"plods" poems
I've learned to hate uncertainty.
Changes that come cursedly unannounced.
The future glass is half empty, and leaking.
God, Luck, and the Fates have lost my file.
Tossed by mistake to the recycling bin,
to fend for itself.
Time is the only one that plods along,
dragging moment after moment
to the slaughter, though they shriek
never taking a day off.
Death is the only certainty
and even he
works by spontaneity.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.
2.3k
I think the old camel is quite the beast
Carrying man and all his gear
For he can carry more than I
As he plods along with his life
As breaking point I have reached
A slow erosion of my soul
Day by day ever more
Until enough was a time now past
Then I will have long collapsed.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
in the half light
of the whole day; dozing
where the marsh plods clottly
but the pond scums slowly.
you can spare no moral
when your tall tale's
growing.
but you sift slop oddly
through the rot god's
nothing.
II
Fugue ahead. Caution.
III
On thin air, thick tongues and brick lungs scrum
for balloons and ruinous truth, teething batter and gum-shoes
attuned to less violence, but inviolate, if only for the fist
in the violets. the pugilist in the plums. Or maybe -
the cancerous rhinoceros
in the plasticity
of a knows job
goblin.
you tell me.
no problem.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
A cursed affliction of the heart
A human condition that drives us hither
And thither chasing a ghostly calling
On a restless search for mirages
We are all actors
Playing our role
Said a great sonnet writer
We use to quote platitudes
But what of those who wander
A crossroad of diverging futures
Where one role does not satisfy
Their boundless hopes and desires
A poet one moment
A grave digger the next
Who shovels mud in the darkness
And finds meaning in the light
A role fit for a novel maybe
Or at least a bad play
Starring unknown faces
Gesticulating to an empty theatre
Some find solace behind the pages
Of a tattered copy of Crime and Punishment
Leading a vicarious life of alcoholics and whoremongers
And some become what they don’t read
Blessed is the mind whose devotion
Is pure, untainted by the spectre
Of what is and what could be
Charting a singleminded road that plods on
To heights heavenward
To places unexplored
In a narrow field of vision
Towards a sunlit horizon
And not be stuck in the bogs
Of indecisive action
Of halfhearted measures
In a dreary haze of possibilities
But it’s only a cosmic joke one would say
For why did the Almighty in his wisdom
Make a world so vast and beautiful
Our ambitions so conspicuously lofty
And our fleeting lives so very inadequate?
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,
Doth teach that case and that repose to say,
“Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!”
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed being made from thee.
The ****** spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
1.2k
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus
no one
not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)
doesn’t have their face planted on a screen
most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet
i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen
you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid
your think all lives matter especially mine
who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon
whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness
the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman
who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?
and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing
And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?
but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
As excited to return as he was to leave
Bright eyes such bright eyes
He senses my pain
We enter...
....
He skips to his drink
Downs it in one
Plods off to corner
Flops down in the cool shade
Raising a quizzical eyebrow
Then doses off with a contented sigh
....
Click, click of the mouse
The key to the asylum gate turns
The inmates scream out beyond my screen
Some live in heaven others in hell
Perversely I sit here
Omnipresent
My fingers jabbing at the keyboard
Harvesting the daily cruelties of mankind
Kind of "men"
I'm sick
At least sickened
I SEE WAR
LOTS OF HIDEOUS WAR
TWISTED CORPSES
INSANITY
GRIEF
I see twisted politicians pretending to care
Banks rubbing their hands with glee
Arms manufacturers celebrating bonuses
I see death equals money for some
Lots of death = Lots of money
Kids shelled on a beach, hospitals destroyed
"well they use human shields"
So that must mean those humans are worthless?
I see a death toll of 1400...and RISING!
I see no God
I see genocide
Clicking and typing just makes it worse
Calling each other "dogs" a repeated curse
Dogs!
Dehumanizing the enemy
For the purpose of easy slaughter.
The devoted mother and father
The innocent son and daughter
Where is this God?
Either/ any version will do
Or is it all about NOTHING!
Nothing but ********** and greed.
Click, click...
ISIS
When will humanity wake up
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
The world plods along
beeping
and buzzing
and vibrating with its
whirring gears
and sprockets and
well oiled processes
that pick you up and grind you
into a paste
and leave you
wondering how much
time you've wasted
looking down.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
I stare through you
past flashing cerebellar heat and
pulsing hippocampal consideration.
My eyes go sharp
unfocused
squinting to keep unfamiliar truths from being heard.
My heart thuds
plods along in graceless intervention
righteous soldier
amongst tumultuous, chaotic drums.
Hands acquiver
wringing with uncertainty
a drumming tell of what swells within.
A crack of resolution
keeps a swaying mass
upright, holds true.
Cherishing a fleeting pause
amongst crumbling fortitude.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
Death watches us all.
At our birth, death lies beyond sight
and is merely informed of our existence.
But as time progresses, death plods forth
from beyond the horizon to the fog’s end.
At that point, death watches,
looming in the distance,
standing, dark as night.
For _the unfortunates_ death comes early.
For _the over-extenders_ death waits patiently.
But for all, death comes.
We near death; death nears us,
counting down our every breath
until the last.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 1:48 AM UTC
invisible man
plods on
in his empty
world
a bleak
landscape
overcast with
oppressive
clouds full
of a watery burden
he is mesmerized
by watching
foot after invisible foot
stealing step after step
on a flat plateau
such as the earth
surrounded
by fallen
umbrellas
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
The rosy hue of the evening sky
Fades into the grey of the earth;
Shadows weave a magic web
Around the hectic world.
On the desolate moor, dark and cold,
A lonely traveller plods his way.
As fearful fancies haunt his mind,
He prays for help from Heaven above.
A glimmering star appears through gliding clouds,
Cheers his heart: his drooping spirit revives.
Far beyond the world of his dreams, it shines
And bids his sinking soul
Rise above the shadows of the gloomy world
And see the celestial light.
Restless and weary, amidst frightful sights,
With none to guide his faltering steps,
He struggles for a glimpse of the heavenly light.
"What vain struggle!" cries a voice deep within.
"The star that beckons you from the sky,
" Is but a reflection of the Light divine
"Enshrined in your own heart
" And pervades your MARVELLOUS MIND.
"Let thy inward eye pierce the veil
" And behold the splendour of the LIGHT within
"That will dispel darkness and thy path illumine."
************** M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India. mgnmurthy4@gmail. com
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
The car horns toll the knell of parting day,
The toxic fumes creep slowly o’er the park,
The traffic homeward plods its weary way,
And leaves the world to joggers and the dark.
Now fades the shimmering lakescape on the sight,
And to the air the dusk its stillness brings,
Save where mosquitoes wheel in droning flight,
Ross River virus loaded in their stings;
Save that from yonder television tower
The besieged magnate to his “mates” complains
The A.B.T. has exercised its power,
Sent him packing without ill-gotten gains.
Beneath those tiled roofs, that mortgaged shade,
Where heaves the serf in many an exhausted heap,
Each of the dole queue mortally afraid,
Whose forefathers once rode upon the sheep.
The wheezy cough of beery-breathing morn,
They swallow Berocca for their straw-filled heads,
The clock’s shrill clarion, or their arguing spawn,
Once more shall rouse them from beloved beds.
For they no more have savings in their banks,
Both busy partners toil to meet their ends;
No children run to lisp their heartfelt thanks,
They clamour for Air Jordans like their friends.
Oft did their annual jaunt to Bali yield,
Their furrows smoothed by oily massage strokes;
How jocund were their Customs trolleys wheeled!
Their cases bowed by extra grog and smokes!
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their media-fed dreams have learned to stray;
The Holy Grail of the Lotto life
Has taken free out of the word Freeway.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:59 AM UTC
a tall masted sailboat plods its way
across the picture window, under power, moving slow, 5 minute mile,
seagulls trail behind, periodically dive bombing the roiled wake, thinking, surely, men’s finding machinery may better than their own,
we,
taking anything to make the new days poems & troubles easier
so it goes, the interplay between man and a natural world,
so it goes, finding fish, our sustenances, a dance perpetual,
so it goes, divining spirits sensing a vision, bring me music,
a spiritual so apropos that who can doubt God’s existence?
**”With the water
Sweet water, wash me down
Come on, water
Sweet water, wash me down**
**Tried my hand at the Bible
Tried my hand at prayer
But now, nothing but the water
Is gonna bring my soul to bear”^**
so the birth-day begins, sunrise poems & troubles sure to follow,
in serenity commences, perhaps a sunset bookend to match,
but in between, surely poems & troubles, all of life’s stuffing,
signs and guides, surely, at least, the day’s poem is completed...
—————————————-
^ Nothing But the Water (II)
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 8:05 AM UTC
I paddle as he talks
Of life, and the veil just behind it
The water plops as he plods,
On about the things humans never deserved
Saying we have no true structure, style, or word
All is annihilated by the Absurd
Yet with his nugget of knowledge in mine
I paddle on
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
Exploration, soul through a straw
Thought they had told you
Oh, did you now?
Shouts from nostrils, echo
From synapse to eyelash
Universal reverb, total
Drunkenness, did we
Say chocolate? Should
Be ***** bleach, anything
That burns for an instant and
Brings relief through the fogs
Of god-knows-what-else and
Is she coming in here to see
Me like this? Oh,
Please no. Once is enough
And even that time left a nasty
Band of scar tissue mocking out a
Word, I fear for my mind in
Spite of everything. It fails to
Consider my heart and plods on
To the grave, as determined as
When it first twisted
May 28, 2011
May 28, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
He plods with heavy steps
Laden down by the memories of brighter mornings
When the curtains would open to the Sun’s ****** rays
Striking his face with glowing force
Knocking him from his sleepy perch
Sending him tumbling, smiling
Through the giddy fall of day.
On his way he passed bright things.
Things that make him want to risk the fall
To surge forth and cling onto this shining view of fields
Caressed by a teaming blue ribbon of fire.
Or that tinkling, joyous, feminine giggle
Heard as the heat of an afternoon
Of early summer presses on his back
The throng of a crowd surges about him,
A million island universes all striding about their tasks
The comforting presence of all that strong, purposeful flesh
Swimming in never-ending eddies around him.
His mind may scream ‘Reach out!
Grasp at this shining moment, this fickle mote
For it is rare and precious!’
But the fall cannot be stopped.
Should he succumb he is left spinning downwards
Watching, through clouded eyes, this glowing thing shrink
As it passes noiselessly upwards
His back burning and his limbs
Nearly pulled from their sockets.
And he mourns, until he catches the next glimmer
And his eyes fill with light once more.
No, he discovered long ago that all things turn to smoke.
It is better to sit back in comfort and watch with a lazy grin
Than squirm and flap and curse your way to the bottom of the fall.
The bottom. As the glimmers fade, it comes into view.
And the youth, at monstrous speed, would strike this bed
Of black feathers, sinking deep into their fluttering embrace
And several times, as one, they fling him up,
Til he floats back down with ease
And comes to rest
And waits to wake once more.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
Time plods on.
The stuff of dreams wears thin,
so I put the stitches in,
and I smile and I am brave.
Pulled each way
I feel my own mortality.
There's less time than there used to be.
Why do I hesitate?
I do not know, I only wait.
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
Why is it easy to put on the pounds
But so **** hard to lose?
It's always a breeze to pass on the peas,
But ice cream is hard to refuse.
Often we catch ourselves driving too fast;
Are we ever driving too slow?
Our brains are less like a Rafael
And more like a Vincent van Gogh.
Time plods along when we're waiting in line
But races when we're having fun.
As hard as we try to stick to a budget,
There's usually cost overrun!
Medical costs are so Brobdingnagian;
Why can't they be Lilliputian?
It's easy to make but tough to keep
A New Year's resolution.
Doesn't it also seem easy to sink
Yet hard to stay afloat?
Finding the exact words is a challenge;
It's a cinch to misquote.
Love--it seems--should be so simple.
Why is there so much hate?
Being early is usually good,
But sometimes you want to be late.
Life's little inconsistencies:
Always a daily test…
All we can do is go with the flow
And try to do our best.
- by Bob B
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Human senses on emotion feather'd,
Hang by threads, make thy mind pleasur'd.
Frosted stream of crystal air
Cools the throats of men;
Closing behind allure of liquid amber,
Breathe to soothe back to their den.
Seen a sight never seen before;
Time plods long, stops the winds push.
Greenéd ever trees stand still on the moor,
Birds fly to the tower; view spreads to lush.
Perched on high from Gods temple door,
Flocks that gather to hear natures hush.
No music from this raiséd correlation?
Strangéd my mind, this earths variation.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 3:35 PM UTC
Hello to you...
To...you...hello,hello poetry.
I seek shelter in the arms of fellow writers... I travel from a far from a land of trolls and blighters who forget the gift of writing and imagination. It has become a train of insults that plods along from station to station. I seek refuse where I can just write... Write things about how I sometimes look in to the sky wondering where...wondering how? It's cold outside, my feet soaked from the puddles I walked in for miles...with these holes in my worn out shorts. So, come on...please. Why don't you invite me in?
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC