"mockeries" poems
The black unicorn is greedy.
The black unicorn is impatient.
'The black unicorn was mistaken
for a shadow or symbol
and taken
through a cold country
where mist painted mockeries
of my fury.
It is not on her lap where the horn rests
but deep in her moonpit
growing.
The black unicorn is restless
the black unicorn is unrelenting
the black unicorn is not
free.
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Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor
Number 1
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.
Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.
One showed a vain and noisy ****
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.
And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.
Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.
And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.
All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.
The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.
The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,
Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.
The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe.
"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."
"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please."
And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!"
The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.)
The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.
Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!
Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
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I trust I have not wasted breath:
I think we are not wholly brain,
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain,
Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death;
Not only cunning casts in clay:
Let Science prove we are, and then
What matters Science unto men,
At least to me? I would not stay.
Let him, the wiser man who springs
Hereafter, up from childhood shape
His action like the greater ape,
But I was born to other things.
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Who can tell?
Whether malice has its own purity?
If odor has its own fragrant smell?
Does right wrong right
Or wrong right wrong?
Could darkness have its own light?
What do you know?
Guilt might have its own innocence
For all you know
Humility and modesty
Could just be a show
This is how life is
You either laugh hard
Or you cry in pain
You love too much
Or you die in vain
If you don’t make someone smile
You end up being a bore
If you dress up too guile
You are tagged a *****
You may be very pretty
but deceitful in act
You may be called ugly
but are beautiful in fact
In sadness
you’re creative
In happiness
well that is tentative
and yet sans it too
you may appear narrative
If you know too much
you realize how less you knew
If you are too ignorant
you realize that all lies are just few
Humor shames trivialities
Irony is the truth about absurdities
We scorn at all harsh realities
So we smile at its mockeries
Could love really be true?
And hatred absolutely false?
Is sadness a gloom
Covered in joy so sparse
like a dull audience
forced in its applause?
Without a doubt
A truth has a lie hidden
Simply because
The mirror isn’t clear
It hides many flaws
and your aesthetic sin
deep within
If you counted the seconds
and minutes and the hours
Will you still be wasting time?
Or would you still
have to make an orange juice
out of a dainty lime?
What’s rhetoric
if a question has an answer
if silence it’s own message
and guns and bullets
its own power?
What’s the point
If you’re devising a plan
for your future
to become a big man
And you still say
that you don’t know
what might happen tomorrow
That it all looks bleak and dark
And you sit there
not working hard
you crib and worry
and fake a smile
to everyone
you appear
as blithe as a lark
We dwell with glee
In a world where
two extremes meet
Order deals with its chaos
And chaos struggles for order
Everyone fights
for the latter
And to straighten
an imbalanced balance
and dispel a dulcet clatter.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 6:26 AM UTC
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds
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Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
I even smile old smiles—with listlessness—
Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.
A thought too strange to house within my brain
Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
—That I will not show zeal again to learn
Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain….
It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer
That shapes its lawless figure on the main,
And each new impulse tends to make outflee
The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;
Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be
Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!
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I have often turned within my grave to ponder of the reason why
Upon the date of my birth, you took me to your secret hide
Underneath an aspen tree within the deadest of nights
You took to me like a moth to a ball of flickering light
With the devils own smile plastered upon your face and the slightest of hand
You produced a sanguineous jar of hearts and an ominous jar of black sand
You grasped my hands in your work enured and fairly calloused paws
Looked me in the eyes, and told me to forever leave my pale hands raw
"Never soil your untouched hands, your hands and eyes you shall avert'
"Never bruise, nor ever hurt, nor shall they be ever touched by dirt,
"Never touch a rose, nor touch a bee, as danger is an all you see,
"Close your eyes my little darling, and all of life shall be but a dream."
With the trust of a mothers child, I kept my eyes tightly squeezed
Wished upon the star within the midnight sky, wavering in the breeze
Held my hands up to my chest, hoping the fluttering and staggered slips
Not to be seen by your face within the light of moon as from the sun it dines and sips
Of a heart that had only once been given to me and should have forever stayed mine
But the greed inside all mens' hearts want, and reaches out to grasp a young new 'hind'
With another slight of those calloused hands, you took my life for your own pleasure
And stole what was rightfully derived as mine; a beating heart, you took your leisure
A working mind, once a clock, now fully had come to a skidding stop
You took my bones and my teeth and used them as a fertilizing crop
The very worst thing that you did, you took my pride when you took my skin
Shaved off clean with a diamond edged razor and worn as if you were mockeries twin
Burried underneath that beautiful aspen tree, I've been given the time to remold
But my life had been stolen, the soul forced out before the bells had tolled
In the time it had taken for my pieces to remold, I had realised something then and there;
There were always things that were meant to go untold, but the truth is ringing upon the open air
You wanted more than what was offered and had bitten off all you could chew
But if I'd known back then what I know now, I'd know real good men only come in few
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
The sky transformed in a matter of seconds
From a bright powder blue
To a sickly gray that reminded me of my darkest days.
The teardrops from the sky came trickling down
bit by bit
Slowly picking up speed
As I could hear the pitter patter on the window sills.
I walked over to my window to watch the show.
To watch the raindrops maneuver its way
past the nooks and crannies of the trees
and soak up into the ground.
I noticed something odd.
Right outside my window, lied a spider web.
A huge one, about two feet in diameter
And in the center, sat a beautiful maroon colored spider, curled into a ball to protect itself from the penetrating water droplets.
The web had to be one of the most
beautiful creations I'd ever seen.
How could something so minuscule
Create such a wonderful piece of art all on its own?
But as I was looking at this web
I was watching something devastating.
All of the spider's hard work
Was being battered by the rain.
The web was shaking violently back and forth.
Surprisingly, it was remaining mostly intact.
Unlike the fragile spider,
Clinging onto the strings of its creation for dear life.
The rain continued beating down
As I stood there admiring the web's strength.
The web was withstanding everything the storm threw it's way.
But its soul, the creator, didn't seem strong enough to.
The storm faded away.
The web, a little beaten down,
managed to stay strong enough to survive.
The spider, however, did not.
This reminds me of myself, you know.
Beaten down with words, mockeries
Beaten down by my past
My memories
I keep my outer shell perfectly intact
So that no one knows what is really going on inside me.
When in reality, my soul is dying.
My depths are shallowing, just like the spider.
I am not the only one like this.
I was oblivious to this fact
Until I watched this spider
Take his last breath before drowning.
Why couldn't the spider be as strong as its outer shell?
Why can't I be as strong
as I make myself out to be?
Maybe I'll find out one day.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Unto seventy years and seven,
Hide your double birthright well--
You, that are the brat of Heaven
And the pampered heir to Hell.
Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
Sternly as you drill your pride.
Show your quick, alarming skill in
Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
Ink that rushes from your heart.
When your pain must come to paper,
See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
Let it lick the words away.
Never print, poor child, a lay on
Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
Murmur, "Silly little thing!"
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He knew she'd never leave.
Mistakes become true testaments of love supposedly, women tend to accept a man's wrongs as a way to show their loyalty.
Sticking through thick and thin, while their men
skip and skim through options.
I was an option.
Somedays I was proud to be his safe haven, his lover, most of all his friend.
I was in love with the comfort and knowing he'd would always be there.
Other days I was lonely. When hours past and there was no sign of him I assumed I had ran my course.
That she had returned, but we both knew she had never left or planned on leaving.
I knew I was in love when the pain became more painful.
As I spent each holiday alone, my reflection mocked me.
I questioned which I'd rather be a secret or a mockery.
I still don't know personally.
The women, or "girls" with the relationships we envy I've noticed seem to rather be made mockeries.
You see a strong, confident, beautiful, intelligent, and independent lady become weak, cowardly, dependent, clingy, oblivious, insecure, and naive.
The denial is their safe haven.
Well he was mine.
I became all of the above, except naive.
I always knew.
He always knew I'd leave, and deep down I knew it too.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
Leave these other guys desensitized.
Sacrificial activism
stop telling these lies
Lyrical capitalism
Deception is precession
Dark future; bright prison
Dark past; bright vision
Stuck inside; minds prism
All equal BUT, what division?
Quest, what?
New edition.
Not what eye envisioned.
Isosceles try angles
Highs lighten; the atrocities
Apostrophes trapping trophies
Kings fallen; to their knees
Ruled by their needs
The heinous comes,
with the mockeries.
Fable creatures; feeble needs.
Dream Chasers see, wicked dreams.
The life of an artist is not all that it seems: see what I mean?
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Run your fingers over my chest
pick apart my shirt, thread by thread
and crush the fibers between your fingers
til you've laid my skin bare
Let your frigid breath caress my *******
and perk my ******* in parody of arousal
Then bring that silver blade you've been twirling
idly in your elegant hands,
trace its sharpened edge from my neck to my heart
Leave a stark line of red in your wake,
for it tells me that reality is here,
pinned under your gaze
You have no need for restraints, no cuffs of shining steel,
your piercing eyes and the bow of your lips
are enough to keep me perfectly still
even as you slide your blade between my ribs and twist
like a rusted key in a lock
my bones slide apart
Rivulets of red run down my pale skin,
drawing mockeries of words I can't express
between my shallow, gasping, shuddering breaths
Watch my heart beating in my open chest,
and sink your fingers in around the arteries
let my blood flow over your hand
Squeeze hard.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
Wise men tell their tales
Of yesteryear
With vigor and pride
To youngsters and noblemen
In accordance
With their passion
To teach.
Fools tell their stories
Of mockeries
With evil and filth
To ascertain encomium
In accordance
With their pleasure
To scorn.
Young ones keep silent
And understand
As the words are drawn
From both the fool and the wise
In accordance
With their desire
To learn.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 4:21 AM UTC
First, there was infinity
Out of infinity came darkness and light
Which were divided into night and day
The light of day gave birth to the sea, the sky and the earth
The darkness of night gave birth to more
It began with doom
Which brought death
Caused by disease and old age
After living life of suffering
Suffering from pain, mockeries and lies
Lies told by fakes who used illusion
Illusions to cause discord and fights
Fights that ended in war, ****** and ruin
From the ruins came misery
And from that misery came starvation
Which caused plundering and deceit
Deceit showed the way to defilement
The defilers began to harvest pride
The pride lashed out harsh criticisms
Those criticisms caused obsessions to destroy blemishes and defects
The path to doing so lead to lawlessness until all that was left was the choice to forget all that had happen or place the blame somewhere
It was inescapable
Yet, all of that was only half of what spawned from infinity
The light of day beared the sky, sea and earth
Encompassing them was time and nature
Time held possibilities
Possibilities to create
To create life
Life full of love
Love full of live
And yes, each fate is the same
Death
The start, the length of each life and the eventual end
But each destiny differs
Nature
The ebbing and flowing of order
The force coming from infinity
Binding all living things
To heal and to bestow gifts
Gifts of guidance
Of peace and truth
Truths that speak of joy and undeniable beauty
Encouragement and relief
But what is it that separates the two?
Keeping this world in proper balance?
The answer is us.
Look within yourself and see the infinity you hold
Destroy it
Then create anew
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
"In the days of the monkeys,
I ate their brains,"
he turned to me and laughed,
that hollow sound
which could never fill our void,
nor turn back time --
not even erase the mockeries
we made of feigned virtue,
faded glory --
devout adornment of the false gods
of fate.
No murderer can lay claim
to a moniker graced with deity,
laced with the untruths
of the human soul,
(a condition born of
pre-ordained expediency).
The human condition
creates a killer --
defines the scope of ******
of murderer.
I looked at him --
my voice distant and low,
"In the days of the monkeys,
we may not have been
the same."
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC
I think you'll find
That this is my mind
I'm not your toy
I'll not fall for your ploy
of wiping my brain
You'd not complain if I lost it
I'm not a bit amused
I refus to be abused by
Manipulation
Your fucker's frustration
You'll not **** my soul like Mary's
Don't penetrate my morals with mockeries
I am my own
Who I love will be my choice
my neighbour,
whether girl or boy,
I'll love if I choose.
Wouldn't I be a joy in
your clockwork congregation
Pity, I refuse to turn my fear
of Life into Faith,
in sublimation.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
You remind my mind of magic this body had let go
like the tiny tender shoots that come before the snow
you make mock of mockeries a lesser heart might hold
and sing of things at once belied by souls already cold
You laugh long and easily in place of doubts and fear
my worry only complicates the things your eyes see clear
I held you once and dreamt of all the thoughts I'd help you see
I take my comfort knowing that the student has been me
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
got to meet a pedagogue
who might let out of his
wretched gob
some mockeries
something like this
"perhaps, he has a paralysis"
when in the course of classwork
you're not taking
notes of what's on the blackboard
that snot's painting
got to meet an insolent boy which
might start an altercation
since that ***** is annoyed with
3 out of 5 you'd rated
his "top significant" work with
despite the case that
it's simply according
to the teacher's direction
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 11:29 AM UTC
companionship in the fog
the raindrops leave their stains
on the threshing floor
where the mockeries are made
i feel a friend in the way
the flowers don't show their beauty
in face of the cold, in reaction
to the slow fade of leftover sunlight
the urge to wound slightly subsides
when the clarity of all arrives
in ways even I can't deny
exposed in the shadows from the sky
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Winds march over boulevards
As winding as his wanderings
Leafs leave branches barren
To make the grey skies seen
Clouds cry bitter raindrops
Soaking sour solitude
The puddles promise solace
To drown in to his waist
Torso left to nature’s whims
And storms to wear him out
Car alarms laugh in his face
Howling mockeries his way
Loudly, thunders call him
To give in to the fogs and mist
Life was never as redundant
As in autumn’s heady lists
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Take a long view towards the gesture of mine
See what it is to unfold
My hands clenched as my spirit grows
Doubting things never a option
A fool, an idiot, a loser
For I have many infamous callings
Tho none of them were true
Still, they drove me with confidence
Locking memories of mockeries into my heart
Let it be known to them
That I don't give f@#k
Overflowing confidence, perhap?
Nah, that doesn't resemble me
For modesty is my policy
But I will tell you this
That I am what I ********* am.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
The High Priest Kisses King Herod’s (Hands)
His Eminence the Cardinal of New York
The High Priest kisses King Herod’s (hands)
And joins him for a feast of mockeries and lies
Giving the tyrant for his crimes a pass
Laughing at Truth as civilization dies
Over lobster and beef they pity the poor
While robed in white ties and evening gowns
And silken ecclesiastical couture
(One of them has visions of papal crowns)
Gluttony and scorn at a rented manse -
All that is missing is Salome’s dance
Oct 19, 2024
Oct 19, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC
the glib torrents of genuine mockeries
parade and diffuse.
i hang my hat on dull knobs and soldier on
to an empty room, with my bells numb
and my prayers mute.
we are the joyous noise, risen from a grave tune.
but we have our hours locked in minutes
that expire to amuse a few.
perhaps the angels know the jest of it
but remain removed.
having seen it all before, at rest in tired fun
they muse.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
Shadows like hurricanes
In minds like weathervanes
Dance for mockeries
While planes are listening
Words to fall away
Like earth to save someday
Pain like wandering
In shoes so weathering
Vain like celebrate
So time is circling
Shame like haunting away
Game like supposed to say
Shame the seeming gray
Wake like muttering
Climb like our day
Blame like want today
Shame like sand astray
And bells like leaves in May
Reign like start today
But fold like colors
Hold tight shudders
Mold like rubber
In homes like butler's
Of tomes like brothers
Some like flutter
While some walk others
Codes like shutters
Hopes like others
Hope for others
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
A precious piano stands silent and sovereign
in a room of obscure ambience that hangs from Heaven.
Gathered is a crowd familiar by name and face,
and name and face alone.
A prophet stands a step beneath the piano.
His emaciated ideals are better explained in writing.
The crowd uses his mispronounced prophecies as the material
for their mockeries and their jokes.
A glass ceiling makes them naked to ethereal bodies
that do not care to pay attention.
And if such bodies could speak, they would speak
nothing towards them.
Each soul in the room is selling some
stopgap prescription drug that will last a lifetime.
The preacher is selling God, with all His effete side effects;
the fascist sells purpose with some acrid aftertaste;
and the madman sits in the corner with a thousand low-cost answers,
none of which you can fact check.
“You will see!” the prophet exclaims.
His voice is weak in its strength.
“You will see the rubble of Man’s Creation,
and the fractured bones of God.”
Lucifer enters with a proud gait
and collects the silent.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC