"refuting" poems
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~
your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise
nonsense
so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:
on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late
ok;
just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission
around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play
so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:
insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing
each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed
this particular one for you,
~
my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored
each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more
“of me, of mine do sing”
so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers*
maybe
—-
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
When words are not enough,
and the world won’t get off her back,
she dances the Devils way,
She’s a princess,
wait she’s a queen,
wait she’s an angel,
wait she’s everything,
a Goddess,
the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen,
and she’s dancing,
dancing is her therapy,
I mean,
I’m not James Brown,
but it’s a man’s world,
even if Rihanna runs this town,
See,
she’s been suppressed all her life,
and I’m not just talking about Rihanna,
I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife,
just to survive in this life,
she was touched by her father,
or brother or cousin,
when she was just a little girl,
I know we all wish it wasn’t,
but it is true,
so what’s a girl to do,
when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen,
this isn’t battle of the sexes,
this is war of the worlds,
wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl,
no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns,
she never asked to be born,
with the burden of being beautiful,
but she refuses to conform,
she is attractable irrational and radical,
so when it’s all too much,
the stares and the catcalls,
the aggressive forceful touch,
the nails across her back like a blackboard,
and the moans become just white noise,
she takes it all in,
she forgives the man because he’s just a boy,
he is an angel even if he has fallen,
she takes it all in,
and she uses all of those abuses,
as the fuel with the tools which induces,
an allusive state of truth which,
allows her to move with intuitive smoothness,
and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is,
separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses,
into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges,
she dances,
in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals,
she is more than a princess queen angel goddess,
she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal,
the real deal,
dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores,
moving faster in progression refuting repression,
overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors,
she is not a possession,
though she is possessed when,
she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more,
no words are enough,
she shows what we all feel,
she reveals what,
was before thinly concealed,
she is the perfect expression,
of imperfect circumstances,
she is poetic stanzas,
she is the paint on the canvas,
there is no question that she is the answer,
and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in,
let’s go of everything and dances…
∆aron L∆ Lux ∆
#strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
His mouth was a nuclear leak
(he fried his brain when he was 17)
And I can’t get the burning toxins off my skin
(and that is as far as he ever grew up)
Some of them have seeped in deeper, I can
(he’s amused by stick figure animation)
Hear them rupture the seams of my insides
(and the shuffling photos of his obsessions;)
My brain thankfully, is still intact
(his car, his clothes, his kids…and me)
Fighting this fight heroically
(my god, to be one of his children)
Anxiously looking over my shoulder
(he can’t keep a nanny for very long)
Refuting his demeaning accusations
(no one stays in his life who is not on payroll)
********* Narcissist
(but even they all quit eventually)
Still forgiving myself for letting it happen
(oblivious that his entourage disrespects him)
This antithesis-of-me-toxic-bath
(he is incapable of giving or deserving trust)
Disdained my beliefs and philosophies
(he still wishes he had his mullet of 1986)
Demanded my selflessness without return
(and the older woman he ****** in high school)
Reduced me to dismissible arm candy;
(immature alcoholic tantrums lie just)
The missing feature of his pride
(below the surface of every conversation)
And I can’t shake this feeling
(which speak exclusively of himself and his many impulses)
That I have truly met evil face to face
(or the stupidity of humanity who serve his whims)
Afraid to realize how narrowly I escaped
(his highest dream is to own a personal servant)
Except for the residue
(explains his demands clearly and concisely)
Adhering like burned on soap ****
(believes money and a big **** make him a man)
I feel like he will never, ever really be gone
(his reptilian brain controls every move)
That he will still try to own me or make me
(“I don’t want to be an ******* I’m just really good at it”)
Pay for refusing to surrender my soul
(funny, those words almost make me feel sorry for him)
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:21 AM UTC
I have had 10 romantic involvements.
60% have told me they loved me.
I have told 50% that I love them.
I lied to 80% of that 50% (.4)
I do not remember if 10% meant as much as I think it did.
And 10% has me.
I have hurt 100%.
I only talk to 30% now.
Numbers are the only
source of oxygen that
my veins accept as currency
refuting blood and organic matter
I am 100%
sorry
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
Movement stirs within womb of thought;
spellbound in fluid sac, fetally curled in
warmth; neither blooming in mind or
heart as host is indecisive; concept mote.
mind blank; confused as...
dubious action causes shame, bearing of
birth unwanted; incestuous violations,
sexually abused as crimson feather blooms
within body too young to blush; thoughts
in flaming anger flushed.
drenched in attrition...
passionate disdain of horrid disgust; in hand,
hanger of mass destruction; a fetal demise
plays against familial distrust, inside mind
combusts; a finger pointed, says, young eyes
beguiled and flamed their lust.
innocence stolen..
in back alley clinic, I extract what is just,
aftertaste, body refuting life flushed;
pysche destroyed, used like someone's toy,
chastity drained from eyes; no longer angelic;
turned cold and coy, ambivalence to destroy.
devious ploys invade anima of woman-child,
turned frigid of emotions; used and abused,
even though given emancipation rights; making
fledgling choices; in voices, now foul-tongued.
still young....
dumbfounded within...
yet, fetally unsprung...
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
Just like a maelstrom heading to the sea
Living my life both quiet and alone
My life, my times, in her head should not be
Still she comforts as if for years she’s known
How can she understand my bittersweet
Laments, residing deep within my soul
Comfort and hope I see when our eyes meet
She pulls me out of my deeply dug hole
Refuting my love in rejection kind
Instead insisting that she loves us all
The kind hearted heart to whom my mind pined
The foreknown knowledge caused my hope to pall
Despite whatever it is that she rends
The damage is never what she intends
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
Staring at the mirror,
not recognizing who i am
Exasperation in my blood
Indignation in my heart
Debriefing myself wouldnt work
Millions of disparate dots
Refuting everything i believed in
Reverencing my thoughts
Living in an inferno of darkness,
Searching for happiness
Trying to be convivial in,
The clutter of melancholy
Nix spirit,mettle,temperament
With fried skull,cold feet
Staring at the mirror,
not recognizing who i am.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 8:45 AM UTC
You were bored and I didn’t listen
I guess my hearing wasn’t the best
But for a moment that lasted months
You were proud of the nest
Built within my eyes
Crafted with trickery and deception
Dressed in a bow tie
Refuting any thought of introspection
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel the ceiling falling,
but that's just peripherals hauling shadows and crows calling from fallows.
Reality isn't changing, only my perception falling down,
aging and growing wicked angry and spiteful just 'cause I let it,
spitting lines of depression and hostile succession,
holding onto negative lessons,
refuting positive progression at the expense of intense spiritual expansion,
shunning the silver lining,
running too scared for shining sun to brighten the mood,
lighten the load, smooth the road,
crack the code of the looming clouds of the crowded skyline out the small window of the attic,
where I go to feed the addict and think about how my time would be better spent
playing roulette with russians and using automatics,
crack crack,
future's silent.
That's not really me, couldn't be, quietly pondering failures of loathing and perpetual black
clothing hiding scars of bygones instead of healing, sealing the skin like new, forging a
better view, starting to get a clue.
It's time for a change.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
Remember it always, The Bhagwad Gita already prescribed these four broad methods of worship:
1. Idolworshipping: Simple and sweet. Easy to decorate, imagine and connect with the PäräBrähmä. It promotes arts and literature.
2. Non-idolworshipping: These forms of worship don't require any stone or materialistic idols to connect with PäräBrähmä. It's also very easy to misinterpret.
3. Agnosticism: Here people are not concerned about PäräBrähmä as such but their refuting the existence of Brähmā is making them Hïnđūs.
4. Atheism: These people are fed up with the popular concept of PäräBrähmä because there's no point that they can see is favourable for them.
In Bhāgwäđ Gītā, Präbhü Śrī Kṛṣṇä lays down a very simple explanation of how all of the above ultimately lead to The PäräBrähmä.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
“What’s the harm?” they whisper,
_“What’s the problem
in being everyone’s fantasy?”_
“In having all of your friends
find your flesh attractive?”
“Having the pretty privilege
morph into the entitlement of others?”
As they claim my skin
and caress my bones.
_Peeling pieces of my body
and making themselves at home._
_Consent is implied
within the lines
of whatever bond we hold._
Friends, family, lovers.
What’s the harm in giving them
what they want,
what they demand they need.
In watching them eat you up
With a never ending greed.
“But you’re my fantasy”
_as if I’m obligated
to the impressions of me
you’ve shoved down my throat._
Until I’m choking and sobbing
pleading you to relinquish your hold.
Your eyes leave imprints and bruises
as you salivate over a body
I don’t even see.
_It was only 3rd grade._
Again, when merely rending
the damaged goods of a teen.
By the time I was an adult
it was the only way I was seen.
_But age matters not,
when you were never perceived
as a human being,_
simply a desire
for others to devour.
“What’s the harm in being a *** dream?”
They scream “we’re all friends here”
as they render my sobriety to shreds
_Only to tell me that it’s all in my head._
Society taught me to turn a blind eye,
“what’s the harm?” It said with a sigh.
_They drugged me with ignorance,_
refuting my plea.
A passing inconvenience for you
Born of my own naïveté,
is a trauma memory
_that I can never undo._
There isn’t a piece of me
you’ve not seen,
_nothing left of myself
to discover._
You’ve rendered my own exploration
into nothing more than a detour.
You’ve taken every first
I could have claimed
_and thought to beat a dog
was the equivalent of making it tame._
So now I’m sobbing into a void
wondering why I was _ever_
a thing that you could destroy?
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 12:57 AM UTC
Any kind of pain
reminds
utopia is a myth
and pain elicit
compassion
for fellow creatures
holiness divorced
from love
is no holiness at all
so refute all false ideas
of killing and suicide
to get you to paradise.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
“you can't go home,” said thomas wolfe, “back home to the
old forms and systems of things which once seemed ever
lasting but which are changing all the time.” but...here i am.
i've shattered that idea like expensive broken china, like the
mirrors i shattered within the 72 hours of being back here in
texas, the state of volatile weather patterns and skeletons i've
hid in the toybox in the attic upstairs. he said, “i can't go back
home to my childhood.” thomas, i have retained memories
like these and kept them hidden in the jewelry box along
with the lock of my hair i cut with scissors purposely when
i was seven tied up in a bow. i've uncovered artifacts from
my past, refuting your statement. thomas said, “i cannot go
back home to aestheticism.” as he believes the small-town
image i exist within will shapeshift at will and without
hesitation. another thing, he mentioned, “i cannot go back
home to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency
of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love'.” landmarks still stand out to me.
the bridge connecting both parks nearby my house overlooking
a large lake at the peak of the golden hour is sufficient enough
for art. it is sufficient enough to be considered something of
beauty, that needs to be captured. it is sufficient enough to
remember i've loved and lost so many things on this bridge.
thomas said, “i cannot go back home to the father you have
lost and have been looking for.” but thomas, i have recently
faced my dad with red glazed-over eyes, and he has always
been looking out for me. he has always shone a beacon
towards me, yet i've been so terrified of following the lights
in fear of losing my shadows. you told me, “i cannot go back
home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden
for you.” all i have been doing is surrounding myself with
people who can help me, save me, and ease my burdens.
and i can't help but notice gaps in these moments when
you say, “you're back home to the escapes of time and
memory, but katelyn, remember, the old forms and systems
of things which once seemed everlasting are rapidly changing
all the time.” and i notice the large gaps like amnesia blackouts.
sorrow can handle long distance relationships, but i can not.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC
Sit me here again.
Bewildered by the blinking screen
That beats with my impatience.
Haunted by memories
That once stirred my soul
Into crazed longing.
Sit me here again.
Beholden to a disastrous mind
Which fills cracks
With insatiable glue.
Yet again what if
Rattles in my chest
Reminds my humbled heart
That this
This has stakes
And longevity.
And yet sit me here again
Tortured by the unwavering
Possibility
Of disappearing
With quick flicks of stubborn tongues.
It’s chance
With 8,000 miles more
Of unbridled yearning.
I hate that
Prolonged responses
Fills me with
Burning cuts
Of heartache
That my craziness
Once again reveals its eager head
I don’t need reassurance of love
I hold that, dear,
Too dear
Dear enough to break me
Into little shattered pieces of repeated fears
But I don’t know
If my armor stands strong enough
To not concave to
Piercing blades
Of loneliness
Of gashes
That ripped my bloated heart.
This hole of desire
Burns right through my skin
Out my sunken eyes
Painting my mouth red
Chewing the same edge
Of a trembling lip
So sit me here again.
Refuting strikes
Of persistent longing.
I can’t
I mustn’t.
How do I explain
It kills me.
It slowly eats away at my will
Making scars in deep cavities
That rarely pumps enough blood
To suffice life
But pounds on haphazardly
Since laying eyes on you.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
futile illusion light ray intrusion senses freight refuting fright images
imagination eye ignite\
peer stare sight straight threw aspect ratio view totality indicate follow
inundated by reality\
asphyxiate choke the breath bliss the heart speeding back to her needs
purely\
crouching eternally desperate for his goddess of reality accepting her gift
of vivacity\
tiger rip mortality half bare hidden pierce through rears dragon appear
fierce tare morality\
translate emotions feeling resilient cross distances redirect dawns
instantly\
resplendent galvanize repentance vandalize despairs loneliness regurgitate desire lure\
molecular igneous magic electronic extension unseen connecting
transcendence\
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
Impugn shall if not your eyes are meager coruscations. Self-refuting, explanatory of its given berth.
This is the unsolicited onus of addressing it: heart rears static splayed, intercepted by
this question.
Stigmatize this if performance of, merely a concert. There is rigor stiffening the veins when ensanguined
from much gnawing of the uncontrolled sharpness of impressions. I think of ways to mend,
and when unable, means to bend.
Settle this once and for all and here is how. If perhaps an admission of something, let me see clearer
than this makeshift fog. Pave me a railroad somewhere, or house a station.
All of this waiting, all of this silence chastising what noise needs to be freed.
Pretend to be carrying a statue. Curse in a different language. Show what it means to be wronged
when the incompleteness of evidence merits a conjecture – this is your punishment,
to see me in false light and dislimn our quite fate:
it will be long before there is the clearest answer, the apparatus to straighten,
to muffle the sound, and put light into this beating.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
if you thought you were the only one
to be silent in a noisy place
if you saw yourself as helpless
in a situation you couldn't face
if the days are long but your nights are fast
if you don't know how much longer you will last
if sometimes you see yourself as less
if your life causes constant, unrelenting stress
if you realize that you deserve more (because you do)
come crawling to me, i want to comfort you
i want to sit with you and sing along to acoustic covers by Tyler Ward.
i want you to be silent or to scream loud lyrics to your favorite song.
if you need to list off all the reasons you think you're not pretty, i will (unwillingly) listen...shortly after refuting every vile lie you have just spoken over yourself. you are pretty. and you are brave.
if you must tell yourself to stick it out and be strong
if getting out of bed to face the world seems so wrong
if nothing makes sense and you see no light
if your routine is a process of holding on tight
if your scars are reminders of why you can't sleep,
if you feel so high yet you're in too deep
if your home is not a place
and freedom has no space
if you are not afraid.
if you need me, i will be right here. and if you do not, i am still here.
© Melissa Carlson 2015
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
Who quiets the detonators song
who stills the beast within he wills
the refuting wrong, the ill he feels
a lance pierces longing to wrong
as its victor rides away alone
outer places no one calls home
another victim will rise again
reeling in my pain, until he falls
spilling innocent blood, colder
then the darkness wading in heart
flooding my breath, I'am breathless
as useless as death warmed over
I no longer feel the sun or wind
or a siren bleating in the grasses
she dares me come, die in my arms
for I am soft and wanting your cares
fold your fears into me for I am not
she quiets me, so with it my tears
BB2015
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
I take up space because I am valuable.
I say that as I eat and rejoice in my outward growth
Delighted in food as it hits my mouth, and how it hugs my body.
I say that as I stretch out on the bus
Tacking no less room then the man spread that is so recklessly unaware of itself.
I say that as I raise my voice refusing silencers
His voice will not penetrate an overwhelming truth, no matter how loud he speaks over me
I say that as I stand tall, combating the overlooker
I sway surly and head held high as I am worthy
As I celebrate my ************
Praise the blood that shows my strengths
I cast away the thought that a bleeding thing is weak
Is it not true that he has been known to bleed too?
I take up space because I am valuable
Treasured for my thoughts and wholeness
I say that as I work out, muscles showing
My strength oblivious to the male ego, without fear of being any less of a woman
I say that as I challenge myself and others
Because meekness was something I was taught, not something that I am.
I say that as I refuse to be consumed
I am not a product for pleasure I am a human, a consciousness with feeling.
I say that as I really am, as a goddess, a queen, an equal
An individual with agency and determination
As I celebrate my character
Praise the misguided for building me up
Refuting the idea that blood is shameful
Because my womanhood is in part my pride
I say that I am valuable very simply,
because I am
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 7:38 PM UTC
Look at what YOU chose. The typical. **** or *** Peep the visuals. What does it take to trigger dopamines towards your hopes and dreams? This excitement felt through your cell tissue. Electrogenesis. You'll never See the end of this. I Implore you to reproduce these sentences. This my life story the benevolency before me told me my birth date was holy. Understand this poetry. This composition is salubrious. My darkness has me illuminated with no changes. The unchangeable. Refuting YOUR professors theories they're all meant to fear me. **** this new **** it all seems counter intuitive. I'M tired of this student ****
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
we're all replacing,
refuting and not facing,
that we were replaced
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
How many times
Does this scene
Have to be repeated
Before the NRA finally is defeated
This pathology is
Apparently deep-seated
Although that’s not the way
That we usually treat it
How many times
Must these shootings
Become breaking news
Or we hear the refuting of people who refuse
To give an inch on gun control
Despite those that we lose
We pay the consequences of
The choices that we choose
How many times
Are we prepared
To do the same old thing
We’ve all heard the stories
There’s a familiar ring
We’re practicing insanity
When will we feel the sting
Of what our inaction usually tends to bring
How many times
Must we hear the urgency of this message
Or be forced to rummage through
The aftermath and wreckage
Of lost and wounded lives
Whose sacrifice beckons
Us to make some changes
In these remaining seconds
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2015. All rights reserved.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
in a sense we're just a present tense expulsion
Refuting the rhythms, playing escapism
Thr'out's weaving flawless textures
Mapping exact, luminous essence of gold
Purity reign,
process.
symbol.
inferred.
--So it's like, no matter whom or what, we happen upon is a reference and different aspect of yrself, having its own experience. Trying to figure out certain levels of understanding, depending on their function of balance.
That's a mighty sweater
to be displaying on that pop-up ad.
And it's a ****** shame, somethings
even have to be mentioned
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:18 PM UTC
Let me be abandon, exile in isolation, coming to grip with death as a unavoidable action, never now, will I need to repent on never living my life, perhaps those made from genuine substance are the most lonely in known cosmos, doomed to read to poetry to pass the time, avoiding to be the contrary to those sticking to the masses. People collecting and colliding together, unsatisfied with themselves, filling out with luxuries, like rats scattering across the creaky wooden boards, avoiding those opposite - plagues. Love in poetry is never fulfillment of love, ony in the experience, no series of moments in life will stop the struggle, awakening happens in the blissful combustion in conquering the mind, the totality of being in existence, dominating reality and birthing freedom from it, life’s meaning has nothing to with being saved. To when I die, do not weep for when my coffin drops into the ground, for I had already passed, left to wonder this life, alone in exile, [pictures of me in my final state, on poetic grind, refuting mysterious rumours, waiting for comrades getting murdered and resurrected, can’t lie, got no love for the other side, at that other place, rumours that I died, murdered in cold blood, I just left.
(knowledge variable)
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC
The swollen moon shadows the smoky night
Tensions rise if you shout for a fight
Bruises seem exclusive
Until rumors need refuting
Testimony through retention
But are we fully comprehending?
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC