"remanded" poems
1524
A faded Boy—in sallow Clothes
Who drove a lonesome Cow
To pastures of Oblivion—
A statesman’s Embryo—
The Boys that whistled are extinct—
The Cows that fed and thanked
Remanded to a Ballad’s Barn
Or Clover’s Retrospect—
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788
Joy to have merited the Pain—
To merit the Release—
Joy to have perished every step—
To Compass Paradise—
Pardon—to look upon thy face—
With these old fashioned Eyes—
Better than new—could be—for that—
Though bought in Paradise—
Because they looked on thee before—
And thou hast looked on them—
Prove Me—My Hazel Witnesses
The features are the same—
So fleet thou wert, when present—
So infinite—when gone—
An Orient’s Apparition—
Remanded of the Morn—
The Height I recollect—
’Twas even with the Hills—
The Depth upon my Soul was notched—
As Floods—on Whites of Wheels—
To Haunt—till Time have dropped
His last Decade away,
And Haunting actualize—to last
At least—Eternity—
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A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life
~~~
this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching
write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth
sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?
a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true
peer?
let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded
if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment
even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:
Overcast.
Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.
High near 65.
what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?
this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis
there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body
weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution
before...
these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:
*for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?*
October 1, 2015
~~~
(1)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1417203/there-is-a-poem-lurking/
~~~
(2)
*but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,*
this space so gulf and so narrow
*in and between
the unity of
us*
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1413760/for-ernesto-l-gonzales-aka-the-dedpoet-the-in-between/
~~~
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
one: "mom"
crossing the line she had drawn in the sand
cussing me out from holding my hand
these rules and lies all she made up
her chalice of fire scorching my cup
rue the day she came to know
the silent demon hid in my soul
pushing memories out of the way
and succumb to a chasm of arid dismay
two: "rules"
forget the burning in your *****
forget the cursed mine of coins
forget the lashings from her lips
forget the sinner b'twixt my hips
eyes that sting when open too long
voice that scratches when given song
bodies that itch for cursed delights
heart that relates pleasure and fright
three: "Mary"
blessed are they that feel the burn
holy is she that ignores the yearn
but what should she get for crossing her thighs?
not honor nor respect, but labor and sighs
'sainthood becomes her,' the elders all say
'so honest! so pure! and see just how fair!'
whilst only yesterday they'd cursed the *****
remanded to outcast; covered no more.
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 7:23 PM UTC
How many men make or brake the barriers?
How many more move forward as the carriers
of the message? The presage of the black dark future.
When society is wounded who'll be dressing the sutures?
Those in suits blur truth across the canvas,
Then paint over it with blood from the youth and the savages.
Ravaging for innocent civilians, to apply the bandages.
While the man in the suit counts the loot as he micro manages.
Feed them Faceless, Tasteless food for thought.
Get them Pacing laceless- racing to be caught
red handed, then remanded in custody to rot
in a cell, dwelling on how poorly they fought.
Not to quick to mention their desire for redemption.
The lesson is learned until it's consumed your whole attention
span, quick make a plan- confessing that you're a bad man
Don't change the fact that you were sweating as you ran man.
Who's this man? Who's lurking in the shadows?
The search narrows- he's found hanging from the gallows.
This harrows the whole world for a whirlwind minute.
Until the media man has had enough chance to spin it.
"He was a reprehensible, dispensable shell of human.
His soul had creeped out after years of consuming
peoples fears, then blaring it back into their ears.
He was mole for manics, spreading panic to the assuming"
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
I am here, I fear
More scared than sorted
More dandelion than burdock
Scattered silly
Metaphorically muddled
Mine's a messy mind
Attempting to arrange
A lifetime's files
In an hour
Each and every hour
Of every minute
I'm remanded in memory
A willing prisoner
Of the past
My hands are cuffed in air
There is no key
But me
And what is left
Has lost all recognisable arrangement
I'm pulled down deep
But holding on to stones
They keep me grounded
Drown-ded
Letting go will all but **** me
All but do me in
Everything but that
Letting go for Life
Shake it off
Your clothes are all wet
But you're not made of sugar
Your tears will not melt you
Your heart will not break
Let it be
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:57 PM UTC
Remanded to Risley
by the order of
her Majesty,
to give some pleasure
to
the treasury
I rattle my chains.
Blame's a losing game and you can't blame me for that, but we're all in eight by four cells and alarm bells keep on ringing.
They demanded life, I said,
'my wife wouldn't like me away for that long',
apparently I was wrong,
she's run off with a toff from down South,
and I'm down in the dumps
not to mention the mouth.
I rattle the chains and try all the locks,
they strap me to tables,
give me electric shocks.
The treatment becomes the punishment and the crime is time in fits and spurts it punctures me and how it hurts.
I rattle my chains to the sound of my pains
and it sounds like a Max Bygraves
record.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
Some time when the lilies are all in vases ask me
the lessons I've learned. Ask me in a
picture, Ill give you words. Others
have been remanded, most plucked
away, and some roots hang
by a fray: ask me what is
a lily without the wind?
I will listen as best I can.
You and I will wade and play in
the muddy pond to find them. We know
they used to be there, drowning; and
there were hands to save them, trying
not to touch the petals but forgot us.
What the lilies say, that is what I say.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
a populist
president has
bygone his
chest where
chair was
owned by
Benjamin and
remanded federal
of Franklyn's
Forest that
acquitted fermentation
of law
in which
he die
of corvid-20
this year
of heaven
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 7:58 AM UTC
Sleeves of an army green jacket rolled to expose excitement. A predetermined embrace encloses around shoulders, politeness exchanged with anxious adrenaline. Pools of color collide and ungracefully splash the sidewalk. Thresholds crossed to beginnings
met by intertwining smiles. The air smells deeply roasted, exhaled as yellow stools become wrapped in conversation; all taboos acknowledged bare resemblance. Forgotten, a “Thank You” hangs out to dry. Time allotted permits brisk rambling through the hour.
Sleeves of stressed denim rolled to expose inklings. Uninhibited, honesty undresses the night’s private faculties. Every last minute filled with sound, devoured, begging no respite. Deliberately, the question must be borrowed. Chance unravels the enigma of
possibilities. Irradiating uncertainty escapes the green emeralds facing eagerness; remanded by signs of relief. Stubble is clutched diligently with five occasions, but only soft, warmth resonates. Radiation permeates the sum, encompassing fleeting eternity.
Sleeves of illustrious silver rolled around to expose shyness. First time intensity subdues any exaggerated significance. By familiar melody sweetness dances, tasted by those listening. Fascination entices conscious dreaming for scarce minutes, stolen.
Laughter called upon repetition. The other side expressed desire to not be resigned. A latch clicks, reminding of punctuality long lost. Captivated moments craved no more entertaining conclusions. Turning, a smile reveals a brief twinkle saying, “Good Night.”
Lateness found itself worthy of the answer.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
In that noted class of Sixty-one, His was not the most famous name.
Still, John Pelham served the cause until death staked its claim.
The Gallant Pelham took the field across three years of war.
It’s said he never knew defeat; Success was all he saw.
A shard of shrapnel pierced his brain that day at Kelly’s ford.
They carried his body from the field; his soul remanded to the Lord.
His leadership was sorely missed with Gallant Pelham in his grave.
Jeb Stuart paused to shed a tear for the bravest of the brave.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC