"rebuffs" poems - Hello Poetry

We are not quite like monks, although we, too, sit. A monk sits and seeks to find nothing in nothing. We sit to create something out of something. Things float in our minds: childhood slights and successes, puberty, hormones, pain, our first fumbling ***** our first bewildering wars, colleges, conquests, rebuffs, disappointments, jobs, marriages, children, divorce: all that has brought us to this moment alone. The monk sits in deepening quiet, unmoving in silence. We sit, hand caressing a pen, a typewriter, a computer, waiting upon experience, hoping that its loose images and uncertain memories will coalesce into words. When they do (not always), we call that a poem and we call ourselves poets. The monk devolves into a nothing that is. The poet crafts a something that isn't. Is the something we have wrought more than the nothing that swallows the monks? Or is it very the same: not an attempt to touch the depth of being, but to become the depth itself. Not to be a magician, but to become magick itself. To bow to the god within ourselves and allow it voice or silence. We both, in our ways, do what we must do. Namaste. ~mce

0

Sep 24, 2015

Sep 24, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC

mike-essig

Poets

We are not quite like monks, although we, too, sit. A monk sits and seeks to find nothing in nothing. We sit to create something out of something. Things float in our minds: childhood slights and successes, puberty, hormones, pain, our first fumbling ***** our first bewildering wars, colleges, conquests, rebuffs, disappointments, jobs, marriages, children, divorce: all that has brought us to this moment alone. The monk sits in deepening quiet, unmoving in silence. We sit, hand caressing a pen, a typewriter, a computer, waiting upon experience, hoping that its loose images and uncertain memories will coalesce into words. When they do (not always), we call that a poem and we call ourselves poets. The monk devolves into a nothing that is. The poet crafts a something that isn't. Is the something we have wrought more than the nothing that swallows the monks? Or is it very the same: not an attempt to touch the depth of being, but to become the depth itself. Not to be a magician, but to become magick itself. To bow to the god within ourselves and allow it voice or silence. We both, in our ways, do what we must do. Namaste. ~mce

54

ashes fell like snow drifting down aimlessly silently one landed in her hair but her eyes were fixed on the fire a great rushing crackling tortured sound as the building burned we could only stand and watch can still feel its heat on my face years pass with the seasons laying a great drift of leaves and tangle of vines on the ruins sticking up out of the rough sea of dead debris the twisted remains of a child's school desk the frame of it jutting out of the snow melting in the spring breeze a muted shout of metal the jungle gym overtaken by weeds and the swings just a rusted frame i clamber up the top to see the vista but only gain another perplexing view of ashen earth we walk down the broken path to the small house its broken window a haven for a thrush and nestled in its brick doorway a rusty clowns head battered and leaning over the grin lost in reddish decay we sit in the room we love in the small broken house really no more than a child's playhouse while the summer air gathers in close to us thick and filled with heavy summer scents the sun piercing the room like a hot razorblade she wont look at me only sits mumbling a song unrecognized till the words slip clear of old nursery rhyme i fear for her fragile sanity's she unbuttons her shirt sweat pours from her like spring rain she finally looks at me and with a vacant diabolical tone tells me she wants to hurt me in ways no-one else can unhinged as dusk litters the field we come to stand where we stood that night come to relive once more our thoughts and words as we watched it burn symbolically i place a small grey paper in her hair for the ashes that fell like tears symbolically she raises a single forlorn cry asking that i save someone but there is no one to be saved we are a lifetime too late symbolically we weep the twisted iron in the rubble rebuffs our desire for comfort the leaden sky denies our desire to close this terrible thing leave it behind as nights restless hand pushes us back to the small house she takes my hand silently forgiving us both for having only been children when our world burned to the ground

0

Jul 19, 2014

Jul 19, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

quaker ridge road

ashes fell like snow drifting down aimlessly silently one landed in her hair but her eyes were fixed on the fire a great rushing crackling tortured sound as the building burned we could only stand and watch can still feel its heat on my face years pass with the seasons laying a great drift of leaves and tangle of vines on the ruins sticking up out of the rough sea of dead debris the twisted remains of a child's school desk the frame of it jutting out of the snow melting in the spring breeze a muted shout of metal the jungle gym overtaken by weeds and the swings just a rusted frame i clamber up the top to see the vista but only gain another perplexing view of ashen earth we walk down the broken path to the small house its broken window a haven for a thrush and nestled in its brick doorway a rusty clowns head battered and leaning over the grin lost in reddish decay we sit in the room we love in the small broken house really no more than a child's playhouse while the summer air gathers in close to us thick and filled with heavy summer scents the sun piercing the room like a hot razorblade she wont look at me only sits mumbling a song unrecognized till the words slip clear of old nursery rhyme i fear for her fragile sanity's she unbuttons her shirt sweat pours from her like spring rain she finally looks at me and with a vacant diabolical tone tells me she wants to hurt me in ways no-one else can unhinged as dusk litters the field we come to stand where we stood that night come to relive once more our thoughts and words as we watched it burn symbolically i place a small grey paper in her hair for the ashes that fell like tears symbolically she raises a single forlorn cry asking that i save someone but there is no one to be saved we are a lifetime too late symbolically we weep the twisted iron in the rubble rebuffs our desire for comfort the leaden sky denies our desire to close this terrible thing leave it behind as nights restless hand pushes us back to the small house she takes my hand silently forgiving us both for having only been children when our world burned to the ground

67

Gilgamesh--two-thirds god, one-third man--was the despot of Uruk. He treated his subjects cruelly. To ameliorate this abominable situation, the gods create Enkidu, who was reared by animals. At first, Gilgamesh and Enkidu fight, but then become friends. They want to cut down a cedar forest that is off limits to mortals. The forest is guarded by a monster, Humbaba, who serves Enlil, the god of earth, wind, and air. With the help of Shamash, the sun god, the two **** Humbaba, then cut down the trees to make a raft. They float back to Uruk. Ishtar, the goddess of love, falls in love with Gilgamesh, but he rebuffs her. Angered, Ishtar asks her father, Anu, the god of the sky, to punish Gilgamesh by bringing down the Bull of Heaven that creates seven years of famine, but Gilgamesh and Enkidu fight and **** the bull. The gods seek revenge and **** Enkidu. Gilgamesh is forlorn, and in his grief begins to wear animals skins. He wanders through the wilderness. Gilgamesh finally meets Utnapishtim to whom the gods have given immortality, but he won't tell Gilgamesh how to gain immortality for himself. Gilgamesh therefore continues his travels, this time through total darkness, until he finnally reaches the sea with its beautiful surroundings. It is there that he meets Siduri. He tells her about his quest for immortality. She responds by telling him to abandon this quest and to learn how to enjoy the pleasures of what remain of the rest of his natural life. Men would die, but humankind would persevere. Gilgamesh is a changed man. He returns to Uruk and sees the city and its people in a different light. He will find meaning and gratification in the years he has left, and humanity will endure. Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

0

Apr 22, 2020

Apr 22, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC

tod-howard-hawks

GILGAMESH TRANSFORMED: AN ALLEGORY FOR ALL OF US

Gilgamesh--two-thirds god, one-third man--was the despot of Uruk. He treated his subjects cruelly. To ameliorate this abominable situation, the gods create Enkidu, who was reared by animals. At first, Gilgamesh and Enkidu fight, but then become friends. They want to cut down a cedar forest that is off limits to mortals. The forest is guarded by a monster, Humbaba, who serves Enlil, the god of earth, wind, and air. With the help of Shamash, the sun god, the two **** Humbaba, then cut down the trees to make a raft. They float back to Uruk. Ishtar, the goddess of love, falls in love with Gilgamesh, but he rebuffs her. Angered, Ishtar asks her father, Anu, the god of the sky, to punish Gilgamesh by bringing down the Bull of Heaven that creates seven years of famine, but Gilgamesh and Enkidu fight and **** the bull. The gods seek revenge and **** Enkidu. Gilgamesh is forlorn, and in his grief begins to wear animals skins. He wanders through the wilderness. Gilgamesh finally meets Utnapishtim to whom the gods have given immortality, but he won't tell Gilgamesh how to gain immortality for himself. Gilgamesh therefore continues his travels, this time through total darkness, until he finnally reaches the sea with its beautiful surroundings. It is there that he meets Siduri. He tells her about his quest for immortality. She responds by telling him to abandon this quest and to learn how to enjoy the pleasures of what remain of the rest of his natural life. Men would die, but humankind would persevere. Gilgamesh is a changed man. He returns to Uruk and sees the city and its people in a different light. He will find meaning and gratification in the years he has left, and humanity will endure. Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

2

A cat is mischief incarnate from claws to whiskered nose. He spreads his form indiscriminately whenever and wherever he goes. 19% in his tail; the sweeping fluff of doom. 23% in the wailing cries that wake you in nighttime gloom. 8% in the claws and teeth which teach the unwise to take care. 31% in the legs; carrying him from disasters- he caused- everywhere. 19% in the eyes that direct these ongoing rebuffs of fate: surveying all that smacks of horror in the humans who are always too late.

0

Aug 4, 2019

Aug 4, 2019 at 3:10 AM UTC

801

100% Mischief

A cat is mischief incarnate from claws to whiskered nose. He spreads his form indiscriminately whenever and wherever he goes. 19% in his tail; the sweeping fluff of doom. 23% in the wailing cries that wake you in nighttime gloom. 8% in the claws and teeth which teach the unwise to take care. 31% in the legs; carrying him from disasters- he caused- everywhere. 19% in the eyes that direct these ongoing rebuffs of fate: surveying all that smacks of horror in the humans who are always too late.

16

Archie Monroe, the swollen bell ringer of Lavender Moor, Is looking to sell his copper claw, His wartime Horlick’s pedals, And his ferocious bone lick with its wet mink sheath. He half believes in two thirds of a God every other end of the day. He believes in St. Clank, and the spanking of the parable, He believes in the Holy Bee and the miracle of the monocle. He's walking all lookable He talks about succulent; The warm unbuttoned government; The other worldly succubus, And tickled sinners such as us Who never want to make a fuss. The curled up nurse of Russia Road is building ghosts of crimson brick, Hurting the sick, and Christmas pale With the poisoned tip of her sharpened nail. She nestles by comparison with the dullards of noon. Who would have thought it expensively cruel To do it in the dentist froth, Now that she's lost in Hoxton Square? Barely able to breath; Hairy and **** Sticky to the last. See the violent and widespread bed spasms of Arbuckle’s bottle, And the lamp lit cancer of corrosive blue whining, The ill mannered throat-goose And the manicured miscarriage of Mendleson's twenty fourth mother. Felix was peeling We knew it to be true, Even back then In the pickled omentum. The pompous rebuffs and the transparent gloves of yawning; It seemed not she like. See the museum’s scratched trumpet mask of medical sod, And the soft dissection of the ink ***** Implements of ticking and slip with the slow itch and clop. The anatomy doll, all green and glad; Its uncertain internal shrinking of Crippen; The skull’s Baron of the Intact Apparent. She cradles her parents in terrified liver Resembling dill with an unusual, excitable finish. Meanwhile out in Kraków: The idiotic London guillotine shop Shows eight obscene operation reveals trembling on a saucer. This, I'm unafraid to never say, is not almost uncertainly bowel pay.

0

Feb 3, 2016

Feb 3, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC

ArthurBird

#1

Archie Monroe, the swollen bell ringer of Lavender Moor, Is looking to sell his copper claw, His wartime Horlick’s pedals, And his ferocious bone lick with its wet mink sheath. He half believes in two thirds of a God every other end of the day. He believes in St. Clank, and the spanking of the parable, He believes in the Holy Bee and the miracle of the monocle. He's walking all lookable He talks about succulent; The warm unbuttoned government; The other worldly succubus, And tickled sinners such as us Who never want to make a fuss. The curled up nurse of Russia Road is building ghosts of crimson brick, Hurting the sick, and Christmas pale With the poisoned tip of her sharpened nail. She nestles by comparison with the dullards of noon. Who would have thought it expensively cruel To do it in the dentist froth, Now that she's lost in Hoxton Square? Barely able to breath; Hairy and **** Sticky to the last. See the violent and widespread bed spasms of Arbuckle’s bottle, And the lamp lit cancer of corrosive blue whining, The ill mannered throat-goose And the manicured miscarriage of Mendleson's twenty fourth mother. Felix was peeling We knew it to be true, Even back then In the pickled omentum. The pompous rebuffs and the transparent gloves of yawning; It seemed not she like. See the museum’s scratched trumpet mask of medical sod, And the soft dissection of the ink ***** Implements of ticking and slip with the slow itch and clop. The anatomy doll, all green and glad; Its uncertain internal shrinking of Crippen; The skull’s Baron of the Intact Apparent. She cradles her parents in terrified liver Resembling dill with an unusual, excitable finish. Meanwhile out in Kraków: The idiotic London guillotine shop Shows eight obscene operation reveals trembling on a saucer. This, I'm unafraid to never say, is not almost uncertainly bowel pay.

45

In arms of her father, Surrounded by love, She blossomed into a beauty, A prized possession of her brother, The one he handled with utmost care, A childhood fantasy, A sought after reality, For which she waited long, The man of her dreams, Was finally there, In that white dress, She looked immaculate, It was her day, She’ll never forget that date, Saying ‘I Do’, Her glittering smile, Poured out the joy contained, Drops of pearl came out, Oyster of excitement made it priceless, And froze the epoch in animation, In golden words were written, The new chapter of her life, Filled with love and hope, She scaled the mountain of bliss, Unbounded & unbridled were the emotions, It started to Dawn, A new day in new life, She was now someone’s wife, Drenched in love, Every moment was ecstatic, Days kept on passing , Hands of the clock, Their merciless ticking, Smothered her smile, Burnt down her castle of joy, Her saviour, her lover, Eventually got bored of her, Love got lost in the unfair transition, In his own delirium & intoxication, He was the devil she always feared, He is drunk again, Having one too many, Abusing and choking, Her neck is starting to chafe, Thought with him she was safe, Forcing himself on her, She screams I ain’t a ***** Holding by her hair, He rebuffs with a grin, Saying you are ‘Nothing More’, From physical abuse, To mental torture, The crescendo of her grief, Got stifled within, Fading in muffled cries and silent tears, She is now reluctant to sleep, For she’s afraid of dreams, The only one she nurtured, Is now painful, Too painful to live, In a pool of blood she sat, Tears leaving marooned trails, Coming from puffy blackened eyes, To end the pain she never sought, Eventually took the easiest way out, Gone are the dark spots, And she’s beautiful again, But now in all black , With eyes shut, Laying in that casket, Wiping away the grief, Her daughter solemnly swears, To live in the harsh truth, Unlike her mother’s dream, Who died silently without scream.

0

May 26, 2015

May 26, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC

kumar-abhishek

A Daughter’s Dream

In arms of her father, Surrounded by love, She blossomed into a beauty, A prized possession of her brother, The one he handled with utmost care, A childhood fantasy, A sought after reality, For which she waited long, The man of her dreams, Was finally there, In that white dress, She looked immaculate, It was her day, She’ll never forget that date, Saying ‘I Do’, Her glittering smile, Poured out the joy contained, Drops of pearl came out, Oyster of excitement made it priceless, And froze the epoch in animation, In golden words were written, The new chapter of her life, Filled with love and hope, She scaled the mountain of bliss, Unbounded & unbridled were the emotions, It started to Dawn, A new day in new life, She was now someone’s wife, Drenched in love, Every moment was ecstatic, Days kept on passing , Hands of the clock, Their merciless ticking, Smothered her smile, Burnt down her castle of joy, Her saviour, her lover, Eventually got bored of her, Love got lost in the unfair transition, In his own delirium & intoxication, He was the devil she always feared, He is drunk again, Having one too many, Abusing and choking, Her neck is starting to chafe, Thought with him she was safe, Forcing himself on her, She screams I ain’t a ***** Holding by her hair, He rebuffs with a grin, Saying you are ‘Nothing More’, From physical abuse, To mental torture, The crescendo of her grief, Got stifled within, Fading in muffled cries and silent tears, She is now reluctant to sleep, For she’s afraid of dreams, The only one she nurtured, Is now painful, Too painful to live, In a pool of blood she sat, Tears leaving marooned trails, Coming from puffy blackened eyes, To end the pain she never sought, Eventually took the easiest way out, Gone are the dark spots, And she’s beautiful again, But now in all black , With eyes shut, Laying in that casket, Wiping away the grief, Her daughter solemnly swears, To live in the harsh truth, Unlike her mother’s dream, Who died silently without scream.

75

To die in my own arms. To experience rapture in my world encompasses a field of hindrance. Undoubtably failing, to seek those who comfort me in a world of nonfulfillment. A confined receptacle of positive emotions struggling to be kept shut tight, as I meander the streets of the bold and proper. Unconventional workings of the mind projected by waves of sound ****** causes discomfort to those who have listened in company of me. Notability has been afar, since I had last possessed it so greatly. I am now the last of what to be known, as the person I once was to be. Lust awaits behind a door, a door that has weakened with seniority. Love appears to be concealed in fear. Rejection is relative to love's own emotion. Lust is what terminates the opportunity of love, when oral phrasing is miscalculated from it's true meaning. Never have I been so doltish, and scatterbrained I seem to be. Alone I am It seems to me. Will solitude become my everlasting acquaintance? It's been surely devoted for quite some time, although I'd prefer to meet it's demise. Nevermore I seek to idolize, such a classification that rebuffs me. I'll keep to me and one day I shall see, It is but only me, who has been faithful to fidelity. Failure to remain in solidarity any longer, with thoughts I blindly accept. Denial will get myself nowhere, but a premature casket that aimed to be fulfilled by an obsolete version of me. I have yet to find such love again. Nostalgia appears to be such a unique function of the memory. Yet nostalgia for me, causes misery when reminding me of what I once had, and will forever fail to achieve again. Two malignant relatives haunt me as I attempt to dream of peace and tranquility. Malicious enemies such as depression and loneliness will forever cease my ability to dream. Opposing the peacefulness they provide the nightmare. But no nightmare is as gruesome or horrific as the constant reminder that, I am alone, And I will now know what it's like, To Die in My Own Arms.

0

Sep 1, 2016

Sep 1, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC

saint_francis422

To Die in My Own Arms

To die in my own arms. To experience rapture in my world encompasses a field of hindrance. Undoubtably failing, to seek those who comfort me in a world of nonfulfillment. A confined receptacle of positive emotions struggling to be kept shut tight, as I meander the streets of the bold and proper. Unconventional workings of the mind projected by waves of sound ****** causes discomfort to those who have listened in company of me. Notability has been afar, since I had last possessed it so greatly. I am now the last of what to be known, as the person I once was to be. Lust awaits behind a door, a door that has weakened with seniority. Love appears to be concealed in fear. Rejection is relative to love's own emotion. Lust is what terminates the opportunity of love, when oral phrasing is miscalculated from it's true meaning. Never have I been so doltish, and scatterbrained I seem to be. Alone I am It seems to me. Will solitude become my everlasting acquaintance? It's been surely devoted for quite some time, although I'd prefer to meet it's demise. Nevermore I seek to idolize, such a classification that rebuffs me. I'll keep to me and one day I shall see, It is but only me, who has been faithful to fidelity. Failure to remain in solidarity any longer, with thoughts I blindly accept. Denial will get myself nowhere, but a premature casket that aimed to be fulfilled by an obsolete version of me. I have yet to find such love again. Nostalgia appears to be such a unique function of the memory. Yet nostalgia for me, causes misery when reminding me of what I once had, and will forever fail to achieve again. Two malignant relatives haunt me as I attempt to dream of peace and tranquility. Malicious enemies such as depression and loneliness will forever cease my ability to dream. Opposing the peacefulness they provide the nightmare. But no nightmare is as gruesome or horrific as the constant reminder that, I am alone, And I will now know what it's like, To Die in My Own Arms.

46