"scandalized" poems
*The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will be live-*
The revelation will be streaming through your Windows
laptops and smartphones.
The revolution will be blogged
Tweeted, liked, shared, RE-blogged RE-tweeted
and Stumbled Upon in between
midnight ************ sessions
sandwiched between funny cat memes.
The resolution will be HD.
It's evolution will be high speed.
The whistles will be blown at with frequency.
The revolution will be commented on;
Scrutinized.
Vandalized.
Scandalized.
Stylized and advertized.
People will pay attention -
People will forget to mention
that some stand up, occupy, riot
and die.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution be streaming live
through the filter of your choice.
The facts will be democratized.
The democracy will be corporatized.
The corporations will personified.
People, objectified -
Spied on and villainized
The powers that be will will lie, deny, and try to justify.
The people will be disenfranchised.
Prisons will be privatized.
Death drones will be utilized.
No one will bat an eye.
Because revolution will be multiplied, over-simplified,
The violence, normalized.
Lives, sacrificed
to satiate the Golden Calf's appetite.
The revolution will not be televised
but Jerry Springer will...
Go figure.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
I remember sitting
On the tiny porch
Of my dad’s home
Offended by the sun
That continued to sink and set
Without pausing to acknowledge
My dad’s passing.
Offended by the cars
That continued on the highway;
Callous indifference, it seemed to me.
Even the birds at their feeder
Greedily fed and failed to look up
To mark the loss of their benefactor.
I found myself
Silently demanding condolences
In every encounter.
Not for the sympathy,
Or worse, pity,
But for the acknowledgement
That he was here
And now he’s gone,
And something,
However infinitesimally small
In the scopeless universe,
Has changed.
I have two cousins.
The first called my dad
Every month.
His regular call came
During the last days.
The decline surprised him.
He took a deep breath
And asked for speakerphone
Near my dad.
He told my dad
How much my dad had
Influenced his life;
How as a child,
he anticipated a visit from my dad
Like kids stay up to see Santa;
How my dad made my cousin feel
Like he was the most important kid
In the wide world;
How my dad gave my cousin
The otherwise unavailable
Sustenance of heart
Young boys need;
How my cousin had strived to be
Like my dad
And how he hoped
His own children see in him
What he saw in my dad.
That was acknowledgement,
Profound acknowledgement.
My second cousin called
Shortly after the first.
He had heard
That my dad was dying.
He did not ask
To speak with my dad.
He wanted to tell me
To call him
As soon as memorial
Arrangements were made
So that he could purchase
Discounted airline tickets,
To include a subsequent visit
To his son who lives
In the southern part of the state.
My dad was still living.
That, too, acknowledged something,
And served to impel my pending decision.
So I opted for
A less conventional
Memorial ritual
That required neither
Plane tickets nor attendance
Nor a frozen smile reception.
I would not suffer
Insincere acknowledgement.
I am sure I scandalized
Many acquaintances of my dad
Who enjoyed the social conventions of
The anticipated gathering
If only to point out the deficiencies
Of the event and the host.
I am sure I offended
And frustrated
And embittered
One of my cousins.
The other cousin thought
My dad would have preferred
Sincerity
Over a pantomime.
I would suffer
The disfavor and distaste
Of the discontented
With no difficulty.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
THIS Mohammedan colonel from the Caucasus yells with his voice and wigwags with his arms.
The interpreter translates, "I was a friend of Kornilov, he asks me what to do and I tell him."
A stub of a man, this Mohammedan colonel ... a projectile shape ... a bald head hammered ...
"Does he fight or do they put him in a cannon and shoot him at the enemy?"
This fly-by-night, this bull-roarer who knows everybody.
"I write forty books, history of Islam, history of Europe, true religion, scientific farming, I am the Roosevelt of the Caucasus, I go to America and ride horses in the moving pictures for $500,000, you get $50,000 ..."
"I have 30,000 acres in the Caucasus, I have a stove factory in Petrograd the bolsheviks take from me, I am an old friend of the Czar, I am an old family friend of Clemenceau ..."
These hands strangled three fellow workers for the czarist restoration, took their money, sent them in sacks to a river bottom ... and scandalized Stockholm with his gang of strangler women.
Mid-sea strangler hands rise before me illustrating a wish, "I ride horses for the moving pictures in America, $500,000, and you get ten per cent ..."
This rider of fugitive dawns....
1.8k
It was just one of those days
when the haze of summer had just started to lull the suburbs
into a sticky heat
of grills and lawn mowers
of air conditioning
(everyone pretended not to use it; windows! barked the mothers, windows!)
and the sweat stuck to the brows
of the life guards
napping in the sun
above an empty pool
the Dawson pool.
No one ever swam there
and the lifeguards knew it
those teenagers, sunning themselves lazily on hot days like this
(and the mothers! They complained about the tans. Cancer! the said.
In a way they were right,
but really.)
The waters were clear but the fences were rusted
the diving boards were falling
throwing themselves off the deep end
Katydids
lawnmowers
those lazy days
and the mothers! the constant nagging of soccer moms
lulled around the pool
on the day
Cassandra
took her
last
swim
Her face was like shoe leather
tanned by no fewer than 98 summers spent on porch swings
plodded slowly,
like her feet were considering
every
last
step
this woman presented her 5 dollars to the girl at the gate
(some surprised lifeguard, because, you see, no one ever swam in Dawson pool)
and pushed inside.
Cassandra never left her porch.
and the mothers! how they scolded their children for teasing her
(even though they had done the same thing at that age.
That's how old Cassandra was).
Decades of the suburbs
and push mowers
and world wars
stayed like photograph around her face.
The lifeguards stared.
Cassandra kicked off her flip flops and shrugged off her mumu.
In a pink bathing suit she sank into the water.
The age melted off of her as she danced through the water
graceful
strong
the strokes were slow and deliberate
and the lifeguards watched as she pulled herself from one end of the pool to another and back.
She made 16 rings
remembering her childhood
23 more
for her marriage
and then 60
60 rings!
before she stopped.
60 years old, the year her husband died.
The year she had stopped talking
aside from the hushed prayers in church
but she was talking to him; that didn't count.
60 rings.
And Cassandra just disappeared.
No one found the body
no one found anything
aside from flip flops and a mumu.
The lifeguards were nearly scandalized
for letting Cassandra drown
but soon she went from a news story to a ghost
and the mothers! sniped at their children
for whispering
"Did you here about old Ms. Cassandra?
They say she found God."
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
When my friends think about drinking they see parties, and wild nights, and crazy hangovers
And when I tell them I never plan on letting a sip of alcohol touch my lips, they're scandalized
Because they don't understand
How could they ever?
When I think of drinking, I think of my mom passed out underneath our Christmas tree
Or my dad swerving down side streets with the smell of whiskey wafting off of him like smoke from a campfire
I see my childhood that came crashing down in front of my eyes
I see something that they will never understand
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
Do you remember that date,
It was 27 April the year '13,
And it was really very late.
We had a communication-gap cropped-up,
An unavoidable communication-gap it was,
Some misunderstandings had cropped-up.
Though both had our respective liabilities,
I had been overtly angry much to your fears,
I'm still sorry for what I said had brought tears.
I had lamely prophesized in anger,
When we had a no-fun word-war,
I had said very dramatically,
That you'll be married,
Exactly 7 years, 7 months & 7 days later.
Even you yourself were upset at that time,
And we didn't talk for many days.
You felt cheated & even I felt scandalized.
We knew that this tiff will have to end one day,
So we sub-consciously thought we'd test ourselves.
Maybe we knew that it'll end someday if not that day.
Because we are like our favourites Tom & Jerry,
Fighting very seriously but loving all the way along,
So probably that too is an indispensable part of love!
We have laughed it over and left that tiff back,
But hey that prophecy must come true!
Not at all like that you should worry about it,
About having to marry somebody else,
It will be me only who marries you!
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
The Industrialist
When the shipping tycoon
in my hometown, died they
dipped him (Best suit and shoes)
in liquid plastic and
when dry they put him on a towering plinth
so he could
watch over us for all time.
Birds took a great interest in
the statue and soon covered in green goo
it was high up in the air and difficult to clean
birds were declared illegal immigrants
and shot dead.
A night bird, (perhaps an owl),
pecked holes in the statue’s
shoes, the body inside, now slime,
ran down the plinth into
the drain and down a gutter,
the plastic casing imploded and
hung like a ****** in a window sill
of a house scandalized
by unproven rumours.
Since seedy facts about the tycoon’s
shady dealings and ****** custom
********** had since came to light –
as foam in a sewer-
no new statue was made.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
Cheeks flush,
red lips purse.
Eyebrows, thick and singular,
draw upwards in shock,
scandalized by my very existence.
Born in love,
and yet out
of all else.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
Memory lane,
Why has thine own self been stripped from me?
Ripped from me as a lover to a train!
Kept a captor,
A Dreamweaver of a non believer of all your shame!!
Dissarayed unspoken vows go silent,
Displeasing displays of dreadful day's unfortunately stay violent.
A concentration camp for the next man ahead,
For the boisterous instead,
They save segregated seats!!!
No brocade to be handled,
No martyr's near by to that, that ride of fine scandal's!!!!!
A bonfire lit for criminal's,
Maximum turns to minimum,
Nothing stays clean,
All messages subliminal!!!!!
Restraints of rusted clasp,
Afraid of death,
That I am......
No newspapers, no printings,no blueprints,no plans,
How scandalized art thou type? A-way finger's!!!!
Where star crunches fill for Zinger's in a box of kited complaints.
Soo little seems faint in these computer ******* mammals!
You would swear their from below,
Diseased they breedeth, unfortunately grow!!!!!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
May the American poets, at Hello Poetry enjoy reading the following lyrical poem.
The Ragged Old Flag
Written by Johnny Cash
I walked through a county courthouse square
On a park bench, an old man was sittin' there.
I said, "Your old court house is kinda run down,
He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town".
I said, "Your old flag pole is leaned a little bit,
And that's a ragged old flag you got hangin' on it".
He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down,
"Is this the first time you've been to our little town"
I said, "I think it is"
He said "I don't like to brag, but we're kinda proud of that ragged old flag"
You see, we got a little hole in that flag there
When Washington took it across the Delaware.
And It got powder burned the night Francis Scott Key sat watching it
Writing "Say Can You See"
It got a bad rip in New Orleans, with Packingham & Jackson
Tugging at it's seams.
And it almost fell at the Alamo
Beside the Texas flag,
But she waved on though.
She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville,
And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.
There was Robert E. Lee and Beauregard and Bragg,
And the south wind blew hard on that ragged old flag
On Flanders Field in World War I
She got a big hole from a Bertha Gun
She turned blood red in World War II
She hung limp, and low, a time or two
She was in Korea, Vietnam, she went where she was sent
By her Uncle Sam
She waved from our ships upon the briny foam
And now they've about quit wavin' back here at home
In her own good land here She's been abused
She's been burned, dishonored, denied an' refused
And the government for which she stands
Has scandalized throughout out the land
And she's getting thread bare, and she's wearin' thin
But she's in good shape, for the shape she's in
Cause she's been through the fire before
And I believe she can take a whole lot more
So we raise her up every morning
And we take her down every night,
We don't let her touch the ground,
And we fold her up right.
On a second thought
I do like to brag
'Cause I'm mighty proud of that ragged old flag
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 6:27 AM UTC
Think of the right words
In the right moment
make believe
You are impenetrable
So much to look forward to
If I knew the password
How much time does it take
Before I forget again?
How much tries does it take
Before I'm locked out?
Try to keep the access closed
To friends and family
But you know when someone human comes along
It's all amnesia from this point
Too many passcodes
Too many characters
Too weak
Too common
Uniqueness is strength
In this game of entering
Realms await
If only you can penetrate
The wall of encryption
Help yourself
And give it away
I did
And now I never forget
How to get to my emails
Hate mail
It's easy
Just pay a $1.99!
And pray the spam folder empties no love letters
From your one true love
Secrets all revealed
Until you have nothing left
But exposure
Now the fame has come
Everyone is scandalized
Nobody cares about the secrets you keep
Only the secrets you reveal
And a password is one of them
Hope you change it
Before it does
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
You will likely explode in the midst of anxiety attacks
drowning in your own period blood,
or some intense ****** action
in a local library lesbian bathroom stall,
or maybe months go by
with no action at all
and your mechanic sober S.O. buys coasters
and you stop getting parking tickets
and you envision him suddenly leaving you
out of realization
that he
and we
are becoming exactly
what we
set out to destroy, in a
heteronormative scandalized relationship built by
secret shredded library books,
scraps of meaningless
faintly relevant
love poems and sarcastic deceit.
Or he cooks an egg for you
after borrowing the only sinless skin you have,
but you don’t eat single celled foods.
Or he picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park,
or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street
that faintly smelled like you after you got home
from whatever ***** bus stop entertainment you thrived off of.
And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend
in lost Chicago, or Seattle.
Mile high clubs,
train stops,
never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison,
at least that is what he would always tell you.
Then soon after his fourth weekend away
he painted his nails black
and listened to reggae
and wore sandals that exposed his feet
and pasty soul to the planet,
****** skin,
vain,
pale,
untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals
a strict converse only policy
he made up for himself
in fifth grade after joining his first band named,
The Roadies,
The Pits,
The Sirs,
And finally he leaves you
the same week
you two were suppose to
fly back to your hometown
to visit your family and your teenage year friends,
half of which are married
or engaged
or pregnant,
or something of the sort,
and the other half are still puking up yesterday's
gas station sushi
lunch break,
9-5,
because all they do is go home and drink
or go out and smoke
or if they're trying to be super ******
they might hunt for a ****** needle,
a freshly ****** needle,
but really
any old ***** would do.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
*Once, they used to associate
the color of terror
With a shade darker than midnight,
Folded deep between the blacks,
They say darkness is never frank.
The ghouls hang after dinner,
After the 7 pm soap opera,
The ones that fear the smell of light,
Scandalized by afternoons,
Only protected by a bribed moon.
I fear there's been a mutation,
A transformance of some sort,
Holding the clear sky a witness
To misfortunes marring the bright of day,
The watching sun didn't scare them away.
So as we're scattered,
Playing along,
As specs in a dynamic universe,
Stirred by life's invisible hands,
Believing in our clockwork plans,
The oil falls and the painting is saturated,
Disrupted, disfigured, ravaged,
Beyond the setting of all the bad bad tales,
Trouble trickles wherever it falls into place,
Never caring to merge into the painting with grace.*
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 7:56 PM UTC
You will likely explode in the midst of anxiety attack or vigorous **** to **** action, or maybe no action at all, but still fearing he will suddenly leave you out of realization that he and we are becoming exactly what we set out to destroy in a heteronormative scandalized relationship through secrets and shredded library books, scraps of meaningful meaningless poems of love or sarcastic deceit, or for no reason he packs a lunch for you, or picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park, or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street that faintly smelled like you after you got home from whatever train stop entertainment you often researched. And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend in lost Chicago, or Seattle. Mile high clubs, train stops, never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison, at least that is what he would always tell you. Then soon after the fourth weekend away and he painted his nails black and started listening to reggae while wearing sandals that exposed his feet and souls to the world, ****** skin, pale and vain, untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals and strict converse only policy he made up for himself in fifth grade after joining his first band named, 'the roadies', 'the pits', 'the sirs', or some other preteen boy band name like that. And finally he leaves you the same week you two were suppose to fly back to your hometown to visit your family and your teenage year friends, half of which are married or engaged or pregnant, or something of the sort, and the other half are still puking up yesterday's gas station sushi lunch break, 9-5, because all they do is go home and drink or go out and smoke or if they're trying to be super ****** they might hunt for a ****** needle, a freshly ****** needle, but really any old ***** would do.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
...to swear he never was its captain. Do NOT say anything to me, right now.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCXLVIII)
Trust. How black liars press you for that sense
I canna find e'en face to face'd avail.
Friends smile sae warmly, crucify the pale
Thing known as me in just a trice, and thence
Swear that, "I'll miss your smile, Dear," for intents
Upon their honour making plans to hail
Sweet minutes next together, and oh! they'll
Be scandalized to see I wrote this, whence?
I'm never good enough for love. Tis poor.
He sez he'll war with gods to have me, to
Abort the thing called US more times than you
Can guess. Old men court favour as it were,
And I've givn up on breathing's grandeur. Cure?
"Trust in the LORD with all thine heart" will do.*
11May18b
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 5:59 PM UTC
He was mesmerized and she was scandalized
She was vexed and he perplexed
Somehow
Something happened then
In warm climates or somewhere
If he offers a change of address you can bear it
If he offers a new dress you can wear it
If he smiles you can count his teeth and look for gold
But it may be a lie
For nothing is real
Not really real
You must know this is a fact
It eases the pain
And sharpens perception
Incredible dreams
And this alone is true
So take pictures in your room
Capture an instant in the air
There may well be a reason for this
But it is not really real
Like words on the paper
A short-fall on truth
Nothing but pieces of vocabulary
Just count his teeth if he smiles
The bite marks would be jagged crescents
Can you stand that?
Perhaps we shall see
A rush job to the blood bank maybe
Deposit or withdrawal, sir or madam
Fearfully white and clean we say again
"Nothing is really real"
They laugh, all unbelieving
What do they know of jagged crescents?
Only nightmares trouble their truth
He will be bad and she will be sad
But I'm never sure of these things
By Phil Roberts
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
restricted behind the bars of reality
strangled by deafening ethics & rules
deprived of the freedom of choice,
to be what you want, when you wanted to.
To be the sovereign to my kingdom of thoughts,
the monarch to my souls enterprise
I feel my insouciant youth evanesce
a passionate mind being scandalized
-encaged in rage with the worlds deception
that independence comes with age & time
soon only to be racked with the revelation
that responsibility replaces what freedom aligns....
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 9:14 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The© Happy™ Home© Akku-Rite™ OTC Covid-1 Test©
The picture on the box features a couple
Cuddling cutely in domestic bliss
As they poke the swabs way up each other’s nose
(Oh, don’t be scandalized; they’re married, of course!)
These and other fine products are distributed by
Consolidated HelthKare Medical, Inc.
Makers of the Kut-Kut© Home Vasectomy Kit
And
Ol’ Doc Zeke’s™ Happy Mule© Diarrhea Remedy™
Ol’ Doc Zeke’s™ Happy Mule© Diarrhea Remedy™
Is not approved for use in humans (wink, wink)
Sep 3, 2021
Sep 3, 2021 at 2:29 PM UTC