"supplanted" poems
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
1084
At Half past Three, a single Bird
Unto a silent Sky
Propounded but a single term
Of cautious melody.
At Half past Four, Experiment
Had subjugated test
And lo, Her silver Principle
Supplanted all the rest.
At Half past Seven, Element
Nor Implement, be seen—
And Place was where the Presence was
Circumference between.
3k
The annual cycle of friends and family, meeting
An oil and water duty of circumstance, intersecting
At Christmases and global conferences, occasioning
Probable murders at Christmas in the families, mixing
Their duty to drink but live distant lives apart, loving
The comfortable satisfaction of the distance, living
Their lives with social media connections, liking
The comfort of ignoring without unfriending
Their oil and water friends and family.
So
I have supplanted this duty with desire, allowing
Me to unfriend these occasional friends, becoming
Myself at last with a vicarious pleasure of, enjoying
Being a stereotypical “Grumpy Old Man”, relaxing.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Sweet liars and their sugar coated lies…
Root from their heart and branch out in the skies…
Their innocent souls and deceptive eyes…
Their polished shoes and branded ties…
In the beginning they seek your attention…
The next desire is your affection…
By recital of their past and rejection…
Either from them or from other direction…
“Don’t sympathies sweetheart, I am a strong man… Okay”…
“My heart comes free with this ring and bouquet”…
“Say yes, my love, we’ll plan a holiday”…
“Let’s go shopping for your lingerie”…
The candles are lit and the dinner is served…
The charm and chivalry is observed…
His scent and accent leaves you unnerved…
He is definitely the prince you thought you deserved…
Ah! And you fall in the trap and love as well…
Dreaming of him and his tempting propel…
You talk of him and his stories you tell…
Of the vamps he dated and your own love spell …
He has your trust and you are happy high…
His kisses and touch you can’t deny…
“He loves me so much” you amplify…
You light his nights like a firefly…
Now when you feel the bygones are supplanted…
The road gets a little slanted…
When you are more often taken for granted…
His fluctuations show the doldrums are planted…
You inspect the change and the causes aligned…
And come across the love texts enshrined…
You feel shattered and maligned…
The way you are portrayed and opined…
You demotion as ex is celebrated with a raised toast…
With his new flame and he playing host…
You embrace your strength with care utmost…
His vows and love , haunting you like ghosts…
You want to cry till you paralyze…
Blaming thyself for this jeopardize…
The arduous task to analyze, summarize and self sterilize…
From these sweet liars and their sugar coated lies…
~Kathaa Kirti
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 4:25 AM UTC
Once felt in the lonely, identical corridors
of hotels, hostels, hallways of homeless flatblocks;
The urge,
The urge to move the moment,
Move the momentum of the meandering life
From work to shop to sleep to work to shop to sleep,
Supplanted by the unattainable mental utopia,
Supplanted by delusions in the colour of dreams,
Supplanted by 10,000 madman notes on the nature of daylight,
Tender sounds accelerated into screams,
Lost in the pylon forest,
Trapped by Tendonitis, Tinnitus, and terrestrial TV,
Stifling the electoral laugh,
Deafened by D-beat, Dubstep, and Democratic conventions,
Bled to death in Bosnia,
Died in Damascus,
Executed in Entebbe,
Murdered in Mogadishu,
Born in Berlin,
Lived in London,
Carried in Copenhagen,
And again in Amsterdam,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Forecast nothing of their waves,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Safely say their real names.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
It seems to have spontaneously combusted, but it didn’t. The disease struck long ago, brewed in the petri dish of Depression, WWII, and convergent technologies. Well before that, really, but that was the point of critical mass. By the 1950's, it was an epidemic. The independent Republic of individuals, small towns, coherent communities, distinct cities, local diners, shops and stores tied together with two lane blacktop was crumbling. Things only got worse faster. It was a disease of toxic, lulling dreams. American Dreams. And standardization was its crushing foot that flattened everything and left a homogenized wasteland in its trail. The old gods vanished and the new became despots. Go anywhere in America, Boston or Biloxi. You can’t tell where you are. Most shop at the same stores (real or virtual), eat at the same chain restaurants, wear the same clothes, gulp from the same Internet, swallow similar information, and think (within acceptable variations) the same thoughts. Even sin has become tediously consubstantial. Knowledge has been supplanted by content. Words are squeezed of meaning. Everyone is an expert and no one knows anything. Except Siri and Alexa. The Dreamtime of consumerism, consumption and conformity dominates. All that remains to come is the dominion of AI. Then we will all be watched over by machines of loving grace, free to graze in bovine bliss in the cybernetic meadows of bland utopia.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 6:54 AM UTC
Skin supplanted by steel,
As pigment falls to paint,
A hollow duralumin chariot,
Ridden by the affluent,
Fortuitous souls, borne to their heart's requests
Down from below, as antipodes clash,
The behemoth clamors, with metallic clangs,
Conflicting privileges, one invulnerable,
Touted lands turned to tarnished wastes,
With a destiny targeted at armageddon,
Humanity's fate glides, like the zeppelin.
Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 12:36 AM UTC
I am not some mere romantic
Hopelessly in love or seemingly frantic
I am simply a man with sophomoric antics.
Closing in fast and with my dreams supplanted
By what I can only imagine is a place unwieldily for simple magic.
For there are no dragons of ancient lore,
Nor, for me, beautifully tantalizing ******
But simply mistakes of my past, to reach me at last.
I imagine everyone creates this place of loathings' past.
While some do not believe in hell defined by a scripture, I assure you somewhere in your eternal slumber you will experience the guilt of past discomfort.
I pray it is only for a second for you, not minutes or hours or years or eternities.
But to whom will I pray? Myself I dare not say. However there is no man in the sky to consider my actions against me, there is no entity impartial to judge lonely old me. There will always be a standard for justice, good, evil, loyalty, infidelity, and of course, people.
But who is our judge? Is it not oneself? And if not, then who else?
I say none have the authority to constrain one but himself.
And if he wish to abide by his own moral abomination, too far outside similar creations.
His life, it will be taken.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
*Her angelic voice
Assaults the air waves
A kiss’s Supplanted on her lips
Inconsequentially.*
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
~
~ for my knowing friends~
~~~
so simple the notion,
that healing's potent potions
are non-directional portents
coming at you
like a Bob Dylan, Avettt Brothers,
rhythm and rhyme,
tunes injected from the outside knowing,
from the first time
that they were residing inside,
all the time
in, on and under the skin
the conflicted battle rages between the
coursing forces of
I believe
and the low grade infection, incurable return of
faithless disbelief and irreconcilability
a parental entry knowing,
despite different routes of administration,
there is no pharmacology for a limb lost,
any prosthesis healing supplanted
from without,
never achieves
anything approaching next to normal
*but from within,
the heart can heal itself,
trying a natural bypass,
doing its imperfect best
to correct the uncorrectable,
resigned to accept the unacceptable*
the slight edge felt from
cutting a garden's new growth for replanting
an act of belief in the future,
witnessing a sunset's nightly color sky's return rebirthing,
knowing, admitting to oneself,
that miraculously better than all ever seen prior are
medicines that come from the outside,
and inward bound daily injections,
they are:
*"healing, from the inside out...
just as it was meant to be!"*
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
That tiny
red brick townhouse
somewhere
away from London.
Bathed
in fogged sunlight.
Watery air.
rays
in penumbras.
At the window
she is
a conflagration
of
soft yellow lasers.
The ivy creeps up the windows
from a
bottomless
rug
seeping
out of the basement grates
in
green
scrambling
capillaries,
they want to be burned
in the sun.
What joy
a snake
like me
feels
in a daydream
set in
his innocent London,
to be supplanted
by fear
lazing
with her legs up
***
open,
***** smiling
vertically
and
her
red-pink ****
an apple
on scratchy bedsheets.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC
I sleep with the window open
The air, now chilled with autumn, rushes in to sap away my resolve
Waking me from troubled sleep
Covered with only the thin blue cotton sheet from my college days
Comforting, though it’s hard to gauge when last the warmth of another supplanted the foothill of blankets amassed beside me
The loneliness of night:
When only cars pass below
Sounding like freight trains as they clamor over the slab of steel prostrate on the ground
Protecting the suspensions from the pockmarked face of asphalt
Each a brutish chime filling my apartment
The stark vulgarity lashing out
A garbled cry, anguished and dejected
Dragging from my subconscious
Memories of a different time
Now free
Jostling for position and attention, as though I am the jester king
Holding ghostly court
Clad in the stark regalia of bitterness years in the making
Pour me a glass of that vintage and to what shall we all toast?
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
She caught him out in the shed
Like a thief
Stealing a moment of pain
Wracked by sobs and pouring out tears
Over small and faded pink canvas shoes
The shoes had supplanted his purpose
Sapped his intent
They made his tools indifferent
And uncaring
Turned them into nothing more
Than rusting steel and hanging shapes
Outlined on musty pegboard
That meant nothing
Nothing at all
Until her small and gentle hands touched him
And in shame
He dried his eyes
And put the shoes away
Back in their box on the shelf
And became a man again
Lived again
And worked again
In his shed full of tools
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Our brave new world has turned remarkably cold
There is no place for inefficiency among the looming towers
Religions have been replaced with the worship of screens
Charms have been supplanted by tungsten and lithium
One by one, metropolises fell to “necessary” modernization
I consider a certain member of these abaddons as my unfortunate home
The city’s structures stand like monoliths, without luster or familiar name
A place surely dredged from the deepest hell of mankind’s achievements
Mechanical arachnids skitter across streets on continuous patrol
their silver claws and whirring sensors passively click and scan
We’ve no longer needed any member of sentient life to protect us
Apparently, that was a task more suited for our heartless creations
Any soul residing in the world has become artificial
emotions, dreams, and identities discarded and digitized
Former humans are now composed of more metal than meat
They tread with measured steps and a uniform lack of expression
I breathe the heavy clots of air through my visor and flip a few pages
Long ago, this ancient relic came to my unsuspecting attention
It held secrets of organisms that ran rampantly among landscapes
Old Terra’s fertility sprang out from yellowed paper
There is one creature that I found especially endearing
It endured the harshest of the world's conditions, as I do in mine
It was the deadliest of its kind, as I am among peers
I bestowed my home with the creature’s striking moniker
Now and forever, I live in the city of Taipan
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
There is an aching within my bones
A sense of lacking for which I must atone
Thoughts of timelessness in truth and reality
Supplanted by a faith in thoughts that have gravity.
Pass the torch from which passion burns
And fulfill the emptiness for which my mind yearns
Give the shattered ego thoughts of contradictions
Spurning ever forward understanding as it's jurisdictions.
Walk forth through brimstone and flame
The husk of my body in which thoughts become tame
Growing knowledge becomes less and less sufficient
A testament to the love I find within me deficient.
Back and forth the extinguished lantern swings
Throwing darkness upon all of the lighted things
Knowing not when to feel the warmth of love
Gnawing inwards from the lack thereof
Time will only tell if this feeling should subside
Or if the strength of passion will ever abide
To press onward to a bright tomorrow
Lest I spend eternity pondering the meaning of sorrow.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:38 AM UTC
All 8,100,000,000 Citizens of Earth will govern Earth, not 200 politicians and dictators. There will no longer be nations with artificial borders, only Earth. There will be no more wars. There will no longer be any weapons of any kind from handguns to hydrogen bombs. There will be no money. All Citizens of Earth will equally share the resources of Earth. Aggrandizement will be supplanted by love. All needs of every human being will be met equally. Air and water will be cleansed. No longer will any Citizen of Earth become a source of profit, as there will no longer be profiteering. No longer will there be discriminations of any kind. There will no longer be jails and prisons, only Love Centers where those hurting from lack of love will be loved until unconscious hate will be transformed into love of self, then love of all. And Earth, now on the precipice of self-destruction, will flower into Planet Peace.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jul 3, 2025
Jul 3, 2025 at 12:54 AM UTC
I gazed upon a weary field
Where wayward seeds had blown,
And plots were laid and borders sealed
Beneath a golden crown,
And rising from a ghastly host
Of unkempt thorny briar,
On writhing mist a fallen ghost
Lit up a spectral pyre.
Cold shivered flames shot heavenward
Convulsing time to freeze,
The fertile land was drowned in mud
And clouded with disease.
Across the field a battle raged
Beneath an orange flare,
Old roots entwined as limbs engaged
And tussled for the air.
In eager rows defenders fell
Supplanted by their foe,
A mud draped rug of pod and shell
Buried the ground below,
And racing upwards in a spire
To reach Heaven's domain
They sought to steal the sun's bright fire
To use for their own gain.
Fresh saplings withered in the heat
That scorched the living soil,
And ashes rained down like a sheet
To form an acrid pile;
The sweet decay of rotting limbs
Pervaded like a shield,
As evening sang her doleful hymns
Across a barren field.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
Dear Magenta,
I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than I. It has only been three days since I was allowed pen and ink. I have spent the last two days trying to decide what it was that I wanted to convey in this message.
Once I decided, I spent most of today locked in my room beginning and destroying this letter.
The floor is littered with scraps of paper, upended preludes.
There is so much to tell you; beginning is near impossible. We will do our best, I suppose.
I want you to know foremost that I have never hated you. I want you to know that I only wanted to see our project to it’s inevitable end. I wanted to be done with you, I wanted you to leave me to my own devices for a while, I wanted to be able to refresh myself and renew my spirit. You, my antagonist, should have allowed it. Alas, you’ve always seemed to be ignorant of my need, or to have other plans altogether.
It is a clever ruse that you have put together. You would speak to me of my own betterment. You would tell me that you were only trying to strengthen my resolve, to make me somehow improved. And how I believed you! How I wanted it to be unfeigned! And, I do wish ever so that your efforts were pure. But, where you see me, you see a buffoon, no doubt!
What a folly you have made.
I am aware of you now. My eyes are open and my mind fairly screams with indignation.
I need you to know that I will not bend to your supplanted misgivings. You will not continue as you have these recent months. My confidence is returning and no anxiousness shall impede it.
I know now, and have always known, that I am capable, and intelligent. You may find me unconventional, perhaps even unsavory, but I know that my intentions are pure and my efforts are honest and more importantly, well received!
Now, you must also know that I know what to expect! When the time comes and you are confronted with my malcontented behaviors; you will project a moue and cry foul. I can almost see it in my mind’s eye!
And, honestly, I’m looking forward to it. But, please do try to maintain a level of composure that is redolent of your years on this planet.
With an unfortunate level of superciliousness,
Obsidian
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
A land fought over from antiquity,
It's fertile plains and mountains steep,
Coveted and plundered with iniquity,
It's people slaughtered as helpless sheep.
From Alexander, through Genghis Khan,
Invading hordes without respite
Killing all to the last man,
Sowing misery and plight.
They in turn spawned ruling lords,
But the circle didn't cease,
Yet more came with thrusting swords,
No nobler reason than to fleece.
Empires came then empires went,
Their legacy imprinted on its people,
A motley quilt of rich descent,
Sullen faces altered by each sequel.
So what now this time of gloom,
As darkness spreads once more,
Freedom quashed, for thought no room,
Supplanted only by misery and war.
And yet a shard of light may still exist,
Despite their new Master’s crushing hand,
If these hardy people can persist,
They may well in time reclaim their land.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 11:06 AM UTC
Greenleigh:
Rounding your cottage side,
There you were, bundles tied,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
What plan were for the blooms?
In the kitchen rose fumes,
You truly hoped for a tryst,
Wine love potion cauldron,
Boiled in my drink to stun,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed.
Haven:
My beauteous neighbor,
I submit to ardor,
All in obscure struggles midst,
I see your distant gaze,
But you I try to faze,
You were all to me exist,
“I will beckon at noon,
In this hot summer June,”
All in obscure struggles midst.
Greenleigh:
But as I spy, I think,
Then discreetly slink,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
I culled my own blossoms,
His allures my thraldoms,
I truly hoped for a tryst,
To you a bit of remorse,
Yet my heart waxed full force,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
I catch the way you stare,
I will avoid our affair,
All in obscure struggles midst,
Supplanted your fetters,
Entreaty, scrawled letters,
He were all to me exist,
I thought to meet halfway,
Might I be led astray,
All in obscure struggles midst,
Wyn:
And I received her word,
Intended a detour,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
Read the book of magic,
My love to you chronic,
I truly hoped for a tryst,
Donned my riding garments,
Leas, with my assortments,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
Her eyes, you I outshone,
Heedless to her writ tone,
All in obscure struggles midst,
Fancied your ivor teeth,
Smooth skin, your clothes ‘neath.
You were all to me exist,
In daydreams I drifted,
Blunders, I self chided,
All in obscure struggles midst,
Greenleigh:
Shocked when I saw him trot!
With grasp I became fraught,
All in obscure struggles midst,
He visits you, not me,
Deceit deserved, yet plea!
You were all to me exist,
Could not look in his eye,
Yet utter not goodbye,
All in obscure struggles midst,
Haven:
“Neighbor, wrong I done ye!”
I watch only blankly,
All in obscure struggles midst,
Her twisted mouth distressed,
No one thought we were blessed,
You were all to me exist,
I mumbled, brimming tears,
Should have asked direct, fears,
All in obscure struggles midst,
He was the fool of fate,
Confused yet did await,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
I vied for your full love,
As you to his yet shove,
I only hoped for a tryst,
Rapt in misconceptions,
Mocked us, even aspens,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
All:
Yet not so sly were we,
Does cognizance come bleak,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
We greeted happenchance,
What’s left but insistence?
Our furtive attempts yet missed,
Admit not errs, turn rightwards,
Fracturing our concords,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
Greenleigh:
Anxiously sipped bottles,
And did we start battles,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed,
Suffused eyes, flushed faces,
Affects spill, anguishes,
Our furtive attempts yet missed,
We die lone in shambles,
Bonds of love in scrambles,
Cerise honeysuckles kissed.
Feb 10, 2020
Feb 10, 2020 at 7:53 PM UTC
CHRISTMAS TODAY
Christmas comes gently to our mountain town,
As softly drifting snow draws a glimmering veil
Across our forests, slopes and valleys.
Festive lights of blue, green, gold and purple
Cast a magic spell on our streets and promenades
Where neighbors bustle about in search
Of the perfect toy or sweater
For a friend or cherished aunt or cousin.
The sound of bells cuts the December chill
Rung by a volunteer Santa at his kettle
Or pealing from a steeple across the valley.
Christmas is here and the time is nigh
To celebrate the advent of a sacred child
With joyous songs of hope and gratitude.
MEMORIES
Let us journey back to a time when we
Curled up in the safety of our parents’ arms.
We remember
The aromas of holiday meals that filled our homes
With the promise of the grand feast soon to come.
We remember
Aunts and uncles poured into sofas and armchairs
Recounting slightly embellished tales of family lore
While we children dashed about the yard
Heaving snow bombs and building the grandest snowman ever.
We remember it all -
The sounds, the scents and faces of our kin
That taught us how to love and be loved -
For after all, memories are the sacred shrines
Of our origins, our present and our future lives.
MOVING INTO THE LIGHT
Christmas illuminates our souls and transfigures us.
Lost hopes are re-found and promises renewed.
A better world seems once again within our grasp
As we bathe in the glow of fresh new possibilities.
This is a golden healing time when
Disagreements are ushered off our stages
And supplanted by beacons of filial gratitude.
In that hallowed night of silence,
God whispered his plan for us
And we listen in wonder as we treasure
That miraculous night we call Christmas.
Robert Charles Howard - 2022
Nov 19, 2022
Nov 19, 2022 at 3:09 AM UTC
a loop in upper atmosphere today
with a model's figure of grass
to postpone his next canvass
this desire to retouch in a wanton lapse
his brush fitted in a cloud
and he steamed aloud
a bubble's glow in a tip of the pen
to exclaim foment
as shape blew doctrinaire
with clasps of tarter
where his strokes were ardor
that trend would enhance with finale
while he deeply supplanted the soul
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC