"sorriest" poems
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Your hand brushed against mine, heat slithered up my thigh,
A python of mystery and allure, temptations offering more.
I tried to avoid your eyes, to avoid facing all those lies,
But I wanted us to burn, deep into the sheets, igniting skin,
Skin on fire, liar liar, pants on fire.
I wanted nothing more, than to send you up in flames
Smoke dancing around your lungs, tightening your chest
The way I couldn't breathe, when you played such cruel games.
I longed for your eyes to sting, in a way you couldn't rest
Eyes on fire, liar liar, pants on fire.
And when we come up for air, with sweat upon our brows,
But not enough to put these flames out,
I hope you inhale the way you made me feel
And I'll watch it lick you, the way I didn't any more,
Into the sorriest ashes, smouldering on the floor,
Skin on fire, liar liar, pants on fire.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell?
None of the sins,—but this and that fair deed
Which a soul’s sin at length could supersede.
These yet are virgins, whom death’s timely knell
Might once have sainted; whom the fiends compel
Together now, in snake-bound shuddering sheaves
Of anguish, while the scorching bridegroom leaves
Their refuse maidenhood abominable.
Night ***** them down, the garbage of the pit,
Whose names, half entered in the book of Life,
Were God’s desire at noon. And as their hair
And eyes sink last, the Torturer deigns no whit
To gaze, but, yearning, waits his worthier wife,
The Sin still blithe on earth that sent them there.
2.4k
When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,
and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,
the trail of words
leads away from "I" --
like breadcrumbs
dropped at intervals
for poetic feet
to follow --
-- at last finding the untamed
where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,
for ignorant opinion or
self-righteous argument --
where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --
The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.
Egotism
fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
There was a House Speaker named Boehner
Who went forth without any honor
He did his best to hurt Obamacare
To damage the folks with no hospital care
He killed every bill that came to the House
He's sorry you'd say like the sorriest louse
Then Obama's army got ready to roll
Barach showed us methods we all could extoll
That got the people insurance at last
Poor Boehner he cried like he's done in the past
Then he fought every tax to help people on high
To get all their votes when November comes by
But there is a Father in Heaven above
Who whispered no man can win without love
Then Boehner tried suing and shamefaced us all
Voters said Boehner was losing his *****
Then he failed to effect immigration
And stifle the strongest of nations
He flunked with each program he wanted to win
Soon Boehner will be on the streets once again
So all will be well in the dear U.S.A.
There'll be no Boehner to get in the way
he...he...he
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
one time in the land of poverty and starvation
where hunger loomed like the spirit of God,
Even Itself starved itself often on the thin vials
of the black stomachs,colonies and esophagus,
of these poverty crashed men and women
denizens of this land ever wondered why ,
hunger and challenges where their stuff?
they had nothing at all to stake the selves,
mothers were beggars as fathers did,
pangs of hunger even made them dark
in their skins with excess melanin,
These conditions made their foster mother
to yap her white beak cacophonously ,
in the ecstatic syndrome of colonial glory
she was happy as they suffered, day in and day out,
she even made the possibility food
for these foster children of hers an illusion,
she forced them to speak her tongue
as a magical secret to have enough food
they tried the tongue but they could not make it
because prime motive was colonial tricks,
not salvage of any standard nor measure,
the foster mother came again with a new ploy,
that she could give them food or Ebola drugs
if only their men had to marry fellow men
and their women must marry fellow women,
they tried and they shrank in numbers
a new opportunity for the foster mother
to become metaphysically a colonial mother,
Only to loot the minerals , wood,land and slaves
slaves taken on vicious green card lottery boat,
then their chanced a yellow man , but not as foolish
as the one Dalai Lama, the poet of prolixity
He empathized with the black poverty ,
he felt for the Nation of this beggars,
he cried Woooooo! these people are suffering!
This poverty is pathetic and sorriest !
he took all the Ebola patients and hunger victims
to the herbal medical clinic nearby
He also gave the beggars of that nation
iron horses on which they ride as they beg
hence the saying that;Behold the last wonder,
kings are walking of food and slaves riding
kingly horses.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
I’ve yet to
Yet to
find the reason.
Find the sorry explanation,
find the
******* pathetic argument for
why you
Why you’re still here
still in my head dancing.
Still ******* here.
Still flitting thin wrists
beautifully on soft soft sheets
bare skin on soft sheets tangled
with me bared so horribly
achingly bare and it hurts
It hurts
to see you dream
Want you
not really no
not really wanting you
but missing
always missing
******* missing you and sweet lips
kissing gripping teasing licking missing
still ******* missing
and it’s so sorry sad
so sorry tragic
In the sorriest saddest sense of the word
And I am quite
quite pitiful I realize
I know pitiful when I see it.
I can see it on me like a bruise
never quite
quite fading away and I wish
I do truly wish it would
would fade and I could
Heal
could mend
could move
I want to move.
Want to be moving
moving on.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected])
It is moral duty of poetry to throw away ***** power
Often formed by political snobs out of selfish extension,
Poetry without arms and ammunition have been there
Ever creating social and political power un-violently,
Planting moralized empires that cannot away be washed
By the snobbish currents of constituent powers that be,
Show me all the social powers formed by poetry
That ever oppressed the poor or the weak,
You would have given me glorious pedestals
On which I will firmly stand and stretch my arm
To show to the world a blind philosopher,
Even Rudyard Kipling in his prime of colonial poetry
Had the Indian kidimadiggar, sorriest of all coolies
As the constituent pith in his racist hearty
Where blended colonial urge and poetical altruism
Into humane conscience for destituent social power.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
He was found lying dead, in the fresh pool of blood,
Oozing from diverse punctures over his muscular body.
His eyes wide open, as if he must look to die
Hairs of his head freckled ***** in plasma dye.
His shoes a distance away, gorging in mud,
Redolent of his demise struggle with killing the mad.
His deep blue Brazilian made suit, waning in a whiff of freedom,
That came to sweep out of Kenya a cult of thralldom.
Several Packets of ****** spilled over and nearby,
Inspiring apt quizz; did lethal *** happen to pass by?
He had only given democratic legs and hands to his government,
Amid virtuous selflessness and people-centrism his prime indent.
A polity virtue which irked corrupt cacotopian powers that be,
To lethal turf of politics; imaginative vices dominant on human bay.
Packaged in the apex of local beauty of the nation,
Her stowaway; sorriest death of the law in the reign.
Leaving all of us agape in remorseful and foolish quixoticity;
Dudes in the political caucus, who killed the minister?
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
...the sorriest thing
When you left me
For leaving you so long,
Or was it yours?
If it is mine,
Then leave it broken.
Leave it broken.
But if it’s yours,
Then let me say to you,
At least,
That I am sorry, uncertain
Of your return.
And then tell
Your close friends
That it was me
Who begged for you
To stay.
© 2010 J.S.P.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
Dreams stealing my reality I’m unbeknownst
Sleeping,
she creeps into my realm of make-believe
Her hands interconnect with mine while the eager winds howl like coyotes
We look deeply into each pupil and she says,
Your soul is beautiful as the glowing seas at midnight
I could hold you until every star in the universe explodes
I would wait eternities to be with you
I’d battle giants or travel stary oceans to hold you near
Just take my sorriest thoughts and let me forget
Make me sanguine, lost in time with you
She walks into a glimmering flower bed with the morning chorus ringing
Stepping barefoot on arching shining blue grass cushioned under her toes
The meadow scents whirling with the botanical humming of insects
She sees me once again
Sitting in the shadowy embrace of a tree
As the sun shining a million times brilliant, brings godly light to her path.
Her rhythm of voice comforts me
A soprano serenading making planet life dance with awe
Our eyes meet across the multicolored plane
I stand up
Cheering smiles heighten for miles
A clarity of something gorgeous
Flowing hair smothers touching faces
Butterfly kisses in the field of organic aura glowing
Sweeping you off your feet into plumes of clouds blanketing overhead
We lay into the germinating grasslands in imaginative solitude
Feeling the pulse of hearts and our blood rushing in love.
Night falls and celestial bodies are seen deeply engrained in the sky divinely painted
Voids peaking out from darkness frosted with elegant designs of ancient filaments
Supported by forceful invisible strings and elegant rivers of stars, blues yellows and reds
I hold her closer as the dream begins to fade into obscured fantasy
She waits in my subjective reality
my mind gently diminishes the pixels of her image
I caress her face cursing my admiration in the precursor of the ending chimera
A fixation which corralled seemly from nowhere coherent
I glared into her darken umber eyes grasping her pearly skin
As the reverie ends
I'm speaking her name as the crisp morning chorus chatters at my window
Eyes open
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
at my stop,
but very few getting on,
even fewer getting off, all
on account nobody feels
like going anyplace anyway
I don’t mind,
like stretching out,
and the big picture
sized windows mine,
now all to myself, got
fantastic view of
empty streets
the bus drivers don’t
kick me off at the last
stop anymore, happy
for the company, even
though the drivers are
the sorriest sad sacks,
crying quietly under
the masks that don’t
hide all that much
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 12:12 AM UTC