"undue" poems
Dusk. I won't paint you another sunset,
another beautiful striped sea; no, not today.
Picture instead a smooth discolored surface
on which a firmly gripped stone was roughly
ground, causing a painful chalky screech; the
misemployed rock left vague yellow scars and
lavender bruises on the horizon; the sun cowers
behind them fearfully, distraught by the undue
violence; this is the sunset I experienced at
your fragrant side, and wondered - not unlike
that astre - what could possibly justify the
yellow, spectral scars in my heart, the bright,
undue violence brought upon my pride, and
the slighted sunset in my soul. This is Dusk.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
I will see him tomorrow
And we will restore the status quo
Because I can't sort through the mess in my head
Can't find a topic that won't let the worry show.
I will see him tomorrow
And this heartbroken poetry will cease
Because I'm better at controlling what I want
When it's physically in my reach.
I will see him tomorrow
And I'll see her image hazily beside him
And I'll put down my metaphorical sword
Because it's not a fight I can win.
I will see him tomorrow
And my heart will see them both together
But I won't say a single undue word
Won't even ask if he's doing better.
I will see him tomorrow
Like nothing ever went wrong
And I will wrap my arms around him
And remember his favorite songs.
I will see him tomorrow
But I will not break down and cry
Because, beyond the hurt, I understand
The ever-present want to die.
I will see him tomorrow
And, my previous poems be ******
I'll keep my mouth, heart, and mind shut
As I cope the only way I can.
I will see him tomorrow
And reach out for another
Because I never had and I never will have
The right to claim or tether.
I will see him tomorrow
And I won't speak of Summer or Fall
I'll remain detached though I am not
Though I'm not calm or collected at all.
I will see him tomorrow
And she will not be there in person
And I will not yearn or reach for either
If only because I love them.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
So many succumb to Group Think
in such a way that it is dangerous.
From a young age, though I knew not yet of the notion,
I rejected opinions passed to me as fact
for the reason that opinions are subjective:
I did not hold as 'beautiful' what they told me I ought to.
I did not hold as 'wondrous' what they said was so.
I did not hold as 'difficult' what others had not yet accomplished.
I did not regard as 'easy' what others had yet done.
I was not serious when they told me I must be.
I made jokes when they deemed it distasteful.
I laughed at the hypocrisy, right in it's face.
I didn't just lay down and accept it as fate.
I did not like the music they told me to like.
I did not believe the biased history they taught as absolute and true.
I did not worship the mythic Gods they made to be literal.
I refused to pledge my allegiance in a brainwashed mass
to any flag of any nation under any God with Liberty and/or Justice for merely a few.
Over time I acquired my own taste for these things:
I grew to appreciate the discrepancy
between what I was told
and what I observed.
From there, I formulated my own opinions,
I became an Individualist.
A Heretic.
They sure don't make it easy.
Individualism, to me, does not connotate isolationism,
though with isolation can come self-awareness and self-discipline.
Individualism, to me, refers to finding one's own Path;
being a Heretic; staying true to your own Path.
To be a Rebel to undue Authority.
To not be afraid to defy your peers.
To be an Anarchist within one's self.
To practice Civil Disobedience.
Plus, the friends you will make if you live this way
will blow your ******* mind
and last you a lifetime.
-
Opinions are never concrete; they must curve and morph with the ebb and flow of your particular life.
Opinions and Taste must be relative to one's own personality and life if they are to be genuine.
Even still, the pull of the social tide is not so easily resisted:
You are succumbing to Group Think
even more than you might think
but I think, or at least I think (that) I think
that we can all overcome Group Think
if we would all just stop and think.
Don't you think?
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
To smile at the unlovely
To duet with undue harmony
To run when a walk would do
To lift the face of the broken
To put aside the important
To concentrate completely
To take interest in the dull
To laugh with the miserable
To see past the tough exterior
To crawl with those that crawl
To walk with the unrighteous
To sprint for those that cannot stop
To stop
To listen
To keep silent
To hold
To do all this
And not ask, or boast, or criticise
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 7:34 AM UTC
By Joseph Childress
“Habeus corpus!!!”
Yelled in court
From some youngin’
In the back row
As he rose
With a roll of parchment
The constitution laid dead in his hold
.
A gleam seen in the judge’s eyes
As he glances, quickly
Behind glasses
While guards escort
The disrupter of courts
To the unknown
.
All hail the corpse of freedom!
Warranted from the lack of warnings
All hell: The corporate companies cooperating
In coup d’etats
Disguised as peace keepings
Offering the
Sacrificial kings of Africa
Offing the
Head of state
In a distasteful display of feardom
Fear dominates
The war on terrorism
Military minions pillage the dominions
Of the defenseless
The final blow
Screams
Like the Final Call
In the falling of an empire
Protesters test the unrest
And spread
Words
That are read
In the weaving of our future
Detention
Sit-ins for those who
Speak during class warfare
Constitutions re-written
To constitute illegal imprisonment
Of free
Speakers,
Thinkers,
And believers
Citizens find it harder
To not pay attention
When the war in the Middle East
Is fought in America
Patriotic Acts to enact
Unpatriotic actions
That exact
Hate on the coward-less fraction
Surveillanced
As if ass-kissing will ever be in option
They’re warning us
To stay sleep with the rest
Those who awake
Will meet a force
Worse
Than the crusades
As they raid the houses
Of our brothers, sisters, and
Controversial, conspiracy contriving cousins
They will come
Like thieves in the night
To undue
The debt due to society
The battle begins,
And the Martyrs are ready.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
To soak up the dirt is to soak up the stories.
My story is grime pushed into the cracks in the concrete
From all the crusty hobos and sweat-sheened showgirls.
My story is glitter from all the strippers and their grinning patrons, and
***** spilled liquor, and ***** from those who have sought a cure.
I am nourished by pain, and also rubber from the wheels of souped-up sports cars
Driven by men with chasmic souls. The oil from a billion french fries
Palliates the sting of alcohol upon my fractured, ***** skin.
The filth of the cigarettes and of the **** smoke,
Dank in the air, and heavy, slathers on another coat.
I see all things and I hear all things and I know all things.
I can see up your skirt right now, you precious little object,
As you flee the casino like a gull from a shark’s open jaws.
Your nightmare is right behind you, and he’s starving.
His humanity has been chewed up by the worms of his rancor,
And all that remains is an animal with hot blood on his brain.
In the alleyway I hear the pop and crack as stiletto gives way to concrete
And bone gives way to undue stress. His smile is unhinged as
Stifled screams and muffled gunshot atomize in the black air.
A decade later, the mops of sad janitors cut through like razors,
Making clean spots more unsightly than the ocean of grunge.
Surreptitious blood spatters, long since scrubbed
Still glint under blacklight. The chalk outlines have absorbed
Into my unholy black skin, and though I was drunk on your blood,
I still remember cradling you as you died.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
Shoot me, You might as well, cause I'm a threat
A threat to your system, a threat to your net
profit and status quo, so pick up that gun shoot me and pray to the ground I go, and when you bury me you better call me a madman and pray that the martyrs don't grow
You may as well shoot me Mr.Police officer,
It may put your employers at ease
One bless black man with a heart of power
One less antibiotic to your disease
Don't forget to tell me I'm resisting, don't forget to tase me til I fall
Don't forget to choke me so those listening won't hear my struggles, my calls
Don't forget to have the media depict me as a **** and a criminal and a menace to society
Don't forget to reprimand and berate me
Remind your older white listeners that my kind, my skin color
is still not considered American Propriety
But more like American property, disposable goods
So **** me, the cameras are recording but don't worry you'll get off free
Might be just a conviction but your Massa's new henchmen and ***** still got the key
A couple months paid administrative leave so you can sit on a beach, drink some ice tea
Mad that you can no longer put chains on our wrists so you put handcuffs instead
No longer pulling whips across our backs so you bury hot burning lead
No longer working your fields for all to see but instead privatized free prison labor with your warden holding the key.
Martin told me when he us that he had a dream
I got his same DNA in my bloodstream
And in every cell in my body I feel the effect, I teem
I boil I scream, when I see a black mother or father gunned down by police men and the children witnessing the death, the blood, the stream.....
I scheme, and when I sleep, I dream
And when I dream it's bad news for you
to avenge those we lost by crimes, undue
To put a stop to all of you.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
this must be
the correct train
there was not
another option
it was waiting
on the expected platform
it departed
at the expected time
and it headed
in the expected direction
despite all of that
i remain on edge
at every juncture
of the journey
every announcement
sets me on edge
every stop
sees me checking
double-checking
that this is
the anticipated station
that i am on course
even when assured
of heading the right way
there is no relaxation
instead
I’ll countdown each station
yet to be visited
before reaching
that final destination
as each station is passed
another count is completed;
numbering one stop less
than the previous
and yet still
i will lose track
of where i am
and how far remains
of my journey
panic will set in
blinded by doubts
and undue regrets
i will question
it all
Feb 15, 2022
Feb 15, 2022 at 11:14 AM UTC
Clothes: to compose
The furtive, lone
Pillar of bone
To some repose.
To let hands shirk
Utterance behind
A pocket's blind
Deceptive smirk.
To mask, belie
The undue haste
Of breast for breast
Or thigh for thigh.
To screen, conserve
The pose, when death
Half strips the sheath
And leaves the nerve.
To edit, glose
Lyric desire
And slake its fire
In polished prose.
2.6k
*for Joe A., who wishes me that
"may your best days be in love's sight"
your kindness in words,
over the top,
unduly undue
"my best days"
très charmant,
mais aujourd'hui
students surpass
the teachers,
cause
sad, bad and life
tag trending
and we~me,
are simply
Sunday~done
with those
nowadays,
grandpa's tools
outdated, shelved,
in their final
resting place,
blades dulled,
the technology
of his verbiage,
rusted by old age
the reads diminishing,
his touch, antiquated,
his best days, resting on top of
the ocean internet waves
his summertime buddies,
sand sun grass and sea air perfumes,
singing, awe we got ya,
cosy and comforted,
awaiting you in your chair,
overlooking our truest
sheltered applause
my best words
turned inwards,
collecting recollections,
rereading my solaces,
and content that
my body,
still stirs,
when joined by
Barry White and Lionel,
forgot like me,
yet happy, in bed
with us
so you see,
Joe,
you are half right,
the right half
*on my bare chest,
blonde tresses,
blanket, keeping me warm,
easy like a Sunday morning
so turns come and go,
no more down the slide,
running to the back of the line,
up and down again and again
time of the tool and die maker,
to cut loose,
learn by crafting daily,
and not from the books*
***Ooh, that's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning^***
write for me, write for her,
for with her,
in love's sight,
life is
easy like Sunday morning,
and
that's why I'm easy,
like Sunday morning
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
Kerbala I weep bitterly still,
Thousands in numbers for a meagre few to ****
For the injustice meted out 1400 years ago,
To enforce allegiance and satisfy their ego
Kerbala I weep bitterly still,
For the innocent who had done no ill,
Where Hussain stood against injustice and oppression,
Against undue aggression.
Kerbala I weep bitterly still,
Tears of blood my eyes fill,
Where Hussain's seventy-two kinsmen were slain on the scorching sand,
Hardships and cruelties they were ready to withstand,
Denied food and water for three days,
Ready to die in Allah's ways.
Kerbala I weep bitterly still,
My tears continue to spill,
When I listen to the orator,
How Hussain's six month son was denied water,
Instead pierced to death with a three headed arrow,
Which a father from the neck had to withdraw.
How Hussain's brother's hands
were severed and he was killed because he took water from R.Euphrates in a *** for his niece,
A brother who emanated love and peace.
How they battered to death Hussain's eighteen year old son, an exact resemblance of Prophet Muhammed(SAW),
Prime in his youth,a great sorrow
Kerbala I weep bitterly still,
My tears continue to spill
How Hussain was slain,
On the scorching sand,
Without food and water,
With 999 wounds,blood splurting
out of all parts of his body, to be slaughtered,
Forty thousand army raining arrows at him from all directions,
Blood blurring his vision
He, Hussain alone, unable to move a limb,
A target to satisfy their whims
Some threw stones, some pierced spears and others wounded him with axes,
The leader kicked Hussain and tried to slaughter his neck with a blunt knife,
Not that way, you cannot take my life,
And Hussain said,"Let me prostrate before Allah and pray for forgiveness for my people,
Wounded and feeble,
With an inner strength Hussain heaved himself and gave the last Sajda(prostation),
The enemy severed off his head from his body without hesitation.
Hussain kept his promise to his grandfather to sacrifice his head for Islam,
That day the skies, earth and nature wept bitterly for Hussain(Alai Salam).
Who would not?
The tragedy of Kerbala would evoke deep grief even in the heedless.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Beneath the water lived a nymph, beautiful as
A flower, if you like woman with petals
Growing from out of their face
And lips adorned with myriad metals
Moving silently with infinite grace.
Fishermen who caught her, in alarm
Tossed her back with dismayed cries
Fearful that she would do them harm
When she exposed her fangs, darting from her eyes,
Forked tongues from each palm.
But apart from all that, she was a delightful creature
As proud as a catwalk model
Sexuality impressed into each feature
Death in each cuddle,
Poison injected from each freshly opening suture.
At the sea’s dark bottom lived the nymph
Devouring fish raw, terrifying sharks and barracuda,
Dining on shellfish and prawns for lunch;
Darting amongst Angel Fish and eels, a hungry aficionada,
Tearing into shreds what she could not crunch.
Gentle with her own kind until coition
Was complete, when if hungry she devoured
Her temporary mate without undue consideration,
No please or thank you. Feeling duly empowered
By her actions, as confirmed by her explosive, acrid indigestion.
No longer young, her children dead,
She glides through the water from China to France
A preposterous seaweed hat upon her head
And in several places, impaling her scaly flesh a serrated coral branch.
Her sartorial taste filling even the sharks with fin-quaking dread.
The last of the kind. The others are (literally) toast.
Protected by animal charities here and abroad
She gladly subsists on ambitious swimmers who venture far from the coast
All she can now catch or afford.
A capricious tyrant until the last, when, victim of a fisherman’s boast
She was hoist up like iniquitous cod
Out of the sea, paraded on the deck while she struggled for breath.
Shot at. Abused. Poked and speared with a steel tipped rod,
Dragged into the harbour, pummelled close to death.
Screaming out, as she in unexpected agony died: “I thought, I truly thought, I was god!”
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
And when you read
Don't rush -
Theres no need to read
with undue speed.
And when you read
Start with a suckle -
Work up to a nibble -
Until you can gnaw without a dribble.
I encourage you
Get down to the marrow
Like there's no tomorrow.
Savour each word
As food for your soul
And live as a model
As to how to live whole.
And when you read
Apply your mind daily,
Apply each word liberally
(especially to those out of the way
hard to reach places).
And when you read
- Study
Sometimes with a buddy
But - study.
This is no hobby,
You can't afford to get sloppy.
It's as crucial for the soul
As five a day for the body
- So study.
And when you read
Treat each word
Like a tutor;
It can teach you
How to live shrewder.
And when you read
Sustain it like a seed,
Ensure you pay heed
Cos it will never mislead.
And when you read
Do it to a plan,
Always with intent
And be sure
To finish as you began.
And when you read
Commit to it daily,
Commit it to memory
To avoid thinking lazily.
And when you read
Do it while a commuter
Do it on a computer
Do it with a kindle
Do it with audio
Do it with a paperback
Do it with a hard back
Do it from front to back.
However you develop the knack
Don't let yourself slack;
This Word is no throw back,
It will keep you on track.
So just read.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
439
Undue Significance a starving man attaches
To Food—
Far off—He sighs—and therefore—Hopeless—
And therefore—Good—
Partaken—it relieves—indeed—
But proves us
That Spices fly
In the Receipt—It was the Distance—
Was Savory—
2.1k
the vastness of an empty soul
demystifies the Grand Canyon
and shrinks the universe
to microscopic molecules
barely able to manipulate energy
matter that doesn’t matter
madder than a hare in March
balance skewed
undue pressure
seasonal disfunction disorder
ordering medication
naturalization
seeking citizenship
in an isolation township
serving only self-pity
to the self-destructive –
squatting, gargoyle
surveyor on the job
soaking in the loathing
basking in the glow
caused by the discontent of others
opioid android locked in the void
unemployed
laughing at misery
in mercy centers
meticulously mimicking the miscreants
impersonating pain
seeking to blend –
ostracized miser in designer jeans
obscene in drag queen regalia
“whiskers from under his pancake make-up”
wake-up Godiva, locate the paraphernalia
mammalian musculature
hide the heart of a snake
as she slithers across the floor
searching for the perfect surfactant
….her scaly skin itches, uncomfortably
tearing my lip skin
in the din
of her poorly lit closet –
together in terror, the admission seems worth the cost
lost in the sweet melody
of sobbing children
and clattering dishes
shattered visions
misgivings
estrangement entangled with commitment
obligations
oblivion and orange peals
appealing to a higher power
unanswered questions hover inconsequential
adding to the ozone depletion
and altered climate
owning blame
for all the world and her problems
I sit with shoulders slumped –
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
To a child, or a god- fearing man,
Responsibility is undue.
He has no life span,
And all wishes made-- come true.
A child learns the way
Of his father and his priest,
Then the man lives in decay--
That which feeds on fear to speak.
Thin air whispers in their ear-- prophecy;
For better, or maybe even for worse,
A king of men must bend his knee
Lest all bad fortune be a curse.
By the sight of a child, or a god- fearing man,
Black shadows lie in sharp relief.
By mine, though little do I understand,
Knowledge will forever trump belief.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
There is a certain devil in my eyes
a twinkling trickster who despises
all pomp and proper posers who lie
to gain the affection of the less informed.
There is a puckish knave who raves
to undue the chains of those enslaved
by creative play and poetry
by active explorations of prose and nobility.
I know such endeavors are things of futility
for if they knew my form of Anansi
silk spinning spider
or my formidable four legged figure of coyote
who runs under the Nordic name of Loki,
I am certain they would try to lightning fry me.
Instead, I buy some time masking my mind
tapping out binary bridges of ones and zeroes
with mythic folk and fairytales to educate
my elves who have lost
their pointed ears and no longer hear
the sound of nature’s truth
concealed in their very flesh.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
Today is your birthday, spindle-top maid.
Another year of desolate bridges.
Bridges by us, once believed to be true,
now laid to rest in mineralised brine.
Though my desires have long since faded,
small town streets will forever sing your name,
calling, calling, for youth and infant love.
Time may have set, but as with Giza stone
you lay in evidence of what has been.
And now, in years progressed, I tend to this,
my page. Some hungover apology,
for cruelness, that in ignorance, I wreaked.
For, though in my life there is ugliness,
and evil now apparent in this world;
I have learnt through experience, virtue
of kindness, of careful tread upon land.
Oh, mother of Horus, and Christian slave,
you bought me devotion in time of aid.
I'm calling, calling, in meekness undue,
for your sandstone likeness to hold in place.
With time comes erosion, African wind,
to scorch at the kindness, held to your breast.
So, in fear of forced blindness, cynical
waste; I mumble in this dirt-kissed prayer.
God of knowledge, oh God of braying flock,
bring to me your scripture, word of Thoth.
All so I can deliver, all so I
can sing; this tuneless ode of my redress,
this humbled hope for spring.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
Black brothers Black brothers
Who are you my brotha? Nor time or history will undue our feud, we are family through blood and enemy's in communities
So Black brothers Black brothers
Tell me who and why that hate and crime wont bring us together, as I've known and seen in my black eyes that not even love or Prayer will brake my Cry's
So black brother Black brother
Tell me who I am my brothas
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
If you believe that dreams come true,
But sleep at night without a clue,
Of all the things, the ones undue,
Should make you fall, shall make you blue.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
his fingertips as wild sparklers
his palms, wads of soft cotton
and the plateaus of his toiled finger beds
so his grasps -- stray, muddled, unintended
like paint swashes glazing my frigid worn skin
realeasing undue quivers down my delicate chine
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
Hallelujah, I’ve found you
one I could have chosen.
Were your body pliant, capable
more slight, more saudrey
a subjectivity
easily disposed
I would be able to hold your breath, capture your voice
contemptuous, mocking and wholly undue
spending more than a half a day
being who you are would make me hate you--
But for a morning, maybe from eight to noon
I’d take on your face, look straight in you,
my mirror.
Shout out my name three times
with hope, I would appear,
without your bated breath
from jagged mirror, foggy-eyed by shower
I'd be able see me touch your body, glistening
parting your quivering lips for
myself inside, to feel your smile.
A phantasm to myself.
I want you, my significant other
my lover,
my ontological
displacement
of
milky
misfortunate
malaise.
Your substance is my fortuitous down-going.
My ship-sinking speculum.
Desire, mediated by a lack of being-there.
Klage.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
A salty concoction
Of agony and sorrow
Rolls down her cheek
like fragrant dew drops
from the silken lamina
Feeding no one
but the undue desires
Of the wrenching heart.
Her sun-kissed skin
and honey-touched lips
now drench in the
brininess of her tears.
Counting seconds
by her slow gasps.
A breath, that was
only hers now.
Tears, that were
only hers now.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
distracted yet again by
the fullest of moons
on an unexceptional night
blown out of proportion
by undue reverence
and misplaced relevance
looming larger than it seems
nature should allow
a false sense of light
marred by hues
of orange and red
forced upon it by
this unseasonably late
summer's twilight
there are those who
will assign meaning to
this sight and to any
signs thus associated
guided by the symbolic
grounded in the scientific
somehow the truest
of explanations are overlooked
the simple will always
inexplicably
be far less appealing
than the convoluted
Oct 7, 2023
Oct 7, 2023 at 7:34 AM UTC