"trumping" poems
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Whose got the answers?
Rise oh rise!
Whose got the answers now?
Whose criticizing?
Oh rise, oh rise?
Whose criticizing now?
Who thinks they know,
and who knows they think?
Trumping their thoughts,
onto me?
Who knows what's right,
and who knows what's wrong?
Who has the answers to fix everyone?
Tell me, oh tell me,
I just have to know,
whose got the answers now?
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Her countenance,
had long given up the ghost
Twilight tried to allay the ravelling .
She needed resilience,
for those fiery Sunday visits
endured by her confused Son.
Trumping by prevarication,
until no more, she retorted.
Her honeysuckle dreams
turn ramshackle.
Those plumes of bonfire smoke
before and the after, differ now
on contrite compost.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
Pumpa ..pumpa thats all i do
can you hear it .ill give you a clue
stinka ..smelly...parpety parp
that what it sounds like when i do f@#t
see the smog as i open the door
parpety parp ..pumping galore
beans and cabbage help me along
lots of ale ...trumpety trump
pukka pie or chilli kerbab ..
parpety parp...gives me a smile
pumping trumping thats all i do
wind from me **** ill give you a clue
sounds like a whale from miles away
trumper thumper.. parpety parp
sbd's are part of me aim
but a parp is a much better game
brussel ..stuffing give it me now
parpety parp ..trumpety trump
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 1:50 AM UTC
The Moon searches out the night
During the day sits in the background
Probably knitting a scarf of clouds
Pick one drop one, Cirrus follow by Cumulus
Allowing the Sun it’s all day brilliance
At night trumping all that coloured time
With a soft monochrome thrill
Wrapped in its unravelling grey black scarf
Bit of a night owl our Moon
Throws quite a few shapes
During it’s month
Revealing a little Edwardian anklet
And then to tantalise
Following with its full scandalous magnificence
A bit of a flirt our lovely Moon.
Our Moon has many beautiful scarfs
Holding hands and touch shoulders scarf
Or soft hand on the cheek while lips meet scarf
Hide under here together and pretend we are alone scarf
Let’s do something mad and feed the ducks at night scarf
And that warm promise don’t break my heart scarf
Bit of a romantic our lunatic moon.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
Socrates was a savage son of a gun
Waltzing across town with an urbane gravitas,
Trumping the pimps and priests that passed
His lazy confidence demanded the reverence oft reserved
For kings and queens and prime ministers
Without a home, the world was a playground all his own
He was always gentle, always genial,
Because he descried through his one good eye
That dregs like me had it rough enough already
He was my friend,
And then he died,
And no one cared but me.
While functional American boys were
Learning from their fathers,
I was learning from that feral cat.
Good old Socrates.
Good boy, Socrates.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 8:52 AM UTC
i have long since desired to "be somebody", for i already am.
sometimes confidence escapes me, as if it were carbon dioxide.
positive prompting enforced by words from a friend down the street, or across the country may be what keeps us all going
when the coldness of doubt creates hesitant characteristics.
as i get lost in thoughts, i want to guarantee that i am not alone.
but a guarantee might just be an unfulfilling word in this false advertising world.
an outside perspective is often necessary, even when isolation can give the impression of trumping solidarity.
After all my decisions are the one and only true responsibility
learning to have have faith, and performing my actions with assertive behavior is indeed something i need to work on.
Jan 31, 2010
Jan 31, 2010 at 9:44 AM UTC
12/18/24
I choose fingers,
among the array
of many wonderful
parts on offer,
the other sensory emissaries protest,
but the multi-fluency of fingers,
fluent in all Romance languages,
nay, in every dialect, tongue,
tippling the balance in their favor
for the fingers are wonderful conversationlists, trumping the
cooing coyness of sweet wordy
verbs, fingers defy nouns, pronouns
and are fingers the finest conjunction
that was ever conjured ot conjuncted?
the ears hear poorly when upom it
a long slim finger casually traces outlines
slow~sensually and the eyes shut tightly,
reflexively, the tongue froze to the
mouth roof, muted into inaction
even the the sense of smell lies powerless
should we block the nostrils with but
two fingers, and breathe mouth mightily
we do not diminish the orchestration’s
totality, the blending of sound ‘n sensation,
but the blind and deaf all must bow before the power of fingers speaking to
every part of the bodies totality
Dec 30, 2024
Dec 30, 2024 at 2:01 PM UTC
November shades down,
Single colour trumping all—
. . . Bluebirds in grey sky.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
Ever since I was, Me,
This particular me
I was told;
I cried and whimpered-
I cried and Whimpered,
as I came out of womb,
still in wail, still in snivel,
I was staggered,
in utter astound, and amazement;
For absolutely no reason,
I Sniveled,
and sniveled that day,
into the madness I was in,
out of universe, into parallel whim,
I wondered,
I wondered:
Am I dead into my bones,
Where is the world, I have known,
The world, I have known for for 9 months-
or am I just a door, opened into storms,
May be it was for today, for few moments,
the Ill be gone !
Or, May be I was reincarnated into days,
of games leading to this game;
or was I just a foible,
dependent to layers,
of layers,
expanded into life's flare;
I was staggered,
in utter astound, and amazement;
For absolutely no reason,
I cried and whimpered,
as I came out of womb,
still in wail, still in snivel,
I was staggered,
in utter astound, and amazement;
For absolutely no reason,
Peace,
Peace,
Yes, Peace, all peace,
Love
Love,
Yes Love, all love,
Harmony,
Dear Harmony,
All Harmony,
Then again,
I jump down the lanes of memories,
She says,
Are you done trumping?
Aren't you late for working?
Aren't you late for life, this real life?
Then slowly,
I go mad,
By and by,
I am Mad,
into today and tomorrows,
anxious;
into emotions and fears;
.
Covered by joys and tears;
.
Eroded into feelings,
.
leading unto her being,
.
So,
it again becomes a helpless game,
where,
I cry and whimper
And there she is,
after all this while,
she seems to be in my dreams,
or in her dreams,
where she wail, and snivel !
Glued into her memories,
her eyes, to mine,
distant aero-plane into her abstain,
not much of caring,
yet, in her cosmic sharing;
repairing myself, into her un-caring,
tunneling a way, into sharing;
that love, that peace
that harmony;
Mommy,
in her tummy, had her, as baby, where a cell grew into body;
in some hide and seek, in melancholy
a bit sloppy, a bit swampy;
into dancing infinity,
along, my pace in her infinity-
my safari, in her serenity;
like some birds, singing songs,
of wordless hums,
just some gongs,
in shores, in her floor,
a flower out of spores,
her songs,
silent applause,
of this bird, who explores,
into the space-less, horizons
that thunderbolts,
B O O M
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
1
whether the weather has changed
or whether the weather is just the same
whether you are a weather skeptic
or a weather septic, or doomsday climatologist –
horribly or incorrigibly either way –
the weather has its field day, and ocean day
either way, trumping all our noses
whatever our beliefs
each day
2
Just a matter of routine
the other day,
all in a day’s work -
roar and boom! went the earthquake
over the city, and everything was rubble –
well, what could be worse than that?
*swoosh and **** next it sounded
we had a tsunami coming over –
"Hey, we’re just being helpful," said the deluge
"We’re just washing everything away"
Just a matter of routine the other day
all in a day’s work
Said the hurricane to the coconut trees
along glossy Eden’s shores:
*"Hold on to your nuts, you tall fellas -
this is no ordinary blow job you’re gonna get!"*
And far out at sea
where Noah might have gone
where ocean meets ocean,
one ocean waved to the other
and beat his chest:
"Did you sea what I just did?"
And irriatted with the silence
it said: “I’m sure you did, beach!"
Just a matter of routine the other day
all in a day’s work
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
Came to life as an alien,
And my skin palette is broader
try and hold me down while I'm breaking the border
Trumping over these walls, call me a dreamer
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 3:11 PM UTC
My thoughts, my words,
I purge them out on paper
But the echo I hear,
Most clearly in my ear,
Is the conversation
Infinite feelings
Through infinite cigarettes
Life done
By twenty-seven
I’ll take that bet
The echo of epiphanies,
Ends where it starts
A run-on sentence
Beginning with f*ck
“Your name here”
In wonderland
Sounds less melancholy
Than “your name here”
Anywhere else
I’m in an **** of the mind
I’m burning up
The fury with the might
I’m trumping death with life
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
the initial purport
this literary effort delivered atchew
to reed constitutes hazmat tocks sin
within White House blew
per, viz thee president be
getting a Hollywood love story
with "Stormy Williams" despite brew
haha murmur, now dapper Don in deep doo doo
thus, this garrulous married pro LIX prone papa flew
off (like a bat out of hell)
to his Macbook Pro laptop presenting myself
implicating Trump as po' faux guise Mister McGoo
affiliated, confused, and explained
being on par with Winnie the Pooh
especially stuck right tub bear arms in grr...
Rabbit's House, now he doth stew
nsync, nonetheless this path a logical
rhyme stir on the straight and true
composeing grist sill for ye to view
now, nar hating, hit ting
private links provide attention turned toward
two thousand twenty presidential election campaign
no Iron nee, anno putter opportunity,
how he diplomatically strived, and nearly scored
to boast asthma, overt braggart, stalwart
asper ideal consistency of cement poured
affiliation, aggregation, and attestation moored
prevails ma (Jack booted - magical) lord
rolling back to Timbuktu progressive liberal
Democratic initiatives star Apprentice
sans ("NO LIES") being linkedin, he almost ignored
with voluble chattering class hud hoard
hobnobbing (with the likes of Missus Muir's ghost,
who resort to Matthew Scott's turf brand),
reconstituted, recycled, and repurposed, gourd
nonetheless Trumping protocol necessitates me bing bored
predictable feigned "FAKE" non accord.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
My name is my submission to male dominance
I am somebody's daughter,
somebody's wife.
I willingly call myself so
It's because I love my father
I love my husband
And I am honoured to be called
In his name
Usually
But sometimes
When a ray of anger rushes into my heart
By the feminine idea of self-respect
I wonder
if my father loves me, why is his love trumping of my mother who bore me inside her body for months of restless ease?
if my husband loves me, why has he never consider calling himself Mr. Mine, where he my husband and I his wife?
But I tuck these thoughts away
They are too balancing of power, too simply different.
I mustn't let the patriarchy hear, or I will dishonour my worth
As a woman.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
Loyalty and power,
I gotta take a shower,
My salary’s forgiveness
In history I cower.
Ahem.
The sharpest devils were created in wealth – in wealth
That money power getting bad fa ya health – fo yo health
I climb the lady of liberty
Holding the fire of infamy
**** girl, how tall ya. gotta. be?
How much a man gotta pay for a woman to be free?
If it costs him his life, the debt is paid
For just an hour a day, living death is the wage
I can’t even start about the water we wade
Constituting ignorance, no more to a slave.
I predict the government will feed on your hate
And product your anger to the tricks of the trade.
There’s more to the story,
I’m ****** and poorly,
Ganked and gory,
Just ignore me,
Cents and sore knees, forgetting my name is Jason? Lord, please!
They’re brainwashing with
trumping ******
jumping ******
crazy info?
Know what you’re in fo
When you
Turn on the telly, the venue, is
Just another place for kids, welcome,
We’ve got another ****** for your cerebellum,
Gosh!
You’re welcome!
Mosh! Jump up, jump up, and don’t frown, when
They murdered more babies in jars.
Again?
That is if your mother’s in a jam...
When?
I don’t know, half past midnight in the twilight zone,
Which means absolutely nothing when a dog is a bone
Under your house
When you mistake your cat for a mouse.
How many things do I have to get backwards
For you to realize I’m doing math with slick words
Calculating fascination, a concoction, a plantation
Of seeds so small they appear not to exist
Turn the page and out comes a fist
Rattling down the road is canned laughter
Wait up a minute I’m down in the rafters.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
STUBBORN MEMORIES
.
I keep fading into the memories of yesterday
I keep feeling the movements of your shadow in my heart
As I sit here on the bench of hope that they will fade away
But am broken, just at the thought of you
.
I keep trumping through the forest of memories
I keep staring at the empty chair in my heart
As I sit here watching your images play on my mind
Like kids on rollercoasters
But am falling far beyond time
.
Stubborn memories that conquer the arms of time
Grow in me like tumor.
You were the poetic lines I could not complete
You were dream I woke up from too soon
And the priceless pearl I could not keep
.
Drunk poet
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
In summer, there was a bloom of tadpoles
in the bathtub against the pasture fence,
the sludge at the bottom of the cracked trough
seething with bodies the size of my nails.
I hauled out the old fish tank, dumping net
after net full into the dark water,
until I had dredged up every last one.
I watched them teeming against the glass while
the cicadas’ keening ratcheted up,
then poured them all back. But it was too late;
not a single one lived, smothered beneath
the press. In love with the glisten, they pour
until they trip over their vestigial tail,
enthusiasm trumping better sense.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
someone, not me,
turned the spigot on,
let the poetry run and run...
been awhile, reasons many
breathless at discovering
so many master mistress
poets trumping the
best I ever read,
best I ever gave,
happy pushes me
to give it a rest,
800 plus, fairly spent,
but someone,
probably you,
turned the spigot on,
made my poetry leak,
then seek
to float to the top,
this, trite not tight, missive,
just a remarque,
on the dangerous side of
poetry reading,
it leads you down the street,
where the dealer offers you
multivitamin treats,
**** the writing addiction
just comes back full flushed
shoot. soon enuf
be writing love stuff,
can anyone shut that
spigot off....
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
A child that grows up being bullied, even by teachers, family;
That becomes a tween who is told to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself, or go to a hospital;
That becomes a teenager that is told to let go of people and emotions from just recent past;
That becomes a late teen that is told he is responsible for everything that he is going through all in his own self, with no support for his human nature;
That becomes a young adult whom is consistently abandoned because of the pain, trauma and despair he is solely seeking compassion because of;
Becomes a man who appears to be a warrior like machine. Powerful in demenour face to face, with words that will shine light on societies hidden ignorance; also capable of trumping others complacency of injustice in perception, and ending their crusade of fallacy towards disregarding others simple human rights. This man can make a crowd shake with his truth, that has been experienced far from feeble. They can carry a lie for years and have it crushed like an egg when they speak it to him; a intuitive reverse psychologist; vividly fluent in ethical philosophy, cannot be deceived.
Even jigsaw placed a restraining order, and turned himself in to escape.
God may have given him the curse, so he could show the world it could become a blessing.
But the most solid thing that this man becomes, after all the damage leaves him permanently disturbed;
This man becomes sorry.
No one sees him cry.
No more tears for himself;
The world has caused him a functional dysfunction; his only way to stop sudden confusion, is to make a paradox in his head about the situation, and solve it.
His heart wears titanium armour. None the less, does not cry.
His mind is quite damadged,
and no one knows why.
Yet they demonized a child, from the age of five.
And now he is unstoppable; still on the quest the universe had given his hand.
He's a transcendental man.
And he's sorry.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
self loathing was taken to a maximum high
past the point where nothing could get lower than it
swiping past goals and high expectations
trumping over anything in its way
seal loathing can always become number 1,
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
~~~
The Puzzle of My Tao
twenty three
years long,
the hands suggest,
the heart demands,
the chest heaves,
after a stumbled upon re-read,^
asking and answering,
more precisely
once asked,
now answered?
the most satisfying solution proffered,
a humble and most humbling,
more yes than no.
imagine a jig saw puzzle,
of infinite views,
depending on a perspective,
maddening and mysterious,
tortuous and terrifying,
wondrously wonderful,
this no,
that yes,
as time demands
movement, modifications and
self-awareness revisionism.
you try on women,
as they try you too.
this, not a trumping misogony apology,
for women
are
still and always
the only solution,
for me.
then one day,
marveling miraculous,
a second skin,
so thin you wear it
as art of your own,
and the painter,
and the poet,
find themselves,
contented best,
with but one
subjective perspective, contentedly repetitive,
a view for an ever,
a view forever changing.
the answer is subtle.
women woman.
one woman.
e becomes a,
the subdivided man,
an e,
cut at mid-curvature,
finds his perspective,
reveling in scene from a winnowed window,
never different, always different,
and the poet~painter,
arts the subtlety of
unceasingly upheavaled satisfaction renewed,
and in doing so,
transform himself,
from a cut up, halved
e,
merges to its almost but differing reciprocal, an
a,
so that
ea,
joined and fused as one,
marks his woman~completion,
and all is both,
singular sharing, and now
the every changing view
better understood thru the prism of an
o.
~~~
Mar. 25, 2016
NYC
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 7:26 AM UTC
he got suspended this week
trying to act on his wishes
i just thought you were speaking
abnormally
but then you were peaking
no time for thinking.
as a child
we realized the world could be conquered
longing for the wild
and searching for the sign
that will make it all better
searching for a sweater
to cover all the chatter
theme music bumping
not a care to be trumping
life erupting
anxiety inhaling
nervous thoughts prevailing
you've really grown up.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 2:36 PM UTC
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumping prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog speed!
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC