"populous" poems
Eternal consciousness
in the Void
(makes trial & jail seem almost
friendly)
a Kiss in the Storm
(Madman at the wheel
gun at the neck
space populous & arching
coolly)
A barn
a cabin attic
Your own face
stationary
in the mirrored window
fear of restroom’s
Tragic cold
neon
I’m freezing
animals
dead
white wings of
rabbits
grey velvet deer
The Canyon
The car a craft
in wretched
SPACE
Sudden movements
& your past
to warm you
in Spiritless
Night
The Lonely HWY
Cold hiker
Afraid of Wolves
& his own
Shadow
~~~
The Wolf,
who lives under the rock
has invited me
to drink of his cool
Water.
Not to splash or bathe
But leave the sun
& know the dead desert
night
& the cold men
who play there.
~~~
a ha
Come on, now
luring the Traveller
Mighty Voyager
Curious, into its dark womb
The graves grinning
Indians of night
The eyes of night
Westward luring
into the brothel, into the blood bath
into the Dream
The dark Dream of conquest
& Voyage
into night, Westward into Night
33.4k
But outer Space,
At least this far,
For all the fuss
Of the populace
Stays more popular
Than populous
12.2k
At the end of the day I can't think of a better place.
A solemn moment.
The clutter of all my favorite things.
I lay uneducated, amassed in comfort.
In lieu of scented furniture.
She's with me where ever I go.
A populous of
Things which I notice, not being home in a while.
Conscious to where I lay my head.
A notion only the homeless truly understand.
A nostalgia of born necessity.
I am ignorant.
Realizing only now.
I needed not wait to feel,
The clutter of all my favorite things.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC
Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:
Till the long solitary tracks
etched deeper with each lurching load
were populous before his eyes,
and fiends and angels used his road.
All the long straining journey grew
a mad apocalyptic dream,
and he old Moses, and the slaves
his suffering and stubborn team.
Then in his evening camp beneath
the half-light pillars of the trees
he filled the steepled cone of night
with shouted prayers and prophecies.
While past the campfire's crimson ring
the star struck darkness cupped him round.
and centuries of cattle-bells
rang with their sweet uneasy sound.
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,
and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,
and vineyards cover all the slopes
where the dead teams were used to pass.
O vine, grow close upon that bone
and hold it with your rooted hand.
The prophet Moses feeds the grape,
and fruitful is the Promised Land.
4.6k
They tested the one so true,
They test me and you.
Speakers of two-faced statements
Changing their views every second
With the serpent’s sly tongue
And the fox’s slick movements
They sway the populous
With shifting statements,
That just blow my mind away.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 10:57 AM UTC
Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam
To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently
If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed
There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples
They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament
I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is
There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
639
My Portion is Defeat—today—
A paler luck than Victory—
Less Paeans—fewer Bells—
The Drums don’t follow Me—with tunes—
Defeat—a somewhat slower—means—
More Arduous than *****
’Tis populous with Bone and stain—
And Men too straight to stoop again—,
And Piles of solid Moan—
And Chips of Blank—in Boyish Eyes—
And scraps of Prayer—
And Death’s surprise,
Stamped visible—in Stone—
There’s somewhat prouder, over there—
The Trumpets tell it to the Air—
How different Victory
To Him who has it—and the One
Who to have had it, would have been
Contender—to die—
3k
He that had come that morning,
One after the other,
Over seven hills,
Each of a new color,
Came now by the last tree,
By the red-colored valley,
To a gray river
Wide as the sea.
There at the shingle
A listing wherry
Awash with dark water;
What should it carry?
There on the shelving,
Three dark gentlemen.
Might they direct him?
Three gentlemen.
"Cable, friend John, John Cable,"
When they saw him they said,
"Come and be company
As far as the far side."
"Come follow the feet," they said,
"Of your family,
Of your old father
That came already this way."
But Cable said, "First I must go
Once to my sister again;
What will she do come spring
And no man on her garden?
She will say 'Weeds are alive
From here to the Stream of Friday;
I grieve for my brother's plowing,'
Then break and cry."
"Lose no sleep," they said, "for that fallow:
She will say before summer,
'I can get me a daylong man,
Do better than a brother.' "
Cable said, "I think of my wife:
Dearly she needs consoling;
I must go back for a little
For fear she die of grieving."
Ask no such wild favor;
Still, if you fear she die soon,
The boat might wait for her."
But Cable said, "I remember:
Out of charity let me
Go shore up my poorly mother,
Cries all afternoon."
They said, "She is old and far,
Far and rheumy with years,
And, if you like, we shall take
No note of her tears."
But Cable said, "I am neither
Your hired man nor maid,
Nor your ape to be led."
He said, "I must go back:
Once I heard someone say
That the hollow Stream of Friday
Is a rank place to lie;
And this word, now I remember,
Makes me sorry: have you
Thought of my own body
I was always good to?
The frame that was my devotion
And my blessing was,
The straight bole whose limbs
Were long as stories-
Now, poor thing, left in the dirt
By the Stream of Friday
Might not remember me
Half tenderly."
They let him nurse no worry;
They said, "We give you our word:
Poor thing is made of patience;
Will not say a word."
"Cable, friend John, John Cable,"
After this they said,
"Come with no company
To the far side.
To a populous place,
A dense city
That shall not be changed
Before much sorrow dry."
Over shaking water
Toward the feet of his father,
Leaving the hills' color
And his poorly mother
And his wife at grieving
And his sister's fallow
And his body lying
In the rank hollow,
Now Cable is carried
On the dark river;
Nor even a shadow
Followed him over.
On the wide river
Gray as the sea
Flags of white water
Are his company.
2.5k
management in Washington
has only gotten worse
Obama's administration
is it's curse
before he took up lodgings
in the oval office room
America wasn't as replete
with endless gloom
he's most certainly
made a mess of everything
the health of the economy
is flagging
at will be disrespects
the amendments of the constitution
and the people are becoming
tired of his flagrant execution
with a Republican
at the helm of the ship
America will have
a more astute stewardship
the White House must be
purged of the Obama regime
so the great nation of America
will again positively gleam
with mid term elections
coming at the end of the year
the majority Democrats
should be given the spear
Obama and his mob have achieved
little for the American populous
the time has arrived for them
to board the outbound bus
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
*I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.*
-Shakespeare, Richard II, Act V.I
The world I fathom rhetorically orbits
around the whirr of a dust-peppered
triad of turbine limbs
inbreeding infinitely as electricity's
treaty permits
into a smorgasbord whirl of
processed plastic white
A remedial sun I compose
to counter outside's oven bulb
in the world I do not fathom
Heat's ****** of humidity
is not lost on me
with no canonized sense
even to establish it with
And even my own remedial sun
restricts a reality-knighting touch
with its ozone cage pried open
in unseen haste - a victim
of college's fugitive waltz
encased in the jazz fusion dance hall
of the world I cannot fathom
Is there a dual left-footed
interpretive dance of a carbon dimension
outside of reality's steaming kitchen
to fathom me?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
With the tightfisted budget now handed down
There is a lot of ****** off people in our nation's towns
Mr Hockey has hit the taxpayers with a double decker bus
High and low income earners put well into a binding truss
Revolt in the Senate Chamber is showing on the cards
The government will be in receipt of a few shrapnel shards
Legislation won't get passed in a timely manner
There will be the flying of a double dissolution banner
Then the Abbott mob will be well and truly stumped
Voters are itching to have the extra tax imposts bumped
Canberra shall shortly be in for an enormous rattling
Heft taxing has the nation's populous struggling and battling
Had the GST been set at fourteen percent and on everything
Our tax burden to-day wouldn't be so troubling
Government must learn to live within its boundaries
As the tax paying public are sickening of all the levees
Tax policy is in need of urgent attention too right
For parliamentarians don't seem to see our plight
Mr Shorten has stated that his mob can fix our woes
But his side of politics has not the scent of a rose
We are stuck with a budget which has us ******* down
And it offers us nothing of the lights in mirthful town
The treasury calculator has a very mean spirited spike
Twill there ever be a tax regime which we'll all like
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
Words can't express the emptiness that is hopelessness. It's something that you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy's worst enemy.
Wait, your worst enemy's worst enemy would probably be a really good friend to have. Then you could sit around together and plot ways to **** with your common enemy's head.
Like sneaking into their house every day and emptying all the bottles of shampoo. Not the conditioner. Not the body wash or shower gel. Just the shampoo. Every day. Every bottle. No matter how many bottles they buy to replace the ones you've wasted. All the shampoo gone. Just gone. Every day.
Try and imagine what lengths they would go to trying to find out what happened to all the **** shampoo. Four empty bottles sitting right where they'd been placed when they were full, now without a drop of hope of being able to wash, rinse, and repeat.
No hope of being able to lather up and wash away the built-up residue of the day's grimy, polluted, filth infested air breathed out by the uncaring populous that attached itself from the follicle to the unsplit end of every perfectly thick and just right wavy hair on your worst enemy's head.
Maybe they'll lose sleep over it and then have dark rings around the bulbous bags under their usually twinkling and happy hazel eyes for a day or two. All the time just wondering what in the hell happened to all the **** shampoo.
Anyway, if you can't find the words to express hopelessness, at least maybe you can find someone with a common enemy to sit around with and think of ways to try and fill the emptiness.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Senator Bernie Sanders
has been invited to the Vatican
by the Pope, himself,
and Mr. Sanders
graciously accepted.
I just gotta wonder
"how's that for 'auspicious?'
I mean:
in this Presidential Election
where every other candidate
flaunts their unflinching 'faith'
as a means to woo potential voters,
how perfect
that the belittled underdog
is summoned to meet His Holiness
as the others, without fail,
put their feet in their mouths
and proceed
to valliantly shoot themselves in the foot,
yet the voting populous
doth so seem to revel in the spectacle.
What a show!
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 4:54 AM UTC
I am young,
though I wish I were younger,
I would rewind time if I could,
back to a period where my temperament was stronger,
back to a time when my greatest concern was a Popsicle,
dripping on my hand as I lick it.
Youth is resilient,
we are born into ignorance,
where we might or might not remain,
given to bliss and innocence,
a greater inclination for love.
I long for a time filled with freedom,
freedom found within playground fences,
found within crosswalks and spineless volumes,
crayon on wall not pen on paper,
that's where real art is made.
I long for a time filled with big brothers and big sisters,
learning one step at a time,
no quantitative measures of success in life,
a time with unrealistic expectations,
not expectations unfulfilled.
I long for the time when I worshiped the ground my brother walked on,
infallible parents and clergymen,
where forgiveness goes without saying,
forgetting trespasses just as quickly as they come,
things change as we are carried away.
It's true that I still love,
but things are different now,
it'll never be the same,
my love is transfigured by dividing lines,
not open to the general populous,
dependent on what they do or say.
I wish that I could go back.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
you can do it, my love.
with your first step,
you are on your way-
and how good does it feel!
how light is the pack
now that your feet are in motion?
darling you could trek to the stars.
in your journey
you'll surely encounter spirits:
some will come to you from above;
most will well from inside,
but a few will rise from below,
(evil and toxic enemies of the angels).
pay heed to each spirit,
request and receive its transmission
and refer again to your fingers,
releasing their grip of control
on your hurtling craft.
You have done this and should rightly be proud.
(That is to say, smile at your righteousness.)
A path appears before you from the darkness,
the Lord is crafting your road from gold-
You cannot fail!
Forgive the populous their opinions.
Whether you are loved or hated,
you are on the path of the Lord.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
A power is on the earth and in the air,
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth--her thousand plants
Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze;
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den,
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town:
As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent
Its deadly breath into the firmament.
1.5k
I sometimes wield the pen in spite
Of why I am convinced I write
The poetic words that I spill
Spill like a glass of water
That’s been stirred to overflow
By my feelings and thoughts or so
I have gotten to know
The will of the flow
The direction that it wants to go
That’s what po-
etry is all about, no?
Because poem starts
with a P for personal
Not popular
Or populous
Not for the people who prefer prying
Pickpocketing or playful plying
In the placid plains inside
It’s for the persons who pray
To the poet’s plight
To go out on an odyssey,
with an O, the second letter
Not omniscient
Or omnipotent
For oscillating with your own
Is only for ones once overthrown
By an onslaught of hydrogen per-oxide
Those ostracized and odd
Off, yet open to the outside
E is the third letter
And it stands for emotional
Or extorted
until emptiness
Extended
after the excavation had ended
and emotion was evacuated ere
The embodiment of ecstasy
Had been enterred here
Lastly M stands for me!
Me, myself and I!
Not the masses who maim
My mind and meticulously aim
For the mark on my midbrain
Just the men and wo-men who make do
With musing about the mechanisms of
Mother Earth and her miracles too
Poetry is a gift
Out with it to be at ease
Especially for yourself
May it help you find peace
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
When first that horse, within whose populous womb
The birth was death, o’ershadowed Troy with fate,
Her elders, dubious of its Grecian freight,
Brought Helen there to sing the songs of home:
She whispered, ‘Friends, I am alone; come, come!’
Then, crouched within, Ulysses waxed afraid,
And on his comrades’ quivering mouths he laid
His hands, and held them till the voice was dumb.
The same was he who, lashed to his own mast,
There where the sea-flowers screen the charnel-caves,
Beside the sirens’ singing island pass’d,
Till sweetness failed along the inveterate waves…
Say, soul,—are songs of Death no heaven to thee,
Nor shames her lip the cheek of Victory?
1.4k
To live without love is death.
To live honestly,
Is to love truly.
Life is a meaningless void.
Dark, dull, and unafraid.
Populous yet lonely,
Blinding yet bleak.
A land of color coexists,
of love that is cautious and daring.
Transcending human comprehension
And the providing hope
along with its audacity.
It’s power and will to thrive
conquers the misanthropy
Of austere death.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 12:07 PM UTC
One could thirst
For something unimaginable
One sip of a starlight dipper
Could quench a parched tongue
For years
One could wait
But never find
A picture so diverse
So nonjudgmental
A canvas.
Split by a single road that roughly
creates a populous throng of glimmer.
Tempting even the savage to shy away
Taming any evil with just one look into it's never-ending depth
and everlasting shimmer.
One sip of light.
One taste of the night.
Could quench a parched tongue
For years.
One could wait
But never find
Something as satisfying
Than a dipper of starlight shine.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
*O opium's opposite,
A great wall
Of spine,
A Yin and Yang
Of tongues,
We tug and pull
At territories,
Acupuncture,
Our souls
Populous
Of me and her,
As our energies, powers,
Superpowers, stirring,
Growing, binging,
Surging, and resurging,
Engulf
A blazing evening.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Aug. 9.
When He Fled From Absalom.
Lord how many are my foes
How many those
That in arms against me rise
Many are they
That of my life distrustfully thus say,
No help for him in God there lies.
But thou Lord art my shield my glory,
Thee through my story
Th’ exalter of my head I count
Aloud I cry’d
Unto Jehovah, he full soon reply’d
And heard me from his holy mount.
I lay and slept, I wak’d again,
For my sustain
Was the Lord. Of many millions
The populous rout
I fear not though incamping round about
They pitch against me their Pavillions.
Rise Lord, save me my God for thou
Hast smote ere now
On the cheek-bone all my foes,
Of men abhor’d
Hast broke the teeth. This help was from the Lord;
Thy blessing on thy people flows.
1.3k
By: Cedric McClester
Beyond the Eisenhower context
We still have to guard against
The military industrial complex
Which requires in every respect
That our government be checked
As we’re forced to question, what is this?
It’s reminiscent of Guerin’s book
Fascism and Big Business
We can clearly see a certain confluence
So we must guard against
The acquisition of unwarranted influence
When surrounded by generals and billionaires
It can directly impact how the populous fares
Because these are un-chartered waters
And didn’t the Nazis claim to be
Just following orders
In Germany, then a democratic state
Neumann said that the Nazi’s sole ambition
Was to uproot what existed there
Until they could come into position
And we need not forget
As we look at the current cabinet
History frequently repeats itself
So we are to blame and no one else
When the great leader
is surrounded by acolytes
Who defend his positions
Whether wrong or right
It gives us many sleepless nights
And the media gets, a thousand sound bites
Comprised from their various talking points
Out of the mouths of those he anoints
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
A ****** of Crows delights in death.
Now they can come out, in novels and
poems and such, ominous and black.
For a moment, or many, a Crow is the center
of the universe. Perched on its pole, an eye
sees and its pupil becomes more.
Telephone-pole cities sprout from the earth,
each Murderous populous digs with hollow
claws, making their wooden crosses bleed.
Woodpeckers poke holes while Cardinals
warble nervously, the network is failing.
Communication begins to falter and cede.
Rotted from within, cables splice and
beams splinter. Crows, whose claws were
too embedded, struggle to break away.
When the last of the Crows have flown
away, gone, the earth flat is barren.
Tiny antennae peek out between the dirt.
A muster of Storks delights in birth, bearing
little yellow Finches to their new home;
easily foreseeable babes born to grow black.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
pronounced now in
their diminishing magic,
over the populous, rash,
self-destructive, tragic,
refuge for the scatter-hearted,
giant cover for the romantic,
trees for memories, smiles,
journeys, and paths nomadic
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC