"questioner" poems
***“Who will judge, as many trudge
through mud, mucking up the rug,
a coating of clay formed by God on a particular day.
Yet talent is ingrained, whether sane or insane,
and verse is treasure or a curse, unrehearsed, dispersed for all to see,
will they applaud or disparage, this marriage of mind and rhyme,
by design aligned, a sign of the times...”***
ms. patty m
~~~
once again a thunderbolt command hits between the eyes, on-right
the precise spot where the head aches with desire to fulfill the write!
but to what can I add to this encompassing question already
better answered by the questioner?
who will judge indeed!
all the time and far too often,
the flotsam rises to the surface, when better left ignored,
while the jetsam jets nowhere, buried deep though breathing yet,
on unseen sea bottom of ignorance,
luck of the draw by one who designs, who aligns,
a capricious starscape in the firmament
as well as
the infirmity & ignominy of caskets lying quiet in sea trenches
that the answer herein contained, a supposition,
a poor poets speculation, a soul’s lactation,
the very question is a cyclone bomb by competents
who are blinded+bound+blessed by
incomprehension
the only judge and jury is
your forefingers tip,
if it tremble a-slight
when caressing the key called send,
your cellular fiber
has adjudged worthy,
and no dare disagree
talent and distinction
randomly and irrationally distributed,
but the courageous caress of a send key pressed,
is all that is needed
to impress the only judge and jury
that
authorized you
in advance to
love yourself insanely well enough
to write
and
to send for
a request for sentencing
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
I'm a rocker
I'm a talker
I'm a walk the walker
I'm a gamer
I'm a player
I'm a rule breaker
I'm a smile faker
I'm a mover and
I'm a shaker
I'm a questioner
I'm a challenger
I'm a game changer
I'm a grain of sand
I'm a past summer of tan
I'm a small helping hand
I'm a shower grammy winner
I'm a everyday sinner
I'm a life beginner
I'm a needer
I'm a pleader
I'm a leader
I'm a living room pj dancer
I'm a wiki search answer
I'm a hallway happy prancer
I am free
I am she
I am me
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
At first I was a lover,
adherent adorer
of the ultimate
father figure
to whom
I sublimated
all that I was.
Then when
faced with
the pain
of existence
I became
a questioner
of the almighty.
In studying
the sorrows of history,
I saw the stain
of human tragedy
perpetuated
on the forms
that people hated,
how they mutilated
men, women,
and children.
Then I became
an accuser
judging
the behavior
or lack there of
of this
omnipotent being.
Till, I saw the truth
and the abstraction
shrank from something
to nothing.
The light of a creator
that subdued my mind
and enslaved my spirit
blinked out into the nothingness
that it always was.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 7:59 AM UTC
The man stood on a box
In the middle of the park,
When people walked by
The old boy would bark
“It’s in the Bible,” he cried.
And some people would ask
What is in the Bible, sir?”
Prepared to take him to task.
“Everything’s in there, friend!”
He answered with a smile
Feeling the people there
Would stay and listen a while.
“Well, that’s an easy answer!”
One of the onlookers said.
“You have left nothing out!”
The orator nodded his head.
“The Bible has answers for you
To any question you can say.
It will be your salvation, sir
No waiting until Judgment Day.
It tells you what to eat and then
Tells you how to choose a wife.
It tells you how to go to heaven
When you reach the end of life.”
The questioner replied, “Yes, sir,
And it tells of women made of salt,
And a fellow who walked on water
Another brought the sun to a halt.
It tells of a boat quite big enough
To have two each of every animal.
And people floating up to the sky.
Don’t you find these things incredible?”
“Not all,” the soapbox man said,
“God can do any holy thing at all.
He has made the planets, the sky,
The heavens and the waterfalls.
God knows everything and he is
Who speaks to you in your heart.”
The onlooker shook his head, said
“So, when does that stuff start?”
“What stuff, sir?” the orator asked.
“The part where God speaks to me.
I haven’t heard a word from God
And I have been listening, you see.
That would be a truly wondrous thing
For this God person to finally do.
But, if God speaks to all of us
Why the hell do we need you?
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
when you go to that lane
where the houses are graves
their rooms only pain
shadows' dark waves
where winds pause morose
light is barred
closed doors and windows
keep sunshine debarred
where walls are deadened
reeking of moss
the way is a dead end
weighed with cross
you would meet a hollow face
covered in hood
who would ask *all these days
you did what good.*
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
The heron-billed pale cattle-birds
That feed on some foul parasite
Of the Moroccan flocks and herds
Cross the narrow Straits to light
In the rich midnight of the garden trees
Till the dawn break upon those mingled seas.
Often at evening when a boy
Would I carry to a friend--
Hoping more substantial joy
Did an older mind commend--
Not such as are in Newton's metaphor,
But actual shells of Rosses' level shore.
Greater glory in the Sun,
An evening chill upon the air,
Bid imagination run
Much on the Great Questioner;
What He can question, what if questioned I
Can with a fitting confidence reply.
1.4k
So the only thing you lay claim to
is you are a poet.
He was referring to my CV
where it was mentioned boldly
the art I dabble in.
But that’s no skill
shrugged the questioner
doesn’t hone your ability
in finance management
or marketing strategy
can’t fetch one good deal
for the company
your poetry
but to be frank with you
I too wrote a few
only to dump before it got me
your poetry
otherwise I fear
I would not have been here.
Outside were faces in nervous wait.
I wondered if among them
was another poet!
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
The dichotomy of the psychology
Of love is the thin line between
I am and I can be.
The taking of the status quo,
Lining it up before the firing line,
And asking Prisoner Heart if
Last wishes they posses,
Wishes wasted to confess?
The prisoner says:
**I am the standing status quo,
When I should have been the
The questioner, on the firing line,
asking always, firing this bullet,
Quo Vadim?**
"Whither goest thou?"
------------
An admirer of your indecision,
For it is the mark of
The Questioner...
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
He, naked by the gun
polished by antiquity.
Bronze in an age of reason,
overthrown by passion.
Live by the fruit of god, and
by god, I am risen.
Nazarene, Gabriel, Abaddon, a wing
Apollo, a foot, I float on air
and water-- watch me.
Me. To the thyself and thou art
I, I, I, beauty--
Rosepyre absence.
frozen
I sink in air, choke on air,
bloated by the birth of drought.
This is not a lake of fire. This is
your mother, standing
at the edge of Eden, milky thighs
tough skin and swollen.
Westward, says the philosopher,
the questioner, the one
who doubts god, but knows
he is god
And takes sanctity by the mouthful--
apples to apples, dust to bodies
Evolution without degradation, Genesis: Martyr:
drive another nail in.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
Sitting always with a pen tap tap tapping
To the direction of a long, tapered finger
Restless paper shuffles, eager to be filled
With medical jargon, words that have
No place in my heart and have never
Existed there, even now failing to mix the oily
Madness with pure liquid thought
Ask your questions of me then, and
I promise to do my best to answer
Watching my thoughts become trapped by
Your pen, locked into paper prisons between
Blue lines and then signed with a practiced
Flourish of fingers, sealing my fate as surely
And unwaveringly as countless others before
I disappear under your gaze, vanish amidst the
Oil pastels that line your office
Time stops here.
I wish I had that kind of control.
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC
What colour are your eyes?
The questioned, breathes in, shakes his head and sighs
Sir, they’re not disguised,
after all they are my eyes,
and I make no attempt to keep them closed but open like the skies.
The things I say to you, well, they aren’t ******* lies,
and your own stupidity is what will be your demise.
the questioner looks puzzled, sudoku plastered across his face
Oh sir! You look confused!
Well In that case,
To figure out the colour, just look at one place,
A place full of grace,
So sit back and brace,
Just look into my eyes you ******* idiot.
The questioner looks offended, face throbbing bright pink
Sir, I think you might need a drink.
No water? Then your eyeballs might shrink!
Here’s your drink! Clink!
If you can’t tell a persons eye colour, by using your own eyes, then sir that must really stink,
That’s actually kind of ironic don’t you think?
The questioner looks baffled, his confusion slowly on the rise
You look so confused, I think your retina could be fried!
Has he died?
I mean he’s just sitting there,
the questioner sits back and cries
Like a group of the alphabet tried to tell him the Beatles were back,
The questioned couldn’t believe his i’s
the questioned looked puzzled, embarrassed and baffled
Puzzled like scrabble
Embarrassed like he’d been tackled
Baffled like Seattle (so baffled, even his rhyming didn’t make any sense)
Green
The questioner looks up with a smile
I’m sorry, it’s been a while,
I’m not used to dating old style,
So far, it’s not been worthwhile, and I didn’t mean to be hostile but my lifestyle has been freestyle and like a pile of bile it’s been vile.
Now I know I can be a task, but sir why did you ask?
the questioner looks into the eyes of the questioned, at that moment all thoughts and feelings have been beckoned
They hold a persons secrets,
Wether or not we’re destined,
More powerful than a thousand questions,
And yours are perfection.
the questioned blushes, leans forward with intrigue, glowing like sunrise
So tell me sir, what colour are your eyes?
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
To: Depression 2
From: Depression 1
To my dearest questioner of the world,
Sometimes I think you think too much,
And in your head, your thoughts get swirled.
Your brain is filled with curiosity and examination
And this is most times good, you see.
But somehow or another you always end up feeling lost in frustration.
And this, my dear questioner, is not a good way to be.
You aren’t good at circulating what you feel, I know.
But sometimes it makes me sad to think that you’re sad on the inside,
And that you feel like a burden if you were to ever show.
High School is close to being over, it kind of went like a breeze.
And just in case you were not aware, or it never crossed your mind,
I went through living hell at that institution, and you helped put me at ease.
I will never forget when we were at the beach and I was explaining to you what Prozac Nation was about. And you suddenly stopped in your tracks.
And my eyes started to well up.
And you stared because you knew.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
the questioner
why does he question he never listens never believes
I am so tired now and there is no hope left
Why am I so important He has come such a long long way
The same questions day after day hour after hour
they never vary the tone does though
righteous anger and wheedling sweetness
wrapped in the cloak of God
He points out the cell window to the ******* piled high
and the dancing flames below
He believes he threatens death , to me a sweet release
No mercy here no understanding only pious mouthings
Ah I am tired leave me be
you can take nothing more from me
This cycle is done and the race is over
but not the final judge is He
Softly sweet light enfolds and for a time the pain subsides.
Yes indeed its time I am called to home
stepping out of that bound gray rag I feel for her that She I was
But no more the chains for me My Lady has come to take me home
and set my spirit free
Solita -2007
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
I dislike any question that begins with "How do you".
Not because the question is wrong
Nor is the questioner for trying to obtain the knowledge they do not currently have.
Instead, what I dislike is the idea that someone else has supreme knowledge on a subject.
"How do you tie a tie"
As if there's only one way.
"How do you make salsa"
Depends on how spicy you want it.
"How do you become happy"
You see everyone has their own answers to these questions.
Everyone thinks they are right because, to them, they are.
There are subjectively correct ways to do everything
But there's never an objective right or wrong.
Some ways might be more or less right
But never flat out right or wrong.
Because you see it's in the eye of the beholder.
However, my view of this isn't always shared.
Some people think that their way really is right
And that's a dangerous mentality to have.
Because when you tell me that my salsa is actually incorrect
Or my tie needs just another tug to make it your perfect
You ruin my own.
My things then become yours and suddenly we all slowly become
Less and less
Us.
I dislike the question "How do you"
Because when I ask how someone else does something,
I feel as if I lose a little bit of myself along the way.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
1?
2?
3?
4?
5?
6?
7?
8?
9?
10?
11?
12.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
I am one intense mo fo
I startle myself sometimes
plagued by a good memory
not even Edison's medicine could short circuit this guy
each job interview I want to reach across the desk and smash the questioner in the teeth; compliments from yours truly, the misanthropic anti-social misfit for wasting my time.
beads and baubles, and fire water led them placidly to slaughter
people have to become somewhat desensitized to persevere and function through the fiction
butchered battered mangled diction
fabricated histories cleansed and tidy
perennial cognitive dissonance never stymied
alloyed wide eyed innocence beaten and bullied
futile defense wounds sullied
man is *******
parasitic cadgers
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
I was asked to describe myself
So took a dictionary from the shelf
And I read the definition
Of a word I thought best fit my disposition
Failure was the word I thought best
The descriptions said, “lack of success”
I closed the book and looked at my questioner
And confessed I am on the road to no where
And in faling to prepare
I have prepared to fail
So I guess this is the way I say beware
Even good looking trains derail
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 1:21 AM UTC
.
On winsome plains of dusted origin
Gods spoke: “Let fresh, sensate flesh
Incarnate, let questioner, move lost —
Come.” And in birth was live funeral,
Wrested body of spirit, seer of mercies.
In a story set to flame for children —
Old man poet writhed on a new cusp
Betwixt madness and old firmaments,
Where spinning globes set time adrift
And mankind undulated like sad song.
Hush poet would never know in sight,
That meaning shared time with industry
And all the buildings that vibrate are cold,
Where tall suits shimmer and music dies,
Death knows it’s place among the wreaths
For tall tales are sodden by rainy graves.
It is better after — that poet was shaper
Mostly in death, like shining Phoenix,
Like concrete angels haunting chapels,
Or mythical creatures populating fable
As ancient groves of tree reach skyward.
.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC
improving our collective lives, one pandemic poem at a time...
<>
*a stray-dog-thot that bites my ankle,
saying ouch, you see a poem here?
it’s 1:14AM on a Sunday and generally I see at this generalized
pre-dawn, can’t sleep pleistocene period, non-extinct poems
roaming everywhere.
but the pandemic on my mind and giving me pause to wonder
how much can I love, and a questioner-poet needs and desires an answer,
post haste, pre apocalyptic.
S. travels for two days by airplane to fulfill a promise
only to find out, upon arrival, the promise made is
pandemic cancelled.
but the-promise-I-made silently, to her, faraway, that she never heard,
for why, stir-up-the-ruckus, asking for a visit from the evil eye,
if she falls ill, coming back to me, is stone cold stolid, no cancellation policy,
I will:
nurse her, brush her hair, anticipate the achey need normal, before she can ask,
hold my body’s warmth full and frontal, a cooling blanket for heated times,
retrieve her ***** tissues from the floor and make lousy jokes about her lousy aim.
and what I wrote, “improving our collective lives, one poem at a time,”
is here institutionalized, organized, galvanized, mesmerized,
legitimized and lionized,
proving only that stray-dog-thots @nite, they bite,
hard immediate, and that
later is never better
she would say,
“what would I do without you, my children so far away,”
my reply instanced, nuanced, instantaneously, non-Amazon delivered with a double frosted eye twinkle, no-extra-charge,
“hey! that why I get the big bucks, god’s love to deliver!”
she, a profound atheist, snorts with practiced derision, which is fine,
cause I see the welling, tear droplets, laced with viral virus communicators, smiling weakly, asking, instructing a cure:
“play for me some Janis and some Joni, some Mozart and Mahler, climb in beside me, my old man, let us, let us rock our gypsy souls, drinking a case of each other.”*
who could refuse such a invitation... to become the plasma of the sun’s corona, if only for a moment
<>
1:38am Sunday March 15th, Twenty Twentyfold
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 1:55 AM UTC
Born to be
-is a belief
born with gifts
-nature's choice
a Theist says God has a plan
an Atheist says Go with the flow
will Universe has an answerer?
sorry, my friend
I am just a questioner
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 10:32 PM UTC
Only God knows my pure intentions
Some call me a perfectionist critic,
The skeptic speaks with boastful words, smooth like silk, it's the elitism of pride
I can't fight these heavy eyes
My heart aches to know, to know with certainty that I'll NEVER be alone
Again I, the questioner, seek to be satisfied . . .
Three times again . . .
Three times now and I'm still alone
– never to try again . .
I've given up all hope on love
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
take the bus you say, as if it's completely safe and harmless.
and not the highest level of anxiety inducing for me
as if I've never had to reach into my purse and find something hard or pointy to grip in my hand if need be
as if I've never had to scramble to find the answer to "Where ya boyfriend at?" that would actually work and get the guy to leave me alone and stop asking that ****** question
I would take the bus to my beauty school
which meant that all before 7 am, I had to have my face beat to the Gods- as a school requirement.
make up at 7 am is like a golden cheekbone flashing signal for
"keep talking, try to pick me up, when I say I'm taken, I really mean try harder."
I had to walk through the ghetto, as a tiny, make up and fancy clothing clad woman- to get to the bus stop, get on that bus, get to the transfer spot- transfer buses, and then finally get to my destination.
When really it was keep my head down, hood up so no one sees me, get to the bus station, get on the bus, say "I have a boyfriend." at least 10 times, try to make myself small when the questioner sits next to me, breathe a sigh of relief when my transfer spot comes up, only to swallow it when I walk on the next bus, repeat and then finally get to my **** drop off point and walk as fast as I ******* can into the school.
Every ******* day.
So don't you tell me to just take the **** bus if there is another option.
I would sooner shell out cash for gas than ever have to answer "Where is your boyfriend?"
Well ***** I am my own ******* boyfriend. He's right here. He knows how to throw a punch, he can handle himself, he doesn't take **** from no one.
But he's still weaker than most guys.
And for that- my boyfriend is in my pocket, small, barely noticeable and I'll just answer- he's at work, or he's at home, or I'm meeting up with him, and hope to God that you respect the idea of a man more than you respect me.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
Last convo of the evening.. So Who/what keeps you grounded..? What is the source of what you feel is the thing that makes you founded.., In your busy and your idle times..? what helps you be the best of who you are.. And do questions from a online convo some one you never met make you get annoyed at said arrival.. Like dang why you asking and do you feel the questioner better answer you first before you do. Or even if they do you don't give sound minded details of what is significantly you...about you?? answer or not hope i make you think and feel some emotions and some thing to ponder good or bad..
Past intro Some.. Questions .. LIKE what keeps u grounded..
TAKE AS LONG AS YOU NEED. EVEN IF ITS ONLY A FEW..
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 3:12 AM UTC
Would it suit me to do my duty for
Queen and country when all around me
what I can see
is the crumbling edifice of community
and the remains of a once
proud history.
Army?
and we become salvation, but for whom
if the bell should toll in that dreadful way
should I stay and fight or drift off into
the calamity of what is the endless night?
I dress in suits of many types
(he writes)
yet each suit is the same,
as underneath
there is no change
and the questioner remains.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
His herd trudge in binary directions.
Faceless they march to their fraudulent feed
Opposing the one, their ransom, his seed.
False food disguised as noble inflections.
The truth shrouded from all inspections
With frivolity from who need pay heed.
To words of the one, through him that did bleed
As payment for the herd’s imperfections.
Not for them but for him, the one, the all,
For their actions would tarnish his clean name
Should his creation lay under a pall,
His perfection it would only defame.
When he takes a stand, upon him they call
It is written he’ll win the wicked game.
For many chasing jenny, a short shrift
For lack of atonement for losing tone,
Their restitution shan’t come from that throne.
Their heart’s reticence sends love far adrift.
Truth can mend Lucifer’s damage, the rift
In their hearts instilled by stealth from day one.
To hear the word, the onus is their own.
To hear the truth is to receive its gift.
With wisdom, utilise our time we must.
Escape the herd in their binary trudge.
Basing beliefs on knowledge we can trust
They know to do but continue the drudge.
Heads hung with disgust they’ll return to dust
To dust, they he will adjudge.
The canvas currently clean as satin,
Upon which, with their freedom, they may paint
That which their hearts desire, but not to taint
Or tarnish the words before that Latin.
A bastardisation was that Latin,
Wringing and wrangling till the truth grew faint.
Questions unasked as questioner’s constraint
Set in motion the persistent pattern.
Little with distance between are those eyes
Open and receptive to deviate.
Blindly open and blinkered by the lies
For their daily drudge down the wide road, fate.
No hope for what awaits beyond the fires
When they see will it all be but too late?
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC