"shambolic" poems
▪●☆●▪
Swirls of verbiage
begin to settle.
My wish..
that they land
to connect a thought.
Overflowing as
grapes cascading atop
sides of vessel
butter cup yellow.
Fruit of the
darkest purple persuasion.
I have visions.
Ribbons of colour.
Movements of flutter
Wet paint on pallette,
waiting for a
canvas to present itself.
Shambolic as to how to
put it all together.
Can almost sense
the fit,
yet unable to develop
the arrangement.
The words,
the vision
the pigments are there,
on the tip of my mind.
I wonder if, in the event
it all came spilling out,
I would be brave
enough to reveal.
Begin to heal.
If my canvas of words and
colors could describe.
Maybe then, it would all melt
together, becoming the
black of all colors, the no color...
allowing me
to begin anew.
▪○☆○▪
Copyright © 2016. Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
From nation to nation
All around the world
The Ruling Class
Though many times outnumbered
By the rest
Sit bathing in the sun
In their Ivory Towers:
Born to Richness
Whilst millions of Poor
Just starve to death.
Hordes and hordes of people,
Without clean water
Or food
Or a stable roof over their heads.
No medicine, or Education, or Anything
That Costs.
Governments give “Aid” to other governments
To “feed the poor”,
But we all know what happens…
What we need is a “Government of The World”,
Or some Benevolent Despot to Rule us all.
Anything must be better
Than the impotent UN
Or these shambolic “nations” –
Puppets of Globalisation.
Revolution threatens –
It often does –
Until the rulers appease us
With token concessions
And brainwash us
Though The Media,
So called “Education”
And Religious Dogma.
When will we learn?
Where is Democracy and Love?
But, bound by Political Correctness,
Woe betide if we Complain.
The Cold War continues,
So all we can do
Is soldier on
For The Common Good.
Paul Butters
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
She was born at 3.41am,
Electronics,
Neon lamps,
Needles,
And mouth masks,
From a place of great peace,
To loud,
Shambolic fuss,
Open wounds,
Weak,
Not immune,
Drugs forming spirals of inaudible sounds,
Drowning and gargling,
Naked and cold,
Turning blue,
Being wrung out,
Mum crying out,
Wanting to feel flesh upon flesh,
Tear upon head,
Hands clasped in prayer,
Hoping the girl,
Innocent and young,
Was lying cradled in heaven,
By 11.41.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 5:22 AM UTC
Night is a river,
The moon sails on her dream boat;
-Shambolic waters!
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
Years ago, I wed a mechanic,
A token marriage, quite symbolic,
Saturday arvos, really shambolic,
I gawped at him, gazing at his dipstick,
Still working on who was the dipstick,
Checking under the hood,
was supposed to be good,
So, that is what is really symbolic,
Dipstick gazing at a dipstick, gazing at his dipstick,
Yah! Symbolism of the futile past symbolic............
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:13 PM UTC
Surrounded by senseless rambling,
pathetic routine used to disguise shambolic life.
Welcome to shaking hands
and a pack a day chased by a bottle of white ***
an unspoken pathos.
Benson hedges,
half baked moonlight.
Wincing every ****** word,
wondering what you'd done to deserve this.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Dear sweetheart
I woke up this morning slumped in a chair
Needed you more than ever but you weren’t there
Where did you go?
I could smell you on my sweater
I woke up expecting us to be together
You left no letter, so I’m writing you this one
I feel all alone, can’t reach you on the phone
Was it something I done? Something I said?
I’m crawling to the kitchen now, need pills for my head
I’m confused as to why you’re treating me badly
This is far from the first time, so this letter sadly
Is the last I’ll send you, in the past I’ve defended you
You defended me too, or at least pretended to
You’ve broke more than you mended
Lost count of friends of mine you’ve offended,
You ruined family gatherings, so why should it be
I find myself missing you, am I crazy?
You’re no good for me,
Good god my head is pounding
Maybe it’s just coz I feel so groggy I need grounding
A good cup of coffee should do the trick
Already late for work, I’ll call in sick
Or did I ring last night? Come to think of it
Have I been to work at all this week? What day is it?
It’s coming back to me, I spoke to someone,
My manager actually told me I’ve broken my contract
Don’t come back she said, this is worse than I thought
Did you know about this? Is that why you’ve walked?
After all it was your fault I lost the **** job
Too much time together
That’s what my friends keep telling me
My neighbour came round last night, he was yelling at me
If I ruined his flowers again he’d call the police
Huh! What a joke, drunk and disorderly
I never feel drunk anymore, it’s just ordinary
As I take a seat back in the chair I woke up in this morning
Head in my hands breathing deep, thoughts forming
All the tell-tale clear cut signs I’ve been ignoring
The pains in my belly, the headaches are a warning
Now I realise
I’m looking at things through new eyes
My wife left months ago, for another guy
It was weeks ago my manager fired me
I haven’t looked for work, who would hire me?
My best friends don’t come by no more, never call me
There was a time when they would’ve gone to war for me
I took no heed, they told me my life is shambolic
Without realising, I’ve become an alcoholic
I’ll never change, I take a can and pull the tab
Hear the tsssk and bring it up to my lips
Drink fast and sink into oblivion, my destructive bliss.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
It would seem that the seed of doubt and uncertainty does surround this existence of ours
As much belief you have in god is as much as I have that this divine presence is nothing but rooted in mythology and misconceptions
I cannot and will never try to denounce or undermine your moderate and harmless thoughts on the answer to , undeniably our burning question of seed of creation.
You too should not or really ever try to eradicate or efficiently ostracize any thought or philosophy that seeks to distribute its wealth of wisdom in another way contrary to yours.
Looking inwards from way out there , someone, somewhere may just be watching, a glimpse at this apparently unsurpassable mass of genetic mutation that has resulted in one of the only as of yet discovered intelligent species in such an unexplainable vastness of confusion. The findings of such an unbiased study would find that upon this infinitesimal piece of rock most its occupants live their lives much like the darkness that surrounds, chaotic shambolic and ignorant to their unique stature, their unimaginable greatness.
Locked in a constant war on differences that have managed to eternally segregate and perpetuate a hatred that fuels a fire , a destructive blaze that has consumed wisdom, engulfed logic and appears to be quashing all hopes and ambitions of those who seek for themselves and primarily their children's lives , a future of certainty, a future where serenity and peace are the reasons to be, the reason to do, a future above all, silent of war and unified in defiance of aggression.
A lifetime wasted on the burden of proof rather than the warmth of acceptance
A lifetime wasted on the want of so few being the depression of so many
Just a life time simply wasted
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
Catch you
my breath,
shambolic hope,
flustered thought.
Take you:
glimmer kissed tear,
aphotic state,
penny drop.
Hold you
my ridicule,
cowardness,
dreary repetitive wish.
Their weight devours me so.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
Writing.
A shambolic
translation of the soul,
or so it seems. Perhaps it has
purpose.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
Where for hides love ?
in the laps of the heinous gods ?
tis there that we seek our solace
in the flames of a feigning sun
as swords we are hewn and refined,
but I stand in the darkest pitch
of a moon ray's shadow
Tempestuous mist over these brown eyes
fumbling in the darkness
to this shambolic refrain.
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
I'm leaving this place,"
Said the smile upon my face,
"I've made you happy for far too long, you dont need me now to make you strong"
"Will I see you again ?, my dear honest compadre, "
No response, gone , not for good though ,
Off to help another with this shambolic show
Its down to me , myself and my strength in the face of the depression that consumes all around
Its down to me, to show humility, have the honour and the compassion to help my life reverberate with a healthy sound
I saw on the news
The smile like a virus had spread to help eradicate the blues
Whole country's now full of elation
Around the world being adopted into folk lore like a long lost relation
I was proud, I stood to attention, took the salute
My smile was now yours , pain and sorrow replaced by laughter
And like a fairytale , a dream of living happily ever after
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
Storms live in the attic
They roll round on the wide brass bed and
Tussle beneath the eaves where
Wintry starlings sing in arabesque falsettos
and the quilts are all sewn by hand
Lily is mistress of this place
She bathes in thunder while the bluebells ring
Her lover watches, dumbstruck
all he knows is the air shimmers around her
And the sky vibrates in her eyes
Lily loves her lover only
Spurning pretenders and naysaying Minotaurs
Trusting his carnation smile, she
Wears tomorrow’s clothes, defiantly penniless
Wallowing in Omelettes and pillows
Lily paints her lips with rainbows
While her lover stretches out his canvas homage
falling deeper in love, felled
By the curve of her breast in the moonlight
And the way her hips roll as she walks
And if he’s her Halfpenny Prince
She’s his Sixpence no richer Princess...
Kestrels fly round the parlour,
Ravenous, but
They dine on eclairs in the boudoir
And never go hungry
Rain fills their silver violins
Music flows from his fingertips to her spine
Shambolic evening invocations
Paint the walls as they revel in their adagios
Soaring past counterfeit barriers
Lily never overthinks her loving
Mystics and gypsies roam free in her veins
Her blood becomes his, intrinsically
Intertwined in their colourful progression
Sad yesterdays die Long Ago
Everything changes at midnight
Lily courts her twixt times metamorphoses
Slinky rhythms catch her feet
Waterfalls pour from her arms as she dances
Her lover captures her with a last breath
Glazes her flesh with his lips
In the eaves dervish doves swirl in arcs of fright
In the garden of night tendrils unfurl
Their Fate touches the stone Angels Of Sorrow
From pitted mouths of pity they sigh
Lily is mistress of this place
She wakes alone in her wide brass bed, while
Crying birds sing to her in sympathy
And Summer weeps for her morning disillusion...
her threadbare reveries fall away
He is gone, he is gone, he is gone
He was her Halfpenny Prince
She his Sixpence no richer Princess...
Lily’s heart flies round the parlour,
Mourning,
Now she eats the bread of Memories
Lily never goes hungry
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 5:29 AM UTC
Long, long ago,
Like the Lord of the Rings,
An epic tragedy formed,
At this start of all things.
Many moons have now passed,
Since I was asked by a friend,
"Write a poem about Covid",
"To look back at the end"
Government guidance unclear,
Shambolic, inept,
"Stay at home" oft they cried,
As alone in their homes, many thousands they died.
They dillied, they dallied,
From their safe ivory towers,
As the funerals passed by,
With no grieving or flowers.
Many suns have now set,
Countless days have since past,
With families left absent,
As dear relatives breathed their last.
Staying away must be tough,
But it's what you must do,
Harsh they appear, but these are the rules,
Tho not meant for me, they apply just to you.
This Europe we've left,
With our death rate immense,
Now this Europe we lead,
Our leaders bereft of simple common sense.
Then there's that bloke called Cummings,
And his car trip while blind,
On his wee jaunt to Durham,
Tho if you or I, we'd be heavily fined.
But we're not all angels, we must share some blame,
Being "all about me", so selfish our goals,
Stocking up on pasta and hand sanitiser too,
Oh and of course, we can't forget bog rolls.
Basic hygiene was lacking, or so it appears,
Like being back at school,
Wash your hands all the time,
20 seconds the rule.
Simple instructions we were given,
So easy to follow,
Delivered by leaders,
With emotions so hollow.
On how poorly it's been managed,
So much could be said,
But the one thing that matters,
Is tens of thousands lie dead.
So! My feelings on Johnson?
If you ask I'll be blunt,
But to fit with my rhyming,
This poem "is to be cont..."
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 11:02 PM UTC
Don’t blame me for i have no command of words.
They fell upon my head on a thoughtfall
and i caught what i could.
and i ducked a lot,
otherwise they could have crushed me.
i am not a good poet
and no good a writer,
but a hell of a shambolic trier.
sorry for the wind in my head,
i am just a residue of what the storm has left.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC