"truism" poems
I’m sick of all these love songs
Written about another
Sonnets and odysseys
Desperate for a Lover
I want to enjoy the silence
Nihility subdue
Equally alone
As I am with you
I try to reflect Compassion
A metric of good health
Psuedo-neo Truism
Learn to “Love Thy Self”
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 10:20 AM UTC
There once was a black man... Old at heart, he fought verbally and accordingly with bold words, which abbreviated and arbitrated great art! He spoke of activism. Not just racial, and economic racism. He fought against demonic injustices for you, yes, made me see. He stood for principles of non-violence. Acknowledged corrupt government
mileage, European knowledge and college. A philosopher, teacher
and preacher as well as a civil rights leader. When he spoke his words of fire indeed chiseled and inspired. Causing some to conspire and also perspire! Born January 15th 1929 in Atlanta, Georgia. Named in honor of the German protestant Martin Luther. Bachelor of Arts
degree in sociology. Making a mark in doctoral studies, systematic theology. June 5th 1955 This King married Corretta Scott in Heiberger,
Alabama for many to see. Proceeding with four children: Yolanda, Martin Luther the 3rd to be! Dexter Scott and Bernice to increase the peace. Despite the European police, the movements and stressed
protests, the silence, ****** and racial violence. The segregation and interrogations in force, instead of integration of course. Black mishaps, lack of differences in relapse perhaps! Plagiarized and slandered, demised by some of the wise. Accused of communistic ties. Blinded
by others’ eyes and of our world’s twisted lies. Montgomery, Georgia
bus boycott, 1955 was the year. However, forever in disguise, our fear of tears was apparently adhered. From here to near, also all those dear. Mere letters he wrote, from Birmingham jail I quote! From the slums, some of sums, hail and prevail! A creation prevailing into a deriving and thriving nation. Mr. King’s vision of a dream, mission,
opposition, optimism and truism, on our wars, welfare and more. I suppose this sounds honest and fair. Mr. King’s theories and worries in emotionalism, evangelism, humanitarianism, racism and socialism. Nobel Peace Prize won in 1964. Regretfully, you may have heard of this before. Government conspiracies and indecencies. Assassination
and discrimination, allegedly, by James Earl Ray. On April 4th, I
almost choke, because for him, his blood did soak. Some thought this **** was a thrill or forced by will. Others still procrastinate in hate! However, forever Martin Luther King was and still is one of the late greats.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Sweetheart you need to be have a flatter stomach
Put down that soda pop
Or one day it will make you pop
Put down those puff pastries
Or one day they will make you the Pillsbury Dough-girl.
Take up crunches and sit-ups
And just ignore when your body screams for food
Take up ******* in and waist trainers
And just ignore that ******* in all day weakens your muscles pushing you further from your ideal
Hey good lookin’ you’d be prettier if you had smaller thighs
Stop eatin’ them donuts
They turnin’ you too dough
Stop ordering your pizzas in larges
They turnin’ you large
Start doing some squats
Just ignore your back screaming in pain
Start running sum more
Just ignore that bigger thighs mean a lower risk of heart disease and premature death
And a simple request from everyone else: make sure your hair always looks like a girl from a movie, that your skin is flawless, you dress perfectly, are always happy, smiling constantly, have an aesthetically pleasing Instagram, be in an adorable relationship, know all the newest music and shows
You know what
just be perfect
but
not to perfect
-love society
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
this is a poem about happiness.
this is also a poem about how great life is, see? here's a metaphor
comparing nature to the faultless
form of a pedastalized lover,
here's a description of the
effect of changes in air pressure
and localized temperature
fluctuations
on physical matter in a given area.
here's a bland truism that
anybody can relate to.
here's a couple rhyming stanzas
about the ethereal shifting of
connecting threads which
cause all life to dance upon
the cosmic stage like food poisoned marionettes.
here's an ode to the wrinkles of
my ******** and
the bits of fuzz that occasionally
find their home in my *****
here's a sonette to the drop outs
doing better than me
here's a dirge for the businessman
that hangs himself
and a jubilee for his widow
who earns nothing off his death
because he left his entire estate
to his catamite.
I'm writing a symphony in color,
notes of fermenting wood
dogshit and coffin dust.
the violas swoop and drone
the piccolos trill fast enough
to excise your gastrointestinal system
the barotone sax wheezes
and the timpani drum rumbles
(the flutes sit motionless because
**** flutes)
the pianists fingers are bleeding
hes banging with stumps now
his face contorted in ecstatic glee
as if the face of god has parted
the clouds just to scrape his gums
clean with his dietous ****
and lo faint is the whisper
which climbs and slithers
between the
false,
bash upon life with both hands.
here is life here is death
let me show your life
let me breathe your wretching
like squandered
like roots in the soil,
paint your everlasting cave drawing
in the face of your kitchen
and dance around a fire
let the embers lick your heels
til pagan viciousness overtakes
your quivering form.
gasp it in
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) - 64
BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem
Oh the Loved one, Who is my Beloved!
In the deserted land, there is a Sacred Mountain’
Fondly, called as The Mountain Of Light’s (Jabal Al Noor) '
Where my Divine Creator Imitate His Own Light'
And carefully guarded by the Numerous Angels,
Towards the Sacred Mountain (Jabal Al Noor)!
My Beloved visits daily towards the Peak (Jabal Al Noor)
Where his rest place Cave (Hira) itself based.
He climbs at rosy dawn, towards the sacred peak,
To freely meditate towards his Divine Creator!
Allow me, to unfailingly follow you;
Until the Cave (Hira) entrance,
And comfort Your attractive Paws as your feet dust.
I devotedly follow You, Oh my Beloved!
Towards the Cave (Hira);
Upon the Peak (Jabal Al Noor)
Don't look down for stack of crude stones,
Or don't be worried about any cruel thorns.
At Dawn, Very difficult to track the visible path,
I dearly want to live as his dainty shoes'
Hence, He can climb carefully every glorious day.
Let my Beloved’ peacefully sit and Meditate
Let Him recite, The One and Only (Iqra Bismi Rabika)
Thru the Dear Angel (Jibreel),
Therefore, He can reveal the Divine truth!
I will wait respectfully outside,
Until He solely speaks, the divine truism.
Therefore, I can correctly grasp;
Through My Beloved the eternal truth (Noble Quran)!
The unknown truth of the Divine Creator (Allah)
And His Eternal Existence (The Noble Throne)
Upon the sacred Mountain Of Light’s! (Jabal Al Noor)!
Allah Khair..... Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem
Ummah Thurab - Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC
*Even when I know they're but unfinished stories,
accepted pain and acknowledged sorrys,
virtual realities reflected from mirrors of a lost paradigm
and engineered metaphorically vocalized pantomime
even when I know that they're not the end of the road
(that there're even many more miles to walk)
or even blossoms of life within a spectral pod
but merely a beautiful view of the vast and
rough ocean from the calm of a floret mental dock
through tinted glasses in pink of perception with utmost optimism
a fairy born of refraction through a phantasmal prism
even when the universe disputes the truism of a magic wand
I still fantasize about holding your hand
and matching with you through thick and thin
for better for worse, against the torrents from foe and keen
in turbulence of rage and storms of tears till we find laughter
until the bruises of souls and hearts shattered find mending
in the enema of our blending so we can have a happy ending
even when I know forever and for always is just a true lie
and we are likely to more than anything make us cry,
I still believe in pulchritudinous endings, in happily ever after
in you and I, in the beauty of wilting roses and those in the rain
in sticking together through the pleasure and pain...
Even when I know love is just a word,
we can lend it every meaning we've ever dreamed
I still believe in real romance, in the broken being fixed
in forever being now and now being forever
in never saying never, in you and I
truth or lie, do or die... roads and bendings
long as it's with you, I believe in Happy endings...*
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:58 AM UTC
.
There is a presence here,
can't you feel it crackling
through the evening air?
Creeping into the mind
as an invasion by consent.
A candle flame flickers
as an errant string thrums,
a note of announcement
and precedent to an army
set to join the invasion.
There is a presence here,
can't you feel it cloying
at open waiting ears,
seeping over the babble
as an intrusion most welcome.
A chord breaks silence
as a voice slow gently hums
a prelude to old new songs,
an accompaniment to a jangle
as the errant string conforms.
There is a presence here,
can't you hear it calling
to the blood in your veins,
freezing the moments solid,
speaking at corpuscular levels.
An excitement of particles
agitate an expectant atmosphere,
curved air starts to resonate
an apocryphal truism that
there is a Presence … here.
© Pagan Paul (15/01/20)
Jan 23, 2020
Jan 23, 2020 at 5:38 AM UTC
A good game needs rules and planning.
Nothing revels humanity so well as the games that play.
Actually you revel yourself best in how you play.
And so it became that.
A truism;
perhaps we are not that original, we are fascinated with the human past. And It's the human future which intrigues us most.
Seems we cannot understand us.
We cannot abide the thoughts of stagnation.
We seek to change into the heart of what we are, but... change into what?
We are hardly original.
Therefore, what will be your rewards?...
For playing the game...
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
He reached into the paper bag his friend handed over and pulled out a small picture frame.
“Do you want it?” his friend asked.
He turned it over carefully to see what was in the frame. Through the glass, he saw a beetle mounted in cotton, displayed along with a strip of paper that held its name. It looked like something good to have hanging in his room.
“Yeah, but why?” No one just gives away nice things. At least no one gives stuff away without a reason.
“Why, what?”
“Why are you just giving stuff away?”
“Oh,” silence, “I just don’t need it.”
It was a non-answer, a truism, something people say just to get people to asking questions without lying. That’s not enough, he thought. If there was anything he knew about his friend, it was that he liked to talk.
“Wait, so why don’t you need it?”
“Just take the whole bag. Maybe just give back the 3DS games”
He turned the frame around. There was a mark in the back, like someone tried to open it up with ballpoint pen that ran out of ink. Whoever made it gave up after one try but still managed to leave pinholes in the cardboard.
“Are you sure?”
“I think you’re asking too many questions for free stuff, guy”
He looked through his friend’s bag, wondering what else was inside. It was clothes, mostly, and ruffling through it wafted up a scent. The smell and the fabric, it was decidedly feminine to him. He had more questions, more thoughts to investigate.
A car, pulled over next to them. “My ride’s here,” his friend said.
He looked at the beetle. Its wing casings were a sickly yellow. He saw a few writhing brown dots come from under it. He felt sick. Maggots, he thought.
“Carlos,” he called out, handing back the bag, “I’ll keep the beetle”
His friend turned back, took the bag and left.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
Visions of wildfire fill the room as bodies mold into one another..
Heat seeks the beings of the surrounding..
Slight intentions of sweat fall, dripping off the intention and capabilities of what's next..
Rhythmatic vibes intertwine making us one..
Barely knowing from whence you came..
It's nothing more than you this moment seems to crave..
Crazed within my essentialized demeanor..
Not even Vegas could headline the escapade deemed 2 gamble with his every chance at lady luck..
Dancing within winds of a harlots dream..
Loving more than what the moment leaves..
Surpassed within a present that creeps back into reality..
Awake..
Placing lost pieces of a puzzle onto a map with no "X" spot..
Senseless to the coldness of alone..
In fear of a love that urns to grow...
Traveling within closed eyes not attempting to mesh the fairytale and reality into its own..
Within the embodied presence his rapture reigns over the passion that bleeds seamlessly from my aura pentrating his soul...
Taking and receiving life as a whole..
Hungry to allow his ownership to suggest and define all meaning as ****** reaches its desired aim within seeking,
Believing in his queen still it is within me to urn for more than whats being given..
Where passion meets the aphrodisia of desire to transpire the truism of love..
Now. Then & Forever.
Alpha.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
There are great periods
In our lives; passages.
Agreed. Truism.
I'm at that age, where,
In an average life-span
Of one, such as I,
Either one or both parents
Are gone. Are going soon.
I know, there are many
Exceptional, wonderful,
Depressing and ******
Stories,
But the aggregate is
Right on with this.
So, if you're young,
Twixt, middle or aging,
Go give Mom, Dad,
Granda and Granny
A hug, a kiss, a handshake,
A touch, and
Just tell 'em you love 'em.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
when i was young
i never intended on living to adulthood
i didn't have any dramatic plans for my death
but i hadn't planned for the contrary, either
and so
time rolled on, the way it does
and through pure neglect
i found myself here
alive today
and the years keep passing, the way they do
time's funny that way:
it increments in loops;
another year forward,
another revolution of the same.
when i was younger
i didn't believe in the future,
i still don't, but now i find,
that the present tends to stick around.
and one's seeming imperative thoughts and actions,
one's urgent sparks of actuality,
aren't flames of some eternal logos,
but are more
the random shower of a Catherine wheel
spinning aimlessly on a pike
and so, through sheer inertia
the world keeps on turning
and you with it
till one day
you stop
and are left
disorientated and thrown
into a wall
i'm not sure what i'm trying to say here,
or if this maudlin sentimentality amounts to much
but if i had any truism
from my time spent,
it would be this:
the self is a clear plate of glass
onto which meaning condenses like steam
at first invisible to yourself,
you become aware of your shape through
the foggy coalescence of the things you cherish.
but sometimes,
those meanings become too much to bear
and they condense
into a liquid
and silently drip off.
then
maybe you wait,
slowly drying out,
for the process to hopefully start all over again
but in the mean time
you're left there,
gently and vacantly
estranged
translucent
and damp
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC
it is better to write a GOOD POEM
badly
than a BAD POEM
well
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
Wood Pigeons make perfect sense,
when they scatter through my hair,
sometimes the image is wavered,
but there's a certain glow of pride
that enfolds within this short life.
For my best laid plans
I'll re-thatch my roof,
to shelter my bantams
lulled into the truism
of the gilded cage.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
It may be a truism but optimists cant escape it....
No one is right all of the time.
The only difference there has ever been is the frequency between being wrong and right.
When an optimist falls in the woods only the pessimists will notice.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 2:57 AM UTC
walking goes better with one foot in front of the other,
left, right, left, right or right, left, right, left it is about
the cadence after all.
breathing goes better by blowing out to make room,
bad air out, fresh air in, bad air out, fresh air in, bad air out
it is about sequence and consequence, do you believe?
living takes your breath away at times,
walking is not always possible when you are on your knees,
gripped by disease, missing limbs but still embrace life,
frozen in a catatonic state not wanting to move for fear
for fear, for fear grips mens prostate, and
takes women's rooted relationships away
glean what life means from the women, men
when you have a job and no place to live,
when you have friends and they have a couch to give,
for a week or two, and the lessons you have learned
from the life you have lived, that has broken you
busted you in two, your ideals don't match up with success,
what a truism of altruism, give it all away and you will get,
patience now it has not happened yet...and you wonder if it
ever will.
Stay away from bureaucracy, become an entrepeneur,
gain a skill that will always put food on the table,
run with your ideas when you are able, and remember
there is no finish line, you just run the race.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
I attended a house concert last night. I go to about three a year. The hardest working musicians in the business. The fella last night was from Newfoudland. Drove to Victoria, then to Sarnia, my hometown. Drove thirty-three hours from Regina... in one day. Old and new friends were present, all of us living the middle-class life.
He sang a song, Money Can't Make You Happy.
That's not a truism. It's an opinion. It sounds... eh...
Go for a walk, but you need to cover your feet.
Watch the tele, you need a room.
Have some We time; Your place or mine?
We relish our North American Middle-Class Life.
It's true... money can't make you happy,
But I'd be unhappy without it... some of it.
Later, as I was getting in my Kia,
The Newfoundlander was getting into his Volvo,
With happy tail-lights.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
The truism of a fading facade
Diminished novelty
And vanished reverers
Blinded by an idle fancy
Treading on the periphery
Of disgrace
Closer to horror
Than to ecstasy
The vacant spaces
Are growing dimmer
Tangled in high lonesomeness
In your kingdom of grey.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
*Too many religions
Too many interpretations.
There is truth in their folly.
Each religion beautiful in its own way.
Each one incomplete by itself, each naming
The Infinite Light, - God, Allah, Yahweh or Buddha rendering
A human division when True Light is anything but divisive.
The blessed mother Mary, the crown jewel in Catholicism,
Was she Catholic? - I only ask of you the truism
Found in this simplest of questions.
In her life, the word Catholic never even existed.
The Infinite Light appears in all religions - as fluid
As the Love that each of the religions seem to know.
In the common threads between the religions an echo
Reverberates through the world enlightening those who realize
That Faith is unanimous and Love is something that we can materialize.
So the question, no matter how it's asked it is always the same -
Do you believe in God?
I do not mean - do you believe in some religion's fairy tale,
I mean - do you believe that there is some power greater than ourselves
Which is The Light, The Infinite Light that created everything that
We know of and all that we can ever know of?
I like to think of it like this;
We as human beings utilize only a small portion of our brain.
If you place the human brain under emotionally charged situations,
Such as, meditation, joy, stress, fear or physical trauma - then the neurons
In the brain begin firing resulting in an enhanced mental clarity.
You may say, 'So what, just because you are thinking more clearly -
It does not mean that you are communicating with the Infinite Light.'
But you must also agree that sometimes unfathomable answers to what seems
Like impossible questions occur in these moments of clarity.
Biologists call it 'Altered States'; Gurus call it 'Higher Consciousness';
Psychologist's call it a 'Super Capacity for Sensation or Feeling.'
Some call it Psychic, others simply call it crazy.
Religions call it answered prayer.
I say it is simply an adjusting of the brain to learn what the heart already knows.
Each of us already has the knowledge given unto us by the Infinite Light -
We only need to open our minds and hear our inner self.
So please don't dwell on the differences.
Find Peace in what makes us all the same.*
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
Ashes of my son
in this bottle
wash ashore
to remind us the years are fragile
and too quickly they're no more
Strands of my daughter
on this brush
remain a lovely brunette
and a none-too-kind truism:
we begin to die from the very outset
A stone's throw is all we have
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
It's a good day to live, to die, to try and write
I might even say it's a good day to wonder
outside of Pandora's keyhole
but you'd think it was a euphemism,
an alchemy when in reality it's a truism
as real as this.
If you'd told me the secret
let me in on where you keep it
we could do away with injustice
as you do away, every day.
In Lancashire
which is where the cheese is from and
on some promenade or off on the side
they're going to frack
Westminster backed the money men
and now we're tied up in knots
so
tell me how local is local when London's
disloyal?
I'd ask a Royal
but there's never one about when
the **** hits the fan,
well
not since Princess Diana
but
that's another sad story.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
Since childhood, the mind chose bright. Ignore the darkness; view the light.
Blame yourself, and make it right. Prove your worth. Here on earth.
Age advances, still not swayed. Heart so caring, it paves the way.
Padded feelings, locked away. So imperfect; it’s hard to stay. Here on earth.
Cry for love, but don’t let in. Once exposed, you’re ******* again.
Judgmental mind, expectations tall; yourself and them, doomed to fall. Here on earth.
Slice the vein. Blood freely flows. Scream in pain. Let no one know. Much easier to let them go.
Isolate. Deny your hate. Create your fate. Here on earth.
I see your heart; pure or not. You cannot hide. I cannot stop.
Your tear is mine; so deeply real. I try to flee. Your pain I feel. Here on earth:
The aging mind; whose thoughts can’t find.
The child wails; as evil impales.
Cancer thrives; please don’t die.
Old age ensues; so sure to lose.
Anarchy spreads, the souls are dead.
Wrong is right. Condone the plight.
All weary from the useless feuds. Just spare from me your platitudes. HERE ON EARTH.
Truism is commonplace. Cliché, banality; the human race.
Do not attempt to state my pace.
(Did you figure out the redundant place?)
Do you care enough to read my face? Are you smart enough to avoid the bait? Or, weakened is it just too late? Here on earth.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
HEALTHY YOUNG PEOPLE SHOULD NOT READ,
ONLY SEARCH FOR INFORMATION WHEN YOU NEED,
SOMEONE ASKED ME: 'WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS FROM?'
I REPLIED: 'YOU TALKING, ASKING ME IS ONE,'
IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER IF WHAT I SAY IS WRONG;
TIME IS SHORT, YOU READ MY WORK WHEN I'M GONE,
YOU WONDER WHAT'S MEANT WHEN THE PASSAGE COMES ALONG,
MAYBE ONLY I KNEW THE QUESTION WILL HANG IN THE AIR,
YOU'LL WRITE YOUR OWN WORK AND THEN YOU'LL CARE;
IT WILL BE LIKE MAKING LOVE FOR THE FIRST TIME,
YOU STARTED OFF WITH SUCH SPEED AND ENTHUSIASM,
YOU REALIZED WHAT THEY'D TOLD YOU WAS A TRUISM,
WHEN IT'S OVER, YOU MAY THINK IT'S AN ANTI ******
IF YOU DID IT RIGHT - YOUR BAPTISM FOR NOTHING LACKS.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
a truism, an overused, abused entrée to the first poem of the day,
they always are night-born, from a slow passage of dark to a light-triggering recording event, a 6 hr. poem period, gestation, incantation
and a sort of relief, temporary
*many the miles voyeured, a mentaller feasting sated,
simple rhymes to covet, rephrasing the complexities of
our other lives, where our sub-selfs exclaim, out loud!
this is me unchained, this is me chained, this is...someone*
*besotted by the rottenness of honesty, once air-exposed,
eyes fixed, no away-turntable, all that well hidden spoilage
in dreams reverent, forsaken, my ashamed-ness, is willing
taken to the scaffold, and by daylight first, perceived, conceived*
*we may examine the half of me, nay, the all of me, open-face
secrets secreted in my nighttime travelogue, of crimes, revelations,
insects, drownings, strawberry moons, all the fraying edges of a
linen covering, my cadaver pouch of well used words*
inscribed thus:
”human born from a sac, and to earth returned, in sackcloth
Jun 4, 2020
Jun 4, 2020 at 9:05 AM UTC
Bzzzzzz ^#^
:
:
:
:
:
wherever : you go...
... the pesky fly
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC