"podiums" poems
The world's on fire, peace is extinct
Look how fragile peaceful minds can get
All hostile minds are having a ball right now.
It's like peace got embellished in chaos.
Where's peace at, what happened to her?
Regional, global local, peace is in short supply.
This is the renaissance of a new world order
Where partial peace coexists with total chaos
People only search Google for mostly facts
Not for solutions to some distorted peace
What is peace then, how can it be?
Just a routine rhetorical question
Coming from the disturbed mind in me
Listen, One-minute partial peace
Bang, another minute total chaos!
Nowadays, Instability everywhere is commonplace
As unscripted hate rhetoric freely echos,
From jihadic podiums to confused minds.
The conspicuous birthplace of premeditated evil.
The mind, soft spots of those totally confused
Call it the hotspots and playground for the devil.
I, the skeptic, to say the very least,
See this quiet storm as a distorted peace!
twitter @ivaclappers
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
The preachers shout out on Sunday morn,
from stages and podiums at the top of their lungs.
God made men to be men, women to be women,
and he never makes any mistakes from heaven.
To be different is a sin, and you must turn away,
ignore your true self and be all that they say.
Dress as they dress, speak as they speak,
stand up like a man, and don't show yourself weak.
But they don't ever say, yet know that they should,
that gender's in the brain, and not in how you look.
And because of that, no mistakes were made,
Men will always be men, and a woman I've always been.
© Lj Mark 2015
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
Poetic.....Poetic.....Poetic
Is what everybody is now
Poetic justice is what everybody brings now
Burn the city down
Poetic
Maybe then the government will listen
Everyone a revolutionary
Poetic
Posers standing on podiums
They march for peace but plant the seed
to send you to war
Posers never on the front line
Cowards afraid to die first
Poetic
Selling dreams that don't exist like those of Mr. King
Posers afraid of death
Homosexuals of war
But far from an Alexander
Far from a Ceacer but those are who they chosen to follow since they don't lead none
Poetic
We poets don't speak up
I was going to recite with my stage name
Anonymous my alter ego
My Duo persona
Poetic
But for this everyone should see the face and now the name
Of the man who pointed out the cowards
I'm not afraid of death,
Poetic
I'm not afraid of arrest
Poetic
But the bloods the crips
The nation of islam
Should had burned down
Sallie Mae
Not mom and pop shops
Poetic
Restore the damage
Restore the damage
pay your dues
Go get your 40 acres and your mule
I dream the dream but not American
Since I live my life as if I was to die
Before being immortalize
Poetic
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
Learn to recognize lies, while they stand at
Their podiums, and proselytize,
Like so many Sunday preachers,
You can see it in their eyes, and
Their shifty ****** features, though
Their words seem sincere,
Their subtle cues, serve as
Teachers of their inner intent, so
Don't forget your diligence, and
Let them **** your dissent, with
Empty promises and rhetoric, to
Fill your head with lies about,
How war is for the betterment, of
Nations abroad, the sentiment
Is laughable, the premise is a fraud.
Cause when it all boils down, and
When push comes to shove,
Democracy has grass roots, it's
Not imposed from above, and
At the end of the day, money is
The factor prime, it's the secret
Justifier for this terroristic crime,
First, they bombed Iraqi cities,
In a trial of "Shock and Awe"
That killed even more civilians,
Than what 9/11 saw, and
Once the cities were demolished,
Halliburton then rebuilt them, and
Reaped enormous profits,
To the tune of 40 billion, and
Among other things, in this
"Just" war's spoils, were
The underground oceans,
Flowing full of crude oil, and
We all fund these atrocities,
These lies, these hypocrisies, well
If you decide this ain't the type,
Of thing that you can stand for,
Write "exempt" on line 7, of your W-4
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
Part One
There once was a Boy. He was a boy who loved other boys.
The Boy was very sad because the people in the pulpit told him, "God hates you," even though the Boy loved God very much.
And the people on podiums told, "You will destroy society," even though the Boy loved people very much.
Even his mommy and daddy told him, "Boys love girls. Girls love boys," and though they didn't mean to hurt him, it still made the boy very sad.
The Boy had a Little Brother.
The Little Brother loved the Boy so much, and he was sad that the Boy was sad.
So, the Little Brother learned about the different kinds of love there is:
between girls and girls,
girls and boys,
boys and boys,
and just people who love people.
The Little Brother met many new friends who were just like the Boy.
The Little Brother fought for the Boy
and this made the Boy happy.
Part Two
The Boy had many friends, but not any friends who were Like Him. That is, until the Boy met an Other Boy.
The Other Boy was one of the Little Brother's friends, but soon the Boy and the Other Boy became friends too.
They worked together.
They played together.
They talked together from when the moon came up
to when the moon went down.
And the Boy was very, very happy.
Before he realized it, the Boy fell in love with the Other Boy. But he was too scared to tell the Other Boy, so he kept it a Secret.
Then one day, the Other Boy had to leave for Far Away. He went off to learn about people and things and places that grown-ups learn about.
The Boy missed his friend very much
and felt sad once more.
Part Three
While he was far away, the Other Boy met many other boys who were Like Him and the Boy.
He worked with them, played with them, and talked with them.
Every time the two friends talked, the Other Boy would tell such great stories about his adventures.
All the while, however, the Boy held his Secret very closely. He would never tell it, he promised.
But sometimes, when they talked, the Other Boy would ask about Boys Who Loved Too Much. Sometimes, he would ask about Boys Who Loved Other People.
This made the Boy grow jealous.
Sometimes, the Boy was angry.
Many times, the Boy was sad.
But he loved the Other Boy very much anyway. So, when the Other Boy needed help, the Boy would try to tell him, "Do what you believe is right. I believe in you."
But even though the Boy told the Other Boy this, he was still very sad. He really wanted to tell the Other Boy his Secret, but was still too scared. So because the Boy did share how much he cared for the Other Boy, the Secret grew within him like a big red balloon in his heart...
...growing and pushing...
...pushing and growing...
...until the Boy could no longer keep it to himself...
...until the Boy's heart burst...
...and the terrible and beautiful Secret flew out.
But not like one big balloon,
but a thousand of them in reds, blues, yellows, and greens.
So that is how it began: that two boys stared across from one side of a nation to another, each beginning to learn what it means to grow up,
what it means to be in love and what it means to love,
and what it means to be alone.
But above all things, the two Boys learned what it meant to be friends.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 7:53 PM UTC
The deafening sounds of police sirens
Tear through the evening air
Leaving behind an air of indignation
Hoping, out of thin air, to create a nation
The ebb and flow of truth and lies
Turns our interests into a public pastime
And we watch on in abject fascination
As we bring to its knees, this nation
They come and go as plastic figurines
With serpent-like tongues and vice-like grips
As we promote excessive procreation
The wheels must keep turning, to this nation
Progress, Growth, Youth, and Opportunity
Are but some of the buzzwords
Abdication of thought is the foundation,
To the structure of this nation
Power and oppression are but two sides of the same coin
Without one there cannot be the other
Smothering each other with precise calculation
Just to access the throne to the nation
Storytellers stand atop podiums and enchant the masses
While they shower them with praise
Year after year, they stand in the same formation
And salute the flag, the one that makes this nation
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
And she talks while my hands shiver
She’s a lie
She’s a lie
She’s a live representation of untruthfulness
A great portal of unworthy in-transparency
A grand stand of podiums and microphones
Flat screen tv’s
With radios and horns pumping your blood to your brains
Blocking your sight
And vision
Rocking impure notes
Of Dead metal
She’s a lie
My love is a lie
My love is a lie
Shedding tears on what she stole
Breaking my heart and taking it all
Spring time flowers and I fall
Beneath the trees
of beautiful regret
And powerful surrender
Trees that I used to climb
To look at her window
And see the angel of death never so beautiful
She’s a lie
My love is a lie
My love is a lie…
She turned out to be a democratic state
A hypocrite dictating my heart
Controlling my thoughts and my work
My wild imaginations…
Deciding my past
Exiting my present
Ending my future
She’s a lie
My love is a lie
My love is a lie
All the big people we are
And we accept our lies
The created trickeries
To satisfy our needs
To be taken care of
While we take care of our own commonplace matters
And one of them is you
Because you’re a lie
Everyone’s a lie…
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
The world falls upon my long and enduring thoughts, and rises with my hopes and wishful thinking
I blink not because it's normal; blinking
I blink because every time I close my eyes I transfer myself directly from a vivid realization of the pitiful situation we have reached
To a land of ultimate silence, silence that could not be breached
Built by walls of imagery, the eye of my heart makes it beautiful to see
All the mesmerizing scenery created by me
A land surrounded by high fences of imagination,
Secured by troops of my own creation
Governed by my will, though my will is long lost between your selfish lies and infamous deceit
A place I have formed, and living in it would be a treat
Vicinity, where the mundane tragedy is never mixed with what's really dull in our existence
An indulging unknown, where I know no resistance
I wish you can come with me and see the place for yourself, but iam sure that humanity doesn't mis with anything that is pure
Humans and purity are just like oil and water, one lies above the other
Sometimes people sugar coat that ugly truth…but others don't even bother
They climb on their podiums, or sit on their chair
Spread fear and fornication and women in despair
Kill…rape
People will never escape
The human form, a shameful shape…
Unless you blink, you quit into a world of your own interlaced with your conscious, for if you haven’t washed out the blood of your hands the color of your dark closed eyes would be red
Because your actions are the outcome of what you think, unfortunately you dumb ****** perform directly and think later instead
I blink not because it's normal; blinking
But because I need to change my state, for with every breathe I'm taking I am perpetually sinking…
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 5:44 PM UTC
*1
Dirtbag Republicans
Mud slings podiums
On national stage what disgrace
They all stoop so low*
*2
Scary Buffoons
Republican Song
Bigots and cowards d'baiting
Sing: 'send in the clowns'*
*3
Conservative Budget Logic
Food stamp program bad
Trillion dollar wars so good
No child left a dime*
*4
CON-servative Wackos
All crazy on stage
None flew over cuckoo's nest
Wait till one holds office*
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:31 PM UTC
Faintly, a force is forming from an abyss of nothingness.
Swelling with the waste of wanton warriors, whaling of a withered world, curled, in the carriers to a scarier dilemma.
Brimstone, fire, a panorama of pandemonium, with jackals projected from podiums, and its right there on the screen.
Gleaming, on the seemingly glorious display, the loops play, and replay, in gorgeous indefinites, frayed in their tethered need to define our sentiments, so in kind, i severed it, and joined the collective.
Much better.
The machines now clever and draws my every breath to this ******* vortex in the sky.
My fruitless efforts defy, the physics of my inner cynic, if only i would get with it or just try.
Watching us just die.
And I feel fine.
Everything's alright.
I'm not in it to win it, but to survive.
Just assisting your suicide, as i'm resisting until i die, just don't resurrect me to the hive, and involve me in the lines, or the triviality of your times, that you are so proud ...
To squander, over yonder, pondering the fonder things, with bonkers themes, spread through out your memes, like a god ****** teen, burning tinfoil seams, on the street with thieves over a live feed.
Please.
Just keep drifting into the black hole, until its fed and full, or just blow out the lights of my futile fighting, and make me Noland void.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
It's time to contemplate
the twilight of post-modern idols
- An Ideal
can we live for one?
We lay out what we stand for
in simple platitudes
then spend all our time
defining what we're not
despite all the death done
in its name
Protecting Freedom's
just an umbrella
replace "carpet bomb families"
with "neutralize enemies"
- who threatened our Liberty
but that means
sway elections away from those
that reject economic puppetry
Cut the cord
if you want us to buy Contras
Reaganomics define
Drug War: Sold crack,
bought guns from Iran,
fund death squads
in Nicarag-Hooah!
Freedom's lambs
they had to die
They tried to reach out
against exploited workers
so even Catholic priests
got murked
Yes, murdered
but also muddied
in the waters of
historiography's story
As in, no one studies history
Today's armchair historians
they just find bargains
and hero worship
while they channel surf
Pulled by yachts
they don't make waves
Oceans abound but
most just coast
in creeks and canals
No Wake Zones
Think you're woke, bro?
You just came up
with a narrow strait thought
that was simply dismissed
by Heraclitus of Ephesus
nearly three millennia ago
Your certainty of knowing
brings danger of you drowning
Cause "Ever-newer waters flow
on those who step into the same rivers."
All I know is fire
so burn a hen for Prometheus
and we'll topple poser's podiums
then yoga flame them back to oneness
Cause after horrific mediation
and barring off public relations
You'll catch me drunk playing video games
with butchers and their daughters
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
Today I went to a hundred funerals
Today I wept a thousand times
I saw a million faces
All ready with their lines
Today I waited through
Ten thousand people
Claiming
To have known you
Today I lit a hundred candles
I wished a hundred wishes
I thought a thousand times if
Only I were the one
Sleeping with the fishes
Today I wore a hundred dresses
Some with lace
Or ribbons on the back
But I never noticed the design
'Cause all of them were black
Today I followed a hundred processions
Leading steady past a thousand graves
And a thousand grieving faces
Looked up to meet my eyes
As if to say “I know you”
And I know the pain that you have faced
Today I walked for miles and miles
In a procession that sometimes
Had horses and sometimes
Had shiny cars
And I walked in front to lead them on
Or I walked in back so nobody could see too closely
The decisions racing through my head
Should I stand?
Should I leave
Should I wail in agony into the sky
Or just burst out into hysterical laughter
And today
A hundred times
I finally rose to speak
As I always knew I would
At a hundred different podiums
In a hundred different dresses
In two hundred different shoes
To a thousand different people
Sometimes a small intimate gathering
Sometimes a haunted silent crowd reaching as far
As the eye can see
Past headstones
And tombstones
And flowers with their grieving faces
I looked out across this a hundred times
And yet I never knew just what to say
I burst into to tears
Or fits of fury
I stood silently hoping
That I’d never need to know what to say
Except maybe one day
But far in the future
After our dreams are reached
And our goals are achieved
And we are proud of who we are
Not sitting and waiting
For the test results to come back
As in my head strolls a party
All dressed in black
Today I went to a hundred funerals
I sang a hundred songs, true
Today I went to a hundred funerals
Every one of them for you
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 4:08 PM UTC
Gold shines just as brilliantly as silver or bronze
achievements for the greatest of them all
standing on podiums, they show-off their medals.
Well gold, silver, and bronze shine
just as much as tin or iron
even the cheapest of plastics can be made to reflect light.
Will your champion know what is really gold
or will they be distracted by how it glitters?
No, not all winners are fools.
But the best of them all can determine
the metal of their medals.
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 1:41 PM UTC
why do you bow down to fat cats
men who dress up in suits
They ***** lies from podiums
shame on you
shame on you
SHAME ON YOU
Once Again I say Shame on You
indoctrinated by leaders and teachers
birth, school, job, marry and die
birth, school, job, marry and die
Conform , Conform or Die
that's the message you learn
blind to the propaganda
Government's bend to Bankers
Oil greases the war machines cogs
Soldiers just keep on marching
W we
A are
R right
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 10:28 AM UTC
‘She’s but a waste,’ some might say,
The antiquated demons perched
Atop her ***** shoulder,
howl those words effortlessly.
Oh, how they mock her; a doomed admonition-
A pitiful, wretched villain
Incapable of standing still.
‘She’ll rob you blind,’ they might whisper,
From the highest peak of their
pedestals and podiums,
Scrutinizing her wiggles and writhes, ruthlessly.
Oh, how they taunt her; a mirrored representation of ego-
A reputed captivation ****** sober but for now
Idly biding her time
‘She’s insane!’ they’ll declare,
Lounging in their Queen Annes,
Finalizing her score, most offensively.
Oh, how they wallop her; casting pebbles from their pristine form-
Upon the ribbed web of her spiritual coop
Faust, lying in wait.
‘aha!’ they’ll proclaim
From the rusted thrones of purity
Tallying her blunders to the nth.
How they scream through bitten tongue
Into that, what is left of her vitality
Cascading into degradation
Feeding her indignation
Gripping her last temptation
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Little tin(y) gods
At the podiums stand
Ever so great and
Ever so grand
They make appeals
"A clean sweep"
They make promises
They won't keep
We sing their praises
With laurels crowned
They love on U.S.
Then sleep around
Political coinage
Political gain
They have banked
Upon their fame
The dark triad
Check the list
They're psychopathic
Megalomaniacal
Narcissists!
How'd they get
To be on top?
The pendulum swing
Has got to STOP!
Some voters sigh
Some voters slump
Some voters are
Just plain chumps!
Buy the lies
Don't find it odd
You're a fool
For little tin(y) gods
SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/17/2016
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Just yesterday, I saw men stand in front of podiums with red business suits ablaze with incorrect passion. Strings on their back , and words on their shoes. Woody. Those soles have been carved by one word: morals. And those shoes are ablaze with incorrect passion. Pulling apart a union piece by piece, string by string, and the only strands left are those attached to their backs repeating flint and steel comments that replenish the firewood. Merit badge. And grow their noses the length of the nation “they love.” Puppets. Historically, a canary follows a coal mine, and now it’s in good G-d’s gold mine searching for that soul of the red business tie precious metal is found and generously placed upon the plates of children but pushed away as if broccoli. Child in a grown man’s body. Today a woman stood in front of a room and told me about invisible lines. And how soon they may be visible because the flame of business passion is stone-by stone bringing us “closer to G-d” because separate but equal is no longer history and it is apparently a mystery that G-d is just; because what I see are bible’s no longer placed in hearts but in hands only to be thrown into the fire and used to interpret the remains as if oracle bones stating that Jesus was never love and G-d is a sin because the man in red passion as he recited what he wants said so.
Raise up your arms and aim your point-and-shoot cameras (guns) at the religious text with a backdrop of love...don’t bring it into focus...3...2...1...Bang
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
There are thank yous to be given
To the people who have bestowed to me a voice
A chance
An opportunity to get my work out there to the public's ear
The people who give that to everyone wanting to display and demonstration raw self-expression with passion
The people who they themselves are artists as well
Writers, musicians, brilliant and enlivened
They bequeath to us platforms, podiums
Spotlight center stage soapboxes
Microphones waiting to have words of insight cascade into them
And amps bracing themselves to have those words erupt out of them
Onto an expecting and interested crowd
The smell of coffee
The smell of cigarettes
The taste of Burgundy
On my nervous breath
On the air
On the mic
I'm there
And I thank you all
For the chances you grant all of us
We who want to show the world what we can do and who we are
There needs to be more people like you, caring and ardent
With the utmost sincerity I give you my deepest gratitude
Here's to you
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
To The 70%
Thank you for twiddling your pens,
and straightening your ties.
Thank you for playing red light, green light
with little buttons on podiums and your sausage fingers.
Thank you for making decisions about my body
so I don't have to.
You have wrapped yourself in the American flag like
it is a blindfold.
You are smiling as you place another brick onto the tower of the patriarchy
making it easier for you to claw your way to the top of a temple to a false god.
I bet you pump Betty Crocker and Tide Laundry Detergent into the veins of your wife.
I bet you stuff her like a rag doll and throw her around like one, too
I bet
you own her like a trophy,
a symbol of your triumph as a 'man'.
You sit her on the mantle,
next to your shotgun,
and the picture of your daughter at her christening as a baby.
Her puff pastry dress and bracelet of pearls serve as indications that
the sparkle in her eye will always be a pink one. That
she will glue her legs together in the name of shiny, Christian abstinence. That no one will rip them apart for the shade of her lipstick or the size of her chest.
Though it was not her fault that you were late to pick her up from school again
Though it was not her fault that she smiled back at the boy leaving basketball practice
Though it was not her fault that he opened her like a present three days before Christmas
You shut the destroying thing inside of her until September when
it had the nerve to crawl out and stare her in the face,
all of the naivety sprawled out in front of her
surrounded by a ****** mess
you expect her to clean it up,
without even helping her off the stained sheets of the hospital bed.
Think about that silver frame and the child that graces the inside of it.
Look into her eyes and see that promise,
an unopened gift under the tree.
Doesn't it make you wonder why you
are the one telling her when she should grow up?
Doesn't it make you wonder why you
could ever blame a woman for her own ****
To The 70%:
Stop using the flag that's supposed to represent my freedom
as a blindfold.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
One day they’ll
see me
on the podiums
by chance
one day they’ll
see me doing
my own dance
and one day
I’ll believe in the stars
but today’s not that
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
atop a hill of splendor
with little in the way of hope
equal parts enthralled.. and worn
dismay coats the outside of my armor, callous with plight
Saturn my center
the moon my companion, beyond the dark knight
the haze of exhaustion weighs heavy on the soul
of the warrior of penance, the grief-stricken mourn
beyond the shell that has molded to skin
is a man-made of clay, held up by kin
what rattles in the uninhibited layers of one's caverns
the darkest mellows of the evening halted by unspeakable thought..
perhaps the soul deserves kindness
when the soul finds solace not in yellow sunrises and blue ocean shores
but in catastrophic endings, where podiums are flattened against the earths erupting core
with destruction comes peace, the absence of life a prerequisite to birth
I am man in his purest form
earnest in pursuit, lacking in judgment
no less in youth
and as youth leaves me, so does the empathy it affords me
when my wayward path meets that of those who have strayed
beyond the anticlimactic nature of the roads that lead to Rome
beyond Caesar
empty conquests
hollow plots of land masquerading as homes
no amount of marble will make you a home
and no amount of marching will bring me closer to mine
I have found a home in an unlikely scene
in a planet so wholly unruly in its pursuit of discipline
absolute devotion to he who has revived my fervor, what is devotion next to happiness previously alien to my desolate soul
the 82 moons orbiting you cannot offer what I plan to
I offer my soul, and all that I am
for promise of a home far from this land
for peace previously unknown to me
for joy beyond comprehension of man
May 25, 2022
May 25, 2022 at 8:45 AM UTC