"upshot" poems
The essence of love
Runs atop pillars of space
Anticipating to transform
The oblivious by-standers
Into inflicters of righteous pain
The pain that will set free
The reins of resistence,
Foreshadowing portals
Of everlasting beattitude.
The songs have all been sung
Yet not one has been able
To surpass the nightingale's
Who spins the sweetest darkness
Without a tinge of temptation.
The rhythms that fall upon thee
Speak eons of platitude
Of pedestrian coronation
Of revelation devised
Where the upshot is
Synchronized syndrom
That eats away the spirit
Like canker.
The flow of love
Is not a smooth ride
Like a luxury car on open road
Love's code is candor
That suffocates without killing
To reveal the lofty window
Toward unearthly meadows.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
Impregnate your old crock squirtin'
Papier—mâché blackball on the *****
Oglin' for upshot
And whatever frigs our orifice
Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud
Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold
****** all of your bazookas at once
And unclench into ventilator
I like dung and tinsel
Shandy ****** fuss
Breedin' with the puke
And the Weltanschauung that I'm in statu pupillari
Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud
Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold
****** all of your bazookas at once
And unclench into ventilator
Like a punctilious Zeitgeist's nincompoop
We were born, born to be unstatesmanlike
We can spirt so penetrating
I never wanna croak
Born to be unstatesmanlike
Born to be unstatesmanlike
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
Honest directness may
bring some lasting peace:
murdered Cicero spoke
two millenia ago
all evil man may ever know;
still our statesmen gesture
in orchestral dumbshow.
Is peace born out of a lie?
Each new morning they wake,
senseless, enchanted;
an immense multitude
that works toward a coffee break.
They gaze, glossy-eyed,
upon the imperial upshot:
Democracy and Despotism
mix in the Melting ***
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
the false dawn
banishes
false hopes
of finding sleep
ahead of the rising sun
transient glow accompanies
first blush birdsong
the cardinal's aubade
ushering
greeting
the brush's first stroke
across the canvas of night
twitching limbs
bloodshot eyes
nonstop freight train of thought
all
night
long -
these afflictions allow me
to witness the lonely beauty
of today's sunrise
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
Shut up
in abysmal oblivion
to the millio(nth) degree
Shoot up
the drug writhes,
pulsating through my veins
Usurping my brain
as my visual modality turns inward
awakening my inner eye
Mentally breaks the binding constraints
finding my center,
I enter the void
Then I shoot off in space and time
inserting my Mind someplace
light years away from reality
Inert I remain
And what was once pain and indifference
Has become
Upshot
in transcending zen
To the point of omniscience
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
She is the divinity;
of her own supreme world.
The translucent spot,
on a porcelain that is old.
She is the aftermath.
that followed a long day.
The upshot of everything;
gone along the way.
She above anyone;
is the reason why I write.
Tonight at this lonely;
only helped by the moonlight.
She is the hope;
of every heart that has ever loved.
Brings fate to every end;
the cause to what someone might have.
She who waits;
patiently for her own Apollo.
Will do whatever it takes;
and meet him with her bow.
She who moves the nephelae;
to every cover and pall.
The ominous to my reality;
was her blear and SHE.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
Life
Life is highly overrated
World-peace is now oxymoronic
Profanity is the new trend
Cost of political ****** eh!
Five hundred bucks for a peaceful end
Hence, life is overrated
Diplomacy and logic fiend the heart
The illusion of pragmatism
***** up your right brain part
Your love is a black hole
Ends at its start
You reach your destination
Reckon it your win
In the process
Reality check!
You
Lost
Everything
Was it worth it
You see, Life is overrated
Death
Death is trusted
The surity is insane
It is surreal
Only one upshot to the game
You look forward to it
Ineffectual is disdain
You may not be wholly pure
In any case
Heaven chooses post bane
Choice
Where’d you rather be
Gander at easy escape
Following are your choices
What will you take
One is out of question
The other open to debate
Either make this your heaven
Or for heaven itself wait
Stop the ****** clamant
The choice is yours to make.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Harper scarpered with the loot and Jimmy Tang was in the boot of the Ford Escort,
thought he'd pull a fast one,how wrong was he
now he's off to see the sea in concrete shoes,
Harper doesn't lose he wins
and Jimmy Tang just spins below where tidal currents flow.
The Old Bill had their fill of killing,and
Bobby shoe shine who was willing to grass up Harper for a new life in Santa Barbara or somewhere hot and dry,told the old bill of a story,bloody gory and full of death.
hardly daring to take a breath Harper hid out in a redoubt,(a throwback to some ancient war)
The cops swore later he shot first but it's anyone's guess,the upshot was,the world is less a villain and a spiv
and Bobby shoe shine doesn't give a hoot,he'd got his loot a different way.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
I know when to quit.
late summer unclenched
for us, thrusts
of pixie-stick upshot,
your perfume
expands my chest,
thunderstick love,
spines and ribs
don’t do it justice
you raptured me
both ways to sunday
built me up to shatter jaws
car windows me
bar stool battered
you my perfect carpenter
smile with wooden teeth
you made them yourself
so stain me the color of
cherry trees
and unbliss my empty spine.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
Your eyes run up, chasing after your feelings— the softest echo
of a heart, once feeling passionately in love, but only in secret.
A storm of longing; calm beginnings soon roar thundering
clapping opening and closing gates.
The haste, becomes the menace of biting into a bullet;
never knowing its taste. For any chance given, will later on
pierce through you in secretive conclusions— another round,
another round, for a scar so yawning, and a memory so tired
of ruminating last nights.
Your tears, are picturesque ashes; core flames that shriek
a pain before a moment’s murmurs. While an after long
upshot, distinguishes something oppressive, growing
out of your heart’s flame— your cheeks raised red of blush;
unease in a fiery rose.
Wouldn’t you love to grow openly under the summer kisses
that wash the earth in light; as for me, it seemed
reminiscent of your former bright smile.
You were once the joy forward looking to a better day;
a ray after the rain. To reign supreme on their minds;
on top of every thought of you, worn proudly as a crown.
__The former is gone.__
The world nicked away that stem of your courageous,
precious, and outrageous company; during the wake
of you finding yourself
__— you’re so restless now. __
What would distinguish your fiery beauty,
is extinguished; diminished,
— buried by the earth.
Still your enduring fiery beauty could feed greed
into Hell’s gate. For even buried in tragedy;
you shall ascend gladly to avenge those who hurt you,
in your triumph.
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 9:22 AM UTC
*
She is at her sweet seventeen of age,
Fresh, perfumed, smelling cleavage;
Sacred heart, beats for a love ablaze;
Body is spicy, fruity in a way to amaze;
Morning shoot outdoor; with make-up;
Mid-night scene indoors, a close-up;
Again at dawn, a swim suit episode;
at mid-day, a Hero’s ego to explode;
A lovely show to strip off her heart;
Well done, applause, pack up at last;
Her inner desires triggers for an upshot;
Dialogues turns dim; goes dumb and mute.
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
At helm while directing
in a muddle I seem lost
Caught in sort of vortex
my own demons I accost
A belief in old prowess
subsistence still directs
Belying any of the doubt
enroute which interjects
Almost at a tethers end
with upshot not in sight
The day brings new hope
each night begets a fright
Every jab at my foresight
pierces my real zest anew
To trudge upon unknown
and walked by far and few
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
Thoughtless words are the weapons
of society ,
attacks emotionally
Whose words only last so long,
but a toxic upshot is forever.
©harpreetk1002
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
Sad waters swish and sway in the wind when the pressure is superior
But they’re still when there’s immobility left to move them
I guess what I’m trying to say is that as people,
We’re only moved as a result of the push that others spell for us
Rarely do our own aspirations swim up to shore and
Though they gasp for air,
No one believes they can save themselves.
But we are not water; we are only made of it.
We rely on winds, but do not realize that we are winds.
The power to destroy someone doesn’t only derive from fire
The power to save someone will not usually come from soft sands
None of us need to be caressed for.
We are oceans, but much more flourishing.
Animated. Thriving. Prosperous.
You make the rules.
How can you not, when you have lightning inside your heart?
Every time it beats it sets a strike so hard everyone can feel the upshot.
You shouldn’t be suppressing something so electric.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
the upshot constituted a figurative straw
that broke the virtual camels back
where yours truly fingered as scape goat,
who meekly, passively, and subserviently
felt the stinging crack
of wooden, smooth,
and oblong paddle and stands pat,
asper innocence, though now
(myself more than two score years
orbitz around sun) remains more defiant
for purportedly causing Roberta -
not her real name flack
and clears that blot (now a composite
of petrified spitballs) as a hack
writer of poetry, feels jilted like Jack
donning many major protagonistic ruffian knack
nursery rhyme roles, which fables never didst lack
for upstart precocious, kickstarters impish grin,
as if he just wolfed down a swiped Bic Mac
and goose that laid more than one golden egg
McMuffin running from the Giant,
with spindle shank for each leg,
and sliding down the beanstalk, which didst peg
world wide web Marathon record
suddenly the envy of Queequeg,
which way word ness
far off course from the theme of this work,
hence hold tight
to hazmat bag of **** pin jay dreck,
while poetic license allows me to twerk
intended story aye (captain...
oh captain) moost not shirk,
lemme reel yar attention
back to the classroom of missus Labosh,
hood didst whistle and perk
unbeknownst to me, my scrawny derriere
unaware what quaint, hence danger didst lurk
for letting passivity
find me singled out as the bona fide ****
wishing Moby **** could swallow
hook, line and sinker
with a slight even Steven crane
of his neck, every mother plucking bird brain classmate
deemed Scott free, and Chutzpah didst gain
while this smart *** wannabe took a crash course,
sans weltanschauung "Artful Dodging
Spitball Shooting Maven" in the main
quite heavy on Physics and Trigonometry as became plane.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
There you were;
In the shadow of the mountain
Thinking back on those days in sudden
& compiling your songs with the Memories & the moments into your rigid Heart
Then saying:
No...this is not the upshot!
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 10:37 AM UTC
They’d had him dead to rights for poisoning the well,
Least wise as far as they reckoned,
His fingerprints all over the pail
(Not the only set, but there in a goodly number nonetheless)
And footprints more-or-less conforming
To his boots in size and tread
And perhaps all that wasn’t stitched up as tight
As the sheriff’s boys would have liked it,
But there were other factors,
Things inferred and whispered
It being a place and time where truth
Was a sufficiently malleable thing
(There was also the testimony of one woman,
A lover, perhaps, or at least in her own visions,
Whose sworn statement was punctuated
With wild gesticulations and shrieking denunciations
As to how the accused had shredded all vows holy and otherwise,
The whole thing close enough to madness
That it was surreptitiously removed from the record)
And the trial was a brief, perfunctory affair
The defense attorney literally in shock
From the cavalier manner by his objections were waved away,
His motions for mistrial and subsequent appeal
Disappearing into some void of bored court clerks and paralegals,
The upshot of which was one man
Fitted with an unappealing cravat
Paraded before a sufficient gathering of onlookers
(But a quieter affair than such things normally were,
The harsh cacophony of the cicadas,
String section tuning for some discordant symphony,
Rising above the hum of the attendant mass)
And as the proceedings rambled onward
Towards its unwelcome conclusion,
The guest of honor grimly mused
As to how restoring of the water table and its potability
Would do little to put things to right.
Jul 28, 2022
Jul 28, 2022 at 4:19 PM UTC
alone, poems are always made
somewhere out on the fuzzy edge
of things where two worlds intertwine
the pulpiest juice spews out
sea and sky earth and sea fire and earth
sky and earth fire and wind water and fire
out there the veiled shaking the tenuous shifting
the curved drifting the spaces laid bare the whispering
down there the cold colliding the subterranean brawling
the white-hot raking the broken barriers the rumbling
up there the restless rising the upshot turbulence
the sudden melting the wind-sheared diving the resurrecting
in there the tormented dancing the quiet gnawing
the night crawling the bloodied twisting the dawning
always, poems are made alone
the determined tracing the insistent fingers the tracking
no team of divers no web no net no school of trawlers
never, because together poems are forever afraid
once made, poems are always alone
they stand apart the old the etched boulders
effaced facing the northward vast dark space
alone, poems resist the fade
the freeze the mists the fickle seasons
the cloudless reasons
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
Unlike the feted Ebenezer, our intangible visitors
Are not necessarily seasonal in nature,
Nor do they waft into scene
As the result of our direct malfeasance
(Sometimes the case, to be sure,
But more likely they are the stepchildren
Of our omissions rather than our commissions)
Coming among us not through wanton transgressions,
But the upshot of our mortality
And its associated failings,
And as they glide translucently among us
In this season where the darkness comes so early
(Yet the light clutching the western horizon
For an imperceptibly longer time each day)
Their presence may be somewhat more benign
If we are able to undertake the act
Of forgiving ourselves.
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 4:17 PM UTC
become my light;
that's what you want
but why don't you understand;
I already own a halo
―an upshot of seamless struggles
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC
She is the divinity;
of her own supreme world.
The translucent spot,
on a porcelain that is old.
She is the aftermath.
that followed a long day.
The upshot of everything;
gone along the way.
She above anyone;
is the reason why I write.
Tonight at this lonely;
only helped by the moonlight.
She is the hope;
of every heart that has ever loved.
Brings fate to every end;
the cause to what someone might have.
She who waits;
patiently for her own Apollo.
Will do whatever it takes;
and meet him with her bow.
She who moves the nephelae;
to every cover and pall.
The ominous to my reality;
was her blear and SHE.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC