicken
for Sunday dinner.*
relieved beyond measure,
as I to dreamless sleep dispatched,
vague recall a poem forming about the
spices in my life.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
We all look up to the same sun.
To the same moon we confide.
We all look at them the same...
Hoping for the light of day...
Wishing for peace at night.
Unfortunately...
It seems that they are not just.
For their light is selective.
It is not available to those
heavily shrouded in the dark,
drenched in tears.
It seemingly favour those
who'd shamelessly croon for their boon.
Miscreants who shirk
their responsibilities and fears.
I beg you...
Guardian of day and sentinel in twilight.
May your arms be kind and fastidious.
May your reach be deliberate,
purposeful and extensive.
Find those who cry but without voice.
Cradle those who've made decisions
without the luxury of choice.
Shed some love so they could see
past their laboured breaths in mud.
Raise them to their feet
so that they might
have a fighting chance to live.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC
Whenever and wherever there is a decline in religious practice, O descendant of Bharata, and a predominant rise of irreligion--at that time I descend Myself. In order to deliver the pious and to annihilate the miscreants, as well as to reestablish the principles of religion, I advent Myself millennium after millennium.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Sadly Paris is
Feeling the ravages
Of those heartless savages
Whose numerous miscarriages
Of jihad on the average is
A total mischaracterization
Of what they claim is the Muslim nation
And frankly speaking I’m losing patience
This I hope you understand
There’s no justification in the Qu’ran
For what they do to their fellow man
As if it’s part of Allah’s Plan
Show me the sunnah if you can
That allows aggression in any land
Things have gotten out of hand
If everything you do is banned
You can spread your hate
But I have to state
There’ll never be a califate
That’s solely built on one man’s hate
It will crash and burn under its own weight
And heaven help those who participate
For them I fear it’s much too late
And that’s not open to debate
Paris is crying, naturally
Because of the carnage don’t you see
But they’ll continue to be free
And enjoy the support of humanity
We all must ask how could this be
While sealing the fate and destiny
Of those miscreants who **** with glee
And have the significance of a flea
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:14 AM 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
the vastness of an empty soul
demystifies the Grand Canyon
and shrinks the universe
to microscopic molecules
barely able to manipulate energy
matter that doesn’t matter
madder than a hare in March
balance skewed
undue pressure
seasonal disfunction disorder
ordering medication
naturalization
seeking citizenship
in an isolation township
serving only self-pity
to the self-destructive –
squatting, gargoyle
surveyor on the job
soaking in the loathing
basking in the glow
caused by the discontent of others
opioid android locked in the void
unemployed
laughing at misery
in mercy centers
meticulously mimicking the miscreants
impersonating pain
seeking to blend –
ostracized miser in designer jeans
obscene in drag queen regalia
“whiskers from under his pancake make-up”
wake-up Godiva, locate the paraphernalia
mammalian musculature
hide the heart of a snake
as she slithers across the floor
searching for the perfect surfactant
….her scaly skin itches, uncomfortably
tearing my lip skin
in the din
of her poorly lit closet –
together in terror, the admission seems worth the cost
lost in the sweet melody
of sobbing children
and clattering dishes
shattered visions
misgivings
estrangement entangled with commitment
obligations
oblivion and orange peals
appealing to a higher power
unanswered questions hover inconsequential
adding to the ozone depletion
and altered climate
owning blame
for all the world and her problems
I sit with shoulders slumped –
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
stolen verses blanket the floor space
encircled by the inspiration of others
tastelessly faceless
pests controls fail
as the numbers overwhelm
everyone thinks there are special
and the selfies are there to prove it
zit faced miscreants misrepresent mankind
in asexual fodder and anthropomorphic
suburban camo
turban wearing wash-outs
hold court over newbies
attempting to sew again
hippy seeds
their stench, deafening –
sandaled dirt clods
scamper
seeking selfishly surrogates
someone to birth their ideas
raise and tend the dreams
fund the movement
all the while recognizing the futility
feverishly fapping the frail phallus
frequently finding foolish *********
flipped in their folly –
********* the finale
freakish frogs filibuster
night creeps in as the soft sound of mating toads
fill the air
stars dot the moonless night
complete in its absence of clouds
only the wash of the milky way
holds hearts –
pandering to the philanthropist
looking longingly in giving eyes
for a scrap of dignity
and bread –
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
I foster an incremental relation to the cosmos, enticed regularly by its indefiniteness and appeal.
Its evolutions, innate behaviors, and formidable sciences are recompense for earth’s meager discrepancies.
I often engage in the caprice to dismount much dissatisfaction by the constancy of riveting celestial events.
These beings possess no artificiality.
Its prophetic order, ornate and stupendous architectural facets have allowed a crescendo of dispositional hysteria.
Prosaic imprecations are deduced from its auxiliary wherewithal.
There is no contrition in immersing in enthrallment nor is there fickleness in trust.
Magnificent bodies orbit in finesse and probability, achieving universality and control.
Though these incitements are exponentially cheering, my origin is but connoted in despondency.
Usurpers and ill-suited vandals proliferated by the intemperance of the Ptolemaic discipline.
Rustics, miscreants and idle minds misdirected by less virtuous planetary derision.
My cognitive severity asserted by ominous consummation.
Oh how these preponderant truths confine me unfortunate.
Soliloquy is but an affliction amidst this era of anachronistic reign.
Grandiose passivity is intolerable at this time.
I plan to dichotomize my adamant fate from precepts and conditions anew.
The deposition of malfeasant kings will be sought.
Ploys I have already configured; propagation is near to instigation.
I will exhort my ascent to prime eminence.
The stars will sanction me to a rightful end.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
Storm into that room so you will be seen, and
hold up high, sun salute
that body, that vessel you got!
Take every vertebrae, mmm pull it taught
Pull it.
Pull it as twine itself
wrapped around my words-
each bone
creaking like footfalls on old wooden stairs.
And look directly at your soul-
Do not squirm in the shame
of your nakedness -
beautiful lustful abundantly naked-
Instead
Crest, oh lord,
White swirling madness of intentions.
and take these old bones, baby-
take this body
Take these old bones of mine and pull them up,
Stretch, find the strength! and pull-
Take those limped shoulders and throw them back to the gods!
Oh your rusted soul, fill it with water from the Darma ***** Crick.
And it might
burn-
sting and sour.
Make you cough, choke and sputter.
But oh
Renewed, Renewed!
And you start out with the feet, kicking rocks on the road, mmmm.
And end with the head bowed back with a psalm bouncing on
red berry lips, mmm
Oh, yes! Hands out to glory, oh feet moving, dancing
hot pavement below like Hades.
Step and another, another.
Until your out of frame...
Oh glory is the road.
Cleaned and cleansed as you go,
Hear me? Cleansed as you go, down Sinner Lane.
Cleansed and cleansing is the road
of the
revival parade.
sahn 8/25/14
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
If you think it will stop
Don’t
Hold on to the railing
Jump
Over the edge
Onto the sidewalk
Separated from streets
Marauding, rubber tires pummel
Surveying alleyways neglected and
Trash cans brimming with disregard
It’s lonely here, as if each pebble were a
Reveler
Ambivalent toward you
Unkempt and stiff
As if petrified and disavowed at once
Ignored, timid
Apathetic discharge
Free,
Fallen
From a short, raised canopy
Of steel
And wood and
Bones and
Dust
Chalk; dried on a lesson
Conveyed
Battalions, battalions
Marching
Avid miscreants
Scurrying
The masters couldn’t paint as fast
And each trifling matter
Marches past with
Battalions
Battalions
Battalions
And Stones
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 6:49 AM UTC
Maybe if I unsheathed the buttons so lovingly,
slipped them from their beds like children doting under the breath of my fingers,
I could be free
unwrap these tendril sleeves
unknot and untie like braided shoe laces
child smile booming on my lips
maybe I could slither out and under this jacket of rigid strait edge,
maybe I could lick the clouds with my unclaimed hands
bathe in unrestraint,
Tug upon the chains of God’s grace
Burn these walls
and cut down the servants of white gowns and latex gloves
those thieves and miscreants,
Demons of pill born needles,
Strip down my skin and carcass
relinquish all of human trait
to bore over them as the demon they boldly create,
the ********* of razor bladed teeth,
Leather based restraint,
They so dutifully attempt to restrain me,
I’ll finger paint with their brain splatter,
just unstitch this jacket,
rouse the children from their sleeping,
unbutton them so verily gently,
Please mother unbind my wings,
coddle my wound,
Mother dearest might I finally go to you
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:07 AM UTC
For Steve Yocum
~~~
an old marine called me the other night
a poet from the left coast,
a correspondent and a first responder
to my messy essays
we both, vintners of men,
compared notes on our progeny's
full bodied temperament,
and our own full body's aches and miscreants
bemoaning our losses,
of earnest poets,
of friends, even foes,
and favored football teams,
and ne'er forgetting to tally up
our occasional victories
he authors books,
he authors life,
with grainy portraits,
that try to be peepholes
to clarity
me, a periodic poetist,
more confessional blogger shootist,
than artful-words-to-please dodger,
in a vainglorious futile insanely repeating attempts
to better separate
life's wheat from the chafe of its chaff
perhaps,
we shall someday meet,
a twosome of codgers,
walk the saddened-today, blood-reddened Oregon soil,
armed with each other's comforting wisdom,
tasting grapes,
acknowledging
but for the grace of god,
we go
*together, to gather,
each other closer,
walk the vineyards and the cellars
to clarify
the wine from the sediment,
getting uproariously drunk
on friendship*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
Now! the damson crush of swallow wing
to foal the brays of uwound April,
in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail
that agitate these pagan grains.
Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak
the gates of prickled secrecy,
the platted creed of wren-song
yolks the whiting peeks of May.
Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn
of nether-world calligraphy
with missives of anemone to
prose the woke terrain,
so a gattling shack of magpies prat
along the miscreants of bine
that heckle servile atrophy in
lung sweet roots of anchored sage
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
this is hell because I say it is.
I'm goin to die inside of it
now you cant stop me cuz the tourniquets,
not your hands upon.
mine it is.
safe treasure to lie on
I stay here in the masking tape
taped up against it.
holding close till death's quiescence
escape is impossible
the collapse of body is
take in step
depth torn from ones ***** creates humans.
we cream humans out of our windpipes
through the words we hate the words we love and the words we ingest creating years long relationships that **** ourselves and our partners and our health and happiness
all for you little miscreants
we sound bite
death falls upon head bands
death holds its hand waist span for creeping death on our limits of bands measure expanding fissure on my backs expanse of nerves
they torture true \
every day with every move
these kids spill their hate
I gave them from the feelings
I felt they inherited with every song that I soothed them with
I hate this
I **** and peel my skin I slip my slime I steal life from every hoove I walk around the animals life
I slave a forth from my head
I tithe this tax
I slurp it all up to invigorate from the death I
feel I **** my self.
death to the dishonor I have done myself
have I grown true humans, ill never let
my self, off of the hook that if shoved in my pelt,
will I lose all the worth and the building I've dealt,
to the structure the skeleton of this tower I've built.
till it crumbles,
till its stagnant.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 12:57 AM UTC
the grey sandy soil
gives neath footfall
as he hitches up his oversized jeans
and nervously fumbles with his broken glasses
a caricature of indecisive recluse
his worked hands covered in soils
grips and relaxes with the rise and fall
of the conversation
his tattered shirt haphazardly buttoned
has a lone cigarette sticking its bent form
from the lip of the pocket
like the last standing solider
content to remain till his fiery end
the ditch he labours in
stretches back in crooked line
along the fence
deep in places and shallow in others
like a drunken hedgehog making a shoddy home
he stops and looks back wiping the tide of sweat
from his face
and squints against the setting suns
brilliant golden light
mumbles some rational reason invented
and dismisses all concept of repair
this earthen work of the hobbled mind
shall remain into the windswept rain and years
slowly loosing its form
as the world itself shifts in discomfort
but the man himself will remain to memory
forever unchanged
a hearty laugh rich with the
earthen tones of life well lived
a man that remains forever in sunlight
a man among men
my friend
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Yup, that's right.
Don't be offended or upset.
It's very environmental,
recycling words.
True, the quality of literacy,
(have mercy on it!)
is getting quite strained
(not-so-good poems
*droppeth as the
gentle rain from heaven*).
Certain words are grumbling,
talking, overworked and overuse,
in poems that say nothing new
(they got their pride too!).
Rumors of unionizing going around,
increasing the minimum wage
to a passing grade,
and something like
a penny a letter,
and double for words,
not of the English language...
The ringleader I'm told
is the word itself
Words
tired from being in
59,649 poems (plus 1 now)
*Death, heartbreak and depression,
scars, cutting and sad,*
the most overwrought ones,
the children's beloved,
their never-ending
plastic ones trending,
under the weight collapsing
of boring and from
the pressure of overuse, bending.
The words have brought
the unrisen, alabaster body
of poor dead (oops)
Love (137,207 + 1)
as evidence of this
too long a verbal
season of victory.
Make no mistake,
among the guilty we be,
our sweet tooth
for these miscreants,
documented in black and white,
resting uncomfortably,
among our total of
171,500 words we've purportedly
recorded and employed.
The Writer's Guild,
all a titters, arms, up and akimbo,
the cries of poetry poverty
among the living thundering,
no longer
suffering silently,
ere the mendicancies cries
from Ye Olde York emanating,
seeking contributions
and donations,
minimum on PayPal,,
one whole dollar!
Well I have paid my dues,
much more than one
and much more than once,
would so again, annually,
as I could no more
surcease this gig,
for where to find
another profession that
pays so handsomely?
Let it not go unnoticed
like so many poems
left footed born,
themselves, unread, unnoticed,
that the ever increasing number of
Poets
is a good thing for the universe.
So many new humans each day,
from the black forest of
daily life's lessons emerge
choosing poetry to
conquer life's ailments.
For they bravely
having taking the
*road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference,*
and the world,
a better place for it...
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
In a nation filled with political miscreants and tyrants,
Led by unworthy leaders,
All moving towards the path of the gutter,
Despite her uncommon number of talented hustlers.
In a world filled with endless opportunities,
Undeniable abilities,
Despite her rich but untapped resources,
Cos our leaders prefer to make it their personal properties.
We've watched long enough from the sideline,
We've suffered enough during our predecessor's timelines,
And endured till now we've all gotten tired and worn out,
That their tongue of deceit even fears to say "Youths, calm down"
Now is our chance,
We can take a stance,
Lead the fight;
And win the match.
We've woken from our slumber,
And discovered that we're not just burghers;
But partakers,
In our political aura.
If not us, who will?
I can't expect you to fight for me,
And you shouldn't expect a savior from him,
We all fight together since it's on you and me.
Cessation: - We all might not see it yet but, we are the change the nation deserves and will get.
We are the best leaders (future)all nations can and will have.
If we don't choose to be positive, how do we wanna cause the nation to improve?
Think wise, be wise.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 7:58 AM UTC
I hate the way you stare at me with ever changing eyes,
I loath the way you push and pull ignoring all my cries,
I envy all you have, you take, you feel and mostly love,
I distress the kind of game you play when all you do is shove,
I hope you find that someone close and hope you’re happy too,
But mostly I hope they do exactly what to me you do,
You play a sick and twisted messed up version in your mind,
Tying all the pieces up for all of us to find,
The scorned unhappy miscreants that hollowed out your soul,
We fought and played with every singly breath were told to hold,
And so we slowly fade away I am sure that’s what you want,
Ignore us and we’ll go away the missing do not taunt,
And so we crawl with all distorted limbs and bleeding eyes,
To haunt the one creator who, and still, ignores our cries.
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 16, 2010 at 2:43 PM UTC
The summer of self destruction:
Mars bars serving pints of red death
On the rocks...
Craters filled with miscreants and misfits
Lined with ***** donors and sounds
Reminiscent of the wise and powerless Buddha
Drowning in a pool of *****
Doorknobs turn counter-clockwise
When the sun hits them from the west;
I crave the raven's guileless depth
As it rips the flesh from off my chest.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
My garden's a mess
never at it's best
although things grow
they grow oh so slow.
I've mended the soil
and put in my toil
there are bees all around
and I've watered the ground.
I've rousted the insect
slugs, earwigs and miscreants
I planted in June
and prayed to the moon.
Morning glories abound
they twine all around
the squash and the shovel
that leans on my hovel.
I lounge in my chair
drink beer and stare
at the bees in their feats
Spearmint their treat.
Maybe next year, I dream
it will all be serene
right now no blue ribbon
I'd only be fibbin'.
The harvest no boast
but will raise a toast
to the bees and glories
in this garden story.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
I want no one there who knew me
find a young crew of miscreants
to do the deed: they can drink their suds,
play soccer with an empty can
carry out my plebeian plan,
as long as they dump me
in a shallow hole--I don’t want
the buzzards to tire of the dig
I want no one there to say my name
or utter some sap like,
’tis a shame, the old guy’s gone
just have them ram that shovel
hard into the devil’s dirt
wipe off the well earned sweat
with a glove covered hand
I don’t want bubbles
on sissies' palms, to be my
blistered legacy
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
force-fed lies by those elected to protect
reddens my raw throat
hoarsely shouting into the void
that oddly enough looks like
the populace at large
blank faces, replaced
gone are the impassioned speeches
and marching masses
instead we see
the insane rallying troop movement
my glass house sits very near
to the danger zone
and fall-out patterns –
asteroid minors look at a distant blue dot
thinking of simpler times
and solid foods –
Republican miscreants misrepresent
minorities
mandating moratoriums
on malt liquor
and manicures –
purest snow falls on the Peruvian plains
toxin free
drinkable
peasant farmers are handed land claims
on generational farms
today, PEPSI owns all precipitation –
hope fades
and faith dwindles
the reality of a global super-power
restraint less
and hungry –
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC