"qualifying" poems
I’m no longer in the dating scene
Because I know exactly what I need
Someone on the right spiritual path
To be a good example to my seed
You don’t have to have your money right
You just have to have the right mind
Promise to support me and follow God
And only love and peace you will find
For God will be our presiding priest
And Christ as my best man
While the Almighty Father walks you down the aisle
To place yours into my hand
So if you’d like to court this disciple
You must study to show thyself approved
Must truly know our God and have sins forgiven
Or find yourself regrettably removed
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
A: Admiring everything done by the lover
B: Beautifying all habits of the lover
C: Caring always enough for the lover
D: Demonstrating love to the lover
E: Experiencing pain of the lover
F: Flirting exclusively with the lover
G: Glorifying all qualities of the lover
H: Holding hands with the lover
I: Inching closer towards the lover
J: Joking sufficiently for the lover
K: Kindling the flame with the lover
L: Loving every bit about the lover
M: Moving together with the lover
N: Never-ending love for the lover
O: Obeying with wishes of the lover
P: Praying for success of the lover
Q: Qualifying in the eyes of the lover
R: Reinforcing trust with the lover
S: Softening preferences for the lover
T: Trusting forever in the lover
U: Understanding words of the lover
V: Valuing all the feelings of the lover
W: Willing to always help the lover
X: Xenophiling always with the lover
Y: Yearning often to be with the lover
Z: Zooming in on the positives of the lover
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
As you lie on the creaky hospital cot,
there is a lot that can be thought
by listening to the uneven, rapid wheeze
and by looking at the hitherto unseen pallor
of your otherwise ruddy cheeks......
Many (im)possibilities can be perceived;
that a father I may never be;
that my father may never be
the same with me;
that you may well have entered
the last lap
in your race for that ever elusive
qualifying tag;
that come what may, one day
you shall really be a non-entity
and there may be only me
to see you lying limp and lifeless
just as you now seem to be......
Perceptions may not be real.
The only reality, is a single soul searching query:
Does any materialist passion
or for that matter, a self-effacing spiritualism,
allow anyone to cause the demise of the one
still huddled up in that warm,
allegedly safe darkness of anonymity?
Isn't a human life, howsoever insignificant it be might,
too much a price to pay
for even the rarest gain...
in this provisional little world
of putty clay?
Nov 21, 2019
Nov 21, 2019 at 9:51 AM UTC
my way to say,
present, in Wonderland.
present in your life when least expected,
no qualifying reassurance reason,
and best!
dessert-deserved more than the rest of the days
prefer to have a postman ring twice,
imagining the look on your confused face,
the genuine life velocity wholeheartedly surprised,
the tickling happiest angst of wondering why...
the present of presence is selfish, me-gleeful,
good for the soul, and the surprise message,
for my presence is all the greater by my absence,
well, it tickles that warm spot you almost forgot about
that no rowed columnar calendar manager can pretend provide
that’s what is all about...
(and stop grinning already)
the unexpected, the ******* jack wondering,
the whys grows lesser,
the message très simple:
the no reason season of surprise,
starts with a daily sunrise..
C'est la vie au pays des merveilles
postscript
————-
(Holiday and Birthday wishes/presents are now de rigeur, obligatory,
forgetting unacceptable, even as a date’s meaning grow less significant,
now that we’re on Facebook to be advised by AI that controls it & destroys simultaneously,
the reduction of the remembering quality of life)
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.
Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.
Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.
Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.
Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
i only wrote this as a genesis of urbanity; and a re-interpretation of the greek city-state, qualifying state to nation and ethnic exploitation; as London was Athens and Manchester was Sparta... but no Greece though!
i'm delusional?
and didn't
Edward Gein invent
the 20th century?
a ******* remnant
of rural life?
silence of the lamps,
rob zombie... manson...
is that etc. or ha ha as p.s.?
yeah yeah, Mudvayne's dig.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
If I, your humble poet,
could simplify my star
my muse
my flower's beauty into words
then you, dear reader,
would have paragraphs upon paragraphs to read
for, if it was possible,
I would take the time, detailing
The color, length of her golden-bronze hair,
Soft threads spun from only the finest material.
I would speak of the depth and clarity
of her eyes,
crystalline clear as sapphire.
I would tell of her smooth, milky skin,
dotted lightly and delicately with the most perfect freckles.
Her nose, upturned ever so slightly,
to give her a high-society look.
The crinkles around her eyes
when she lends me a genuine smile.
The lines on her palms
finally leading me home.
But since it all is impossible,
my words barely qualifying as the tip of the iceberg,
I will simply sit
And admire
my flower.
My muse.
My Star.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 10:35 AM UTC
*it's like they're feeding themselves the line: things i should have said / thought about / cared about... me? bring on the woodwinds and saxes and violins... like the other day, they really wanted to make the classical music scene pretty by enforcing a weird post-colonial theory of how composers and musicians should be black once in the while, i dig that the japanese just love chopin, but come on: john coltrane, sonny clark, miles davis, cannonball adderley? who the hell wants it to look pretty, like a half-wit beauty of a woman: i want it mandible, not porcelain... next thing you'll be telling me is that a donkey can moo... jazz is an impromptu get-together, it's not an impromptu scribble scribble scribble readying a bunch of ponce ******** to sit it out stiff in a grand music hall - when i went to see swan lake by tchaikovsky the crowd clapped so frequently without a clear moment of aspiration to feel the music... plus i think ballet ruins the music, all that stomping, it's not an art-form, but an encircling stampede: plus i think it's also a sadism; rumba cha cha cha mambo cha cha cha tango cha cha cha foxtrot cha cha cha.*
after qualifying to be listening
to b.b.c. radio 4, after all the ponce
of classic f.m., i find that
people listening to radio 4
are craving a schizophrenic simulation,
they're the ones who never
cried listening to a piece of music,
they want company...
honest to god, schizophrenics (ego shrapnel)
complain about the symptom of
"hearing" voices (yes, the sense needs
ambiguity)... while those on
the b.b.c. radio 4 diet always want
company, they're not prone to liking
thinking... the world's weirdest simulator;
i'll admit it, even the cheesiest pop
music makes me feel like candy floss
in comparison to middle-age depth of talk.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
back then, when communism was
heralded on the fifth of may
to glorify work,
you had old people dump coffee
beans into the river because
no one told them what to do with it,
you had unselfish atheism back then,
you were encapsulated as a species,
fully noble to be categorised as
**** sapiens; but now you're not;
we're all artists now,
spare time writing wonders,
full time displaying unmade beds
in former power-stations of vast spaces...
i guess in order to provoke thought...
after all, congested spaces breed
claustrophobia, a display in an economised
space like that is no comparison to a
large open space where you sort of
have to attract thinking
about the most debased work imaginable
to be considered in the realm of being, a
qualifiable work of "art"... well, what do you expect,
qualifying an unmade bed as art will
give you insight into newtonian causality
(i know, einstein muddled it a bit):
to qualify an unmade bed as art akin to
the statue of david will eventually
quantify an expression of art in another
medium exponentially, namely poetry;
modern visual art is the reason why
we have an exponential increase in
poetic output - if the beauty in visual art is
missing or is abstract or just plain ugly,
people will turn to the 26 signatures
to simply un-imagine what's being plated,
by the time we return to the grander aesthetics...
well, by the time anything is accomplished,
people will have to re-imagine the body
by salvaging it from ***********
and poetry will have to depose what advertising
does to the phonetic units, with so many
fonts and copyright trademarks whatever.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
ah, but indeed, the conscious effort, the twin tongues in the eyes making eyes less passive, to talk in remote places of silence, to decode the encoding, and still doubling up the silence, indeed the conscious effort of lost colours with too many contorts, with only a few comparisons to understood mathematics of a U or parabola.
why do i have to read a poem?
why do i have to read a poem?
why can't i just look at it?
why do i have to give you a start
and finish interpretation
with a genealogy of lifting up
the first sound like a crying baby
and laying into the cold earth
with a tombstone of a full stop?
why? why? why?! can't i appreciate
a poem like an x-ray of paintings
with the two opposites? can't i
grasp a poem on the outlines of curves
and attach myself somewhere in between
not necessarily at the beginning
and making me into a river of narration
following you? poetry can't be music
any more, bob dylan tried and was
criticised for attempting a qualifying degree
of the index pointer and a nodding approval;
poetry now akin to painting...
i don't want chronology or genealogy,
i want the scattering, the lost paragraph,
the never attempted paragraph...
where i begin or end is up to me...
disown me poems... i want my poems
to make me an orphan - completely rejected
by the hands that tilled the blanks of
what became unearthed and poached
into pun plump potatoes of eager jaw and
rattling teeth: i want paintings! i don't want music!
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
From beyond the infinite nothingness,
to the nothingness buried inside of me
Cast upon the leaves and trees and
darkness that encapsulates this universe like sea
Blooming life revolting gravity and
fugaciously qualifying the test of time
Rustling beasts on terrified streets
going to or coming from their scenes of crime
Evading a revisit to life's lessons
under the weight of experiences
Playing with fire, restrained not by wires,
burning shoots of knowledge, the invincible tree
A puppet to the surroundings and the senses,
boldness and blindness turning men to graves
Quiet witness to the daily murders
while enslaving ourselves to our offspring's existence
From beyond the infinite nothingness,
to the nothingness buried inside of me
I am the result of this explosion,
this heaven is at my call, my feet
All my desires at fulfillment,
all sweet challenges of unsolvable mysteries
Vacuum out there to make more sterile,
this vacuous life that I lead
Thorns of transition,
burst open my silent entitlement
Coalescing my reality with
the all-powerful emptiness
Now I am free from the
clutches of my control
In this fatuous drama,
searching for another insignificant role
EPILOGUE
The role of ancient philosophical teachings
Justifying rapes and murders, through beastly preachings
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
might I better feel in prosody
defined by iambic pentameters
or weight of a dactyl or spondee
stress patterns or
a sequence of feet
or is my line enough
a pattern qualifying through
or is emphasis
too often stressed as following
the pattern
of the compulsory
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
all too frequently
there are days
you could spew the most blatant lies
“George Washington never existed”
“Two plus two is twelve”
“I love you for you”
“There’s no reason to rebel”
and I’d believe you
It’s not that I’m gullible
it’s that I’m stubborn.
I have to be right
but I’m full of self doubt.
So when I can’t believe my thoughts
and I think I’ve forgotten my name
you can tell me I’m bad
and I’ll take all the blame.
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
I could recite you
all the qualifying characteristics
in the diagnostic statistical manual volume five
for depression
and narcissistic personality disorder
I can explain clinically
chemical dependency
and I can recite the twelve steps from memory.
Hell, I remember some math formulas
and my teacher’s name from fourth grade
but say “tell me about yourself”
and all certainty will decay.
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
Karl Marx said religion is the ***** of the people
I never believed in god
maybe that’s why I turned to the needle.
You’ll say everything happens for a reason
which in my proper mindset I won’t believe in
but blaming my overt destruction
on third party destiny
I know deep down is false,
but so comforting to believe.
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
Did I love you?
Did I even feel at all?
It doesn’t even matter
it was still me that took the fall.
I still have no self-assurance
or any concept of who I want to be
no god, no friends, I beg no lover
will figure this out for me.
Maybe this is who I am,
metamorphosing ghost
with a crooked smile
shaping who I am today
knowing it'll all be gone
before I can say
I know
I believe
what my brain is telling me
not so desperate to please
no longer begging on my knees
for the false ideal of certainty
because I’ll know
I know with confidence
the simple facts;
I know nothing.
I believe not at all.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
not really the gay science by definition nietzschean...
just... pure... narration / uninhibited narration,
narration ex “anonymousness.”
anyway, he misguided his theory,
he thought that goethe
epitomised his dyonisian qualifying
orientation... goethe was apollonian
as a judge... so much so that
he wrote all his verses sober;
oh the dross that my hangover brings
so much clarity i'm actually content
with it;
but the loss of narration, that fine art
of expressed and kept tribalism ("barbarism
by the camp fire") is neurotic in western
societies... with retort it re-emerged...
just jumbled up... thanks to tristan tzara...
exploited to full potential by william burroughs
via the polaroid / cut up method /
ransom letter of cut out letters glued onto
a piece of paper / as ****** up as quantum physics;
so the next time you meet your friend,
remember the quanta, he has a particular
expression to give you, minus the obvious mannerisms
that are self-explanatory, and kept to him knowing himself.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
There's a pleading tone to this question I battle before and after I ask
A not so simple, "why can't I just let the past be the past?"
I know at first glance,
I'm nothing more than moth in a trance
Pinging off the same piece of backlit display glass
An abused mind easily transfixed, statue still and steadfast
While running summer Olympic qualifying fast, all gass
Feet growing roots, interlocking with blades of grass
A introspective narrative of an internal impasse
©2024
May 29, 2024
May 29, 2024 at 3:56 PM UTC
I am not a wo(man) because someone says I am
I am a wo(man) because I am chosen by God to be
HE chose me to be part of this race, the Human Race
For it,HE gave me an Identity, HE gave me my Name
Peculiar to me, Qualifying me
to run this race. So I run.
Like every race, there are others too
Runners who cross my path, Cutting
In on my race, Kidnapping the gifts
Along my lane, Replacing the good
With pain and shame, Pasting on
My chest and back, an identity
not my own.
So that I say along with them
This is who I am, This is what I am
This is what as a wo(man) I must
Live through, endure and embrace
I am not a wo(man) because someone says I am
I am a wo(man) because I am chosen by God to be
HE chose me to be a part of this race, the Human Race
For it, HE gave me an Identity, HE gave me my Name
So I run this race. For I am
Qualified, I am Worthy
I am Enough, I am an Answer
I reclaim my race by grace
I am PROGRESS.
©Belema.S.Ekine
(belemascribbles)
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 6:42 AM UTC
The last time I watched you,
You were crying hard,
You were sobbing your heart out,
You were in sad,
And the most rough part is,
You wanted someone to hold you.
The last time you watched me,
I was crying hard,
You were playing hard to catch me,
I was in sad,
And the most difficult part is,
You refused to lend me your shoulder.
We both know how much we need hug,
Yet I let you be
Yet you left me there.
Qualifying our reality towards an endless path,
I guess we are same anyway.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC
About animals, abortion, and abilities
About bouquets, Buddhism, and bilious people.
About cats, cars, and caring about others.
About depression, death, and the process of dying.
About eating disorders, evil step-mothers, and ecstasy.
About fattiness, fear(s), and the trait of being friendly.
About goats, ghosts, and greetings in different countries.
About happiness, healthy diets, and humanitarian rights.
About intimacy, icicles, and igloos.
About jack-in-the-boxes, the juvenile system, and justified ******
About kindness, kissing, and kitties.
About love, living, and ladies.
About moms, mediocrity, and medicine.
About no meaning no, feeling naked, and nature.
About ovulation, October, and court orders.
About periods, peskiness, and perverts.
About quirks, queerness, and qualifying for college.
About **** razors, and reading.
About *** Sudafed, and scandals.
About taxi drivers, tables and what they hold, along with thoughts
About UW-Madison, unfortunate circumstances, and unemployment.
About vehicles, valuable objects, and violence.
About waistlines, waitressing, and what a waste of time homework is.
About xylophones, xanax, and xanthous.
About you, younglings, and yellow flowers.
About zoos, zanies, and zaps.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem
To our talented students and to all present, modern generations who they are promptly going about resolutely facing the direct examination for 10th +1, +2 and other educationals departments.
I heartily wish you all success and undoubtedly have you all bright future towards your ultimate dreams.
Perform properly your energetic work and realistically achieve your ambitious goals in your ultimate dreams and extensive examinations.
Don't concern how the direct result might typically end, just tries your personal best with your sincere active work. Never give up on your ultimate dreams and your academic success.
Never weaken your absolute confidence within you. Trust firmly in yourself and in your unique ability and in your self-confidence.
Insha Allah you will all succeed for sure. I sincerely wish you all splendid luck and best hopes.
I heartily pray to the Almighty that everyone will undoubtedly succeed. In their qualifying examinations and in their life dream achievement.
Insha Allah Khair.....Do your best. May The Creator be naturally with you through his Beloved Blessings.
Alllah Khair.....Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem.
Ummah Thurab - Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
can we at at least agree then certain
things are non-quantifiable -
in that however much or how little
of a quantity that "exists"
or "does not" exist does not disturb
its (the "existent" or
"non-existent") quality?
(i just wanted to say the above,
the lower tier addition is, by my standard
of introspection, mere jargon).
there's no real satisfaction in
obtaining a quantifiable parameter
for a being that said quantifying
being desires a necessitated answer
to begin with...
there is no god
other than man in god, as primarily
instrumental to deface a need for
languishing desire for sabbath...
not everything in this world
is perpetuated by a fathoming
quantity - measure -
some things simply require a quality
and what is almost immediately
unmeasured - a qualified ordinance;
dare i apologise for sounding
like a quack?
science nonetheless quantifies,
it does not delve into quality -
to science 1% alcohol is just as true
for 40% content of a litre of ***** -
there just simply isn't a
"proof" for a god...
because there's no
quantifiable "evidence" for said existence...
and the "proof" of
a qualifying "proof" is twice-more
non-existent than the object in question
"desirably" requiring a proof of: existence!
we can quantify the speed of light,
but we can't exactly intact the quality
of travelling at said speed.
i'm not trying to dumb
down the process of an "investigation" -
it's only that the humanities belong with
the question,
the sciences could never, and
ever will give a life-insurance worth of
a question-answer....
why would the science ever give
an answer, and drain the immediacy
of a thrill away so easily?
p.s.
something that has no quantity-parameters,
is only quantifiable
if quantifiable at all,
within the framework of
a quality-reliability
structure...
but having said that,
a quality-reliability is not exactly
quantifiable when compared
to a quantity-replica
(there is no quantity-replica with
newton, there only was, one newton) -
it's sad seeing science become wasted
upon the "question" of god,
since there is no worthwikle
investigation for a necessary measurement,
other than the body count of
the next jihadist.
as ever, a much anticipated
unwelcome affair of discussion / "despair".
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC