"truculence" poems
Envisioning that fruitful destination
Syncing her beats to each seconds
Yearning for a scented authority’s presence
Losing herself into a euphoric voltage
Pandemonium of such motives
Were always there..Always will be
She knows them. She longs for them
Every single time. Every single night
Surreal substances start to charge up
Making such explosions ready
Playing with an amorous fire, already
Expanding. Flaring. Urging. Settling
Surreal shade transforms
Into a crashing truculence
Calling that raw paradise of an ecstasy’s cage
Spreading between such lusciousness
Contemplating that dash of her lustrous rage
Shushing herself, oh so quietly
She awaits..
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
*Every flower in this garden is laden with star dust
if the eyes that see can travel a bit far in time,
each cell, remember, is a fractal, a microcosm,
death and immortality, in it encapsulated
Shiva's dance of ecstasy seems to bring
disintegration, beginning of a new cycle of creation,
each moment is in a flux, you and me and all others
are the ingredients of steaming cosmic soup.
You are my impermanence most kindly defined
complement written in the poetic cadence of feminine,
exact to the appropriate meter, rhyming pattern, perfect
dance of alliteration and at times beauty of truculence,
I am a blank verse, keeping infinity contained
in the only way possible, captured in its grand simplicity
pearls of zen gleaming all over, the intuitive sense
of internal rhythm reigns, touching the primordial boom
music to the soul in frequencies higher, unknowable
reverberating through the cosmic star dust refulgence.*
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
We litter the earth with our beer cans, our cigarettes, our roaches...
We leave our bad habits behind after we are long gone for the future generations to find.
Our intoxicated actions just as bad as debris in our oceans,
Our inebriated words just as harmful as the air pollution around us.
The only mark we leave behind the only memory of us...
Is the one trying to impress the rest of the population that remains faceless.
with our stupidity and self-harm and belligerence.
Our useless ability of the consumption of false courage, wisdom, and strength.
We know not to take a step away and look upon ourselves and realize and see
that the supposed 'advanced species' is reduced back to the primitveness and truculence we thought was long lost.
We know not to take a step back and see we abuse the loved ones surrounding us
Through lying, neglect, and verbal and physical attacks
We forget the things that matter to us most; ambitions, hopes and dreams.
Our friendships, family, and loves...
It changes us as people into something subhuman
It brings out the side of us that was never there; a rage and anger we have never experienced, and sometimes never realize exists.
It replaces the good intents we have with ones that are selfish and harmful.
The good amount of fear instilled, with false hope and courage.
We not only destroy ourselves physically,
But mentally, emotionally, spiritually...
Some say it is all a spiritual journey, and of course it can be, but when so abused and the supply so decimated,
It's digging your own grave.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
It had been raining for ten years—
just after our vows too, when the life
of the party shouted “Drop dead.”
What aplomb! All those faithless Springs
suddenly worthless. Years of abandonment
counting for nothing. Oh horrors of
enchantment, beauty of truculence.
You can always depend upon the hostility of lovers
But we, a glamorous, shuddering chorus,
eyes averted, move en pointe past
the confessional’s lurid glow,
that peep-show of self-pity. Really, Mary!
As if our holy yawns don’t prove
we’re simply riddled with purity
and will float softly, silently
as the dreams of the inconsolable rhinoceri,
pitiable as the tears of lost seagulls,
sure as Adam’s apple pie, straight to heaven.
The angels’ impatience says we’ve
all prayed for too little and they
can’t wait to scold us. God’s redecorating.
He wants all his darlings back.
Oh Frank. Have you missed us terribly,
whom you never met? I picture your daily
grand jeté over the sun, knowing the moon
never tires of loving you. I long to change
costumes and visit. Let’s see. Blandishments,
pitchforks, foreskins. Well! But then Edward
told me you had the longest he’d ever seen.
My mother loved me so I got to keep mine,
ensuring that there I would always be a goy.
Just knowing that I’ve kissed lips that once
kissed yours—but enough. Discretion is
the better part of careerism. Now there
is only one poet I love to read while dreaming.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
hey i don't you
remember the sea ?
ido
it was speaking little wet enormous. a tooth
hey!don't i you?re a massive collapsing
ocean deep perfect. the waves crack back
an oblique smell of crying swollen.
it,s a god's face; a bruise blushing on his cheeks
maybe
we taste the shore. it's gray enunciated sky impinging the
dry with damp teeth. or the mountains thinking on the horizon:
blotting truculence
they stand so still
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 11:58 AM UTC
If we trust our peace to a peace maker
to whom or what do we trust our time?
Maybe it's a watch alarm or beeper
in work or play until our final chime.
Time may be measured even treasured
though never really saved or enslaved.
Now long now short now spent now pressured
sometimes borrowed bided always craved.
It has no substance but is the essence
whose tincture tipples us into truculence
perhaps some paranoid pretence
amidst much of irrelevance.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
Not for you
Winter's truculence.
Unlikely extrovert,
Up you thrust
Into
The jagged air
Defiant
Yet
Gentle
Anthropomorphism
Of the
New.
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
Because you're in Hell,
Suffocating in Degradation...
Lost, Stolen, Swallowed--
Taken.
Breathe in Acceptance,
There's no Room
For Lies...
God Does Not Atone
False Alibis.
Alas, The Devil will Welcome all
His Ripened Fruits,
The Darkest of (His) Children
With the Blackest Roots.
To Rot in Primal Horrors
Of the Great Below
Where Truculence is Transcendent--
You.
Must.
Reap.
What.
You.
Sow.
"Human morality (tsk), it's so fragile--
so frail.
Such hubris--to have free will
yet still fail.
Such folly, the notion
of tipping Death's Scale.
Abandon All Hope,
Here no Souls Prevail.
Silence your Pleads--
I wont be compelled.
Stifle your Prayers...
They never leave
Hell.
And Between your
crescendo of cries,
shrill shrieks--
lamented wails...
Remember to breathe in
Child
Breathe
in
and
InHale."
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 10:43 PM UTC
Some time ago, an English town distinguished by a knot,
Was home to one small ****** who'd relinquished all he'd got,
He wandered through the autumn mist and conjured up a plot,
Thinking "those who cannot co-exist with me can be forgot"
As winter came he sat and tried to carry out this plan,
Reluctant to reside beside the truculence of man,
He'd rid himself of company, he travelled all alone,
This blemished soul, unravelled, stripped of colour, shade and tone
Some time had passed, the vagabond felt lost, astray and tired,
Surrounded by his odour and the ailments he'd acquired,
He thought, he dreamed, he pondered still, he yearned to be inspired,
Yet the only thing he lacked was just the thing that he required
Behold, the seasons changed again, the ice began to thaw,
Precipitation halted as the sun came to explore,
But still, this soul lay motionless, inert and not in-awe,
'Til he came across a boat adjacent to a wooden ore,
"At last!" He thought "My great escape! I'll row with all my worth"
"And soon enough I'll find the edge and capsize off this earth"
"For human kind is too unkind and blind to peace and love"
"I've had enough of talking, thus this push has come to shove"
But just before this sour soul could sail away from land,
He noticed someone signalling a message with his hand,
For up to now he'd found it too surreal to understand,
That a language, so outstanding, could be physically manned,
{I've brought this boat to you, my friend! to demonstrate a choice}
How strange! This message came across without the sound of voice,
The ****** stood perplexed and yet relaxed in silent song,
Confessed how solitude had stole his spirit for so long,
The messenger, content, turned back and trekked towards the town,
The Auburn Prince was sewn upon the backside of his gown,
The ****** chose to follow him and practiced making signs,
A thumbs up and applause goes to the Prince who changed his mind,
One does not need to hear the Prince to heed the grand ideal,
For language can be silent, solely something that you feel.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
The truck was crushed and dented
Almost beyond recognition
When the county boys reached the scene
(Though, as one of the deputies remarked,
Having seen the vehicle tottering around town
For virtually all his born days
Still ain’t much worse than when it started)
Apparently having slid off the Stamford Road
Then down the embankment
Where it had made an unhappy embrace
Of a utility pole near the old Ulster and Delaware tracks,
A rather unhappy ending to what had been
An arguably equally unhappy existence,
Though old Doc Benner had surmised
The junkman had probably been dead
Before the truck had made the shoulder,
Or so he had said at the graveside service
(He being one of the three or four in attendance
Feeling that one who’d been a common thread
In the existence of so many for so long
Should not go without some commemoration
In this already frayed-at-the-edged little town)
And he remarked that the old man had once told him,
When the doc noted the old saw
That one man’s trash was another’s treasure,
*The main diff’rnce ‘tween trash and treasure
Is just a matter of expectation*,
And it would have been most poetic if,
After the reverend’s perfunctory hand-off to the Almighty,
The clouds had broken and a thin shaft of light
Had fallen upon the junkman’s stone,
Or perhaps a gentle rain commenced
To heal the disturbed sod,
But the skies remained a slate-gray truculence
As the sexton’s ancient pickup tottered away,
The ropes and shovels tossed higgledy-piggledy
Under an ancient and somewhat watertight old tarpaulin.
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 3:46 PM UTC