"verdicts" poems
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
In the beginning there was a reader, poet, pen and paper.
Like an artist towards a stage, a
Poet approached the paper for freedom of expression.
The poet had secrets he couldn’t trust anyone to keep.
The feelings and secrets were so ocean deep.
The poet saw bias and hypocritical verdicts through reader’s eyes.
The poet trusted the paper and pen instead of readers.
Readers know not the poet’s pain, misery, and happiness.
Only God knows the poet's expression via a pen on paper.
Readers see the pen’s ink on paper.
They don’t see tear’s marked on the poet’s face.
Neither do they see the smile on the poet’s face.
The pen and paper is just the poet’s podium for freedom of expression.
Neither pen nor paper however knows the depth of a poet’s feelings.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 6:40 PM UTC
Dear God,
I know we have not talked for a while
but there are still some questions
I need you to answer.
I never doubt your existence,
but I doubt you are kind at heart.
Why did you give me eyes?
Only to see people suffer?
Only to see fathers
abusing their daughters,
mothers hurting their sons?
You give me eyes
and I want to scratch them out.
I am too tired of crying all night.
Why did you give me ears?
Only to hear endless screams?
Only to listen to stories of destruction,
of void and eternal dark,
of suicide, mother of all self-abuse.
Listen how smile turns into tears,
and silent whispers
becomes screams so loud,
and I can't stand them!
HELP! HELP! HELP!
Why did you give me ears
if they are of no use?
Why did you give me hands?
Only so I can touch the scars?
To feel the cuts on the inside?
To cut myself
with words,
not razors,
when I am trying to write.
Why in all this chaos of life
I feel like I was born
with my hands tied?
Why can't I stop them
from hurting others
and themselves,
from smoking another cigarette,
or from drinking,
until they drink themselves to death,
from going to bed with strangers,
out of pure disrespect for themselves,
from accepting the twisted judgments of society,
and carving the verdicts into their bodies and heads.
From taking strange medical substances,
and non-medical as well,
just to be accepted
by people that never care.
Why did you even give me heart?
Only to be broken?
By what? Love?
Bigger lie cannot be spoken!
It's just selfish desire
of touching the skin
of other human being.
Having control,
reserving their body
all for yourself.
Or worse,
sharing pieces of soul,
never to return,
when the cracks from within
reach out and break you apart.
Dear God,
I accept I'm inferior and so very limited,
but in your holiness and immortality,
why is there beauty,
laced with suffering,
innocence,
treated with hate,
happiness,
mixed with pain,
smile,
embraced with grief.
I understand
there is no rainbow
without the rain,
but give me some hope to believe...
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body’s balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul, like a white palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
And there I’ll kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink my eternal fill
On every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after it will ne’er thirst more;
And by the happy blissful way
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have shook off their gowns of clay,
And go apparelled fresh like me.
I’ll bring them first
To slake their thirst,
And then to taste those nectar suckets,
At the clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are fill’d with immortality,
Then the holy paths we’ll travel,
Strew’d with rubies thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearl bowers.
From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,
No cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king’s attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
When the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins and sinful fury,
‘Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder,
Thou movest salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
3.7k
I never was occupied with the essence of patriotism
The altruism of the conscription of the young, to later express gratitude for their service, for their heroism
The sensationalism of singing of the anthems, and the so-called 'civil defence'
But really, it's all merely an excuse to justify unwarranted offence
It's a weapon wielded as a subterfuge for the ethical codes transgressed
For capital, people become national and subsequently irrational
Due to patriotism, all the decisions of the government are infallible
And anyone who opposes said verdicts is radical
To continue reading about patriotism, please subscribe it's only $120 per annum. Fees are taxable
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
Yesterday,
Tender pursuits
Ordered
by shortened expression
And personal amusement.
Pleasure was channeled
by uncanny imagination.
Ignorance was developed
with years
of sheltered nurture.
Endeavors were focused
Through heartened dreams
Waiting eternities to age.
Today,
Life is starved of dignity,
Lead by the breath of humanity,
And trailed by my past.
Kindness overshadowed
by needless mockery.
Confidence diminished
Through thoughtless faults.
Purity saturated
with uncertain willingness.
Competence choked
from the flairs of society.
Tomorrow,
Independence is a necessity
Steered by Today,
Speckled by yesterday.
Motivation should dictate
my verdicts,
And challenge perils.
Agonies lifted
Through sanguinity
Virtue grown
Only through praise
From the satisfaction of many.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow
Immersed in today
Is the root of my future.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
Strange, except true.
Some folks refuses to face the real truth.
Whenever asked, who profited more from racism?
Since Civil War and probably before.
We all within the real world know this answer.
Using the politicians present and of the days of old.
They craft legislature to hold back some.
Just like laws created to banned throw from counters and selected water fountains.
Where the water were the same color?
So, who profited more from racism?
Presently, we heard "Black Lives Matter" which isn't against any particular group.
But as with any controversy some complains and miss the point.
Which were addressing verdicts decided by juries in courts.
Where some are dead on?
And others completely wrong.
Then like a Four Tops songs "It's The Same Old Song".
The power that be always complains they being done wrong.
Without addressing, who profited more from racism?
Families with good connection.
Where their child should be serving time?
Instead on probation seeking some type treatment.
Because the power of wealth works decisive in those decision.
Facts, has been written and analyzed several times.
That white often don't how to handle conflicts with others.
Then when you bring this up.
Many use the reverse racism tricks.
Failing to comprehend many white judges courts decision that got off many.
We seen this in Alabama and Mississippi during the sixties.
And continue to in the present.
If up for votes whites would revert back to segregation.
Cause been on a competing level they finding out education truly matters.
Then they had better schools in the past.
And was the creator of white flight.
But history has pointed out during days of old they terrorized blacks during the nights.
So who profited off of racism?
Of course this is just one person's question?
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
It was known just as "The Tree"
It was on the fence line of Jade Ranch
And on the wizened, hardened oak
Was a limb, known as "The Branch"
On the branch hung seven ropes
Of seven different lengths
Depending on the sentence
They chose one of seven strengths
Now a posse and a lynch mob
Are two completely different groups
You may always end up hanging
But through two different loops
Get caught with someone else's horse
By someone from on the ranch
Then you'll face Western Justice
And end up hanging from "The Branch"
Western justice it was called
And lynch mobs had a thirst
To see you hanging from "The Tree"
If you didn't meet the Marshall first
Get caught with an extra ace
You'll be called out as a cheat
You will never make "The Tree"
You'll get gunned down in your seat
But, have a horse, that's not your brand
And a lynch mob's soon around
Western Justice will prevail
With you ten feet from the ground
You'll sit upon the horse you stole
No one hears your weak defence
One slap and the verdicts in
You'll hang on the ranch side of the fence
Shoot a man in town and you
Will end up in the local jail
But, shoot him where the Law is not
And Western Justice will prevail
Seven ropes of different lengths
Take a man on to his death
Once the horse is slapped to go
No one will hear your last breath
There's a lynch mob and a posse
You don't know just how close they are
One does what they think is right
One feels the same, but has a star
"The Tree" is there in waiting
For the next rope to be strung
If you aren't caught by the Marshall
From "The Branch" you will be hung
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
I am selfish!(At least I like to think I am so)
I'm sick and tired of caring about "them".
What might "they" think? How will "they" feel?
What will "they" do? What about "them"?
Well, to hell with them!
Have I not always cared? Every single minute of every single day,
I've cared, thought, wondered and pondered about "them".
I've tipped and toed around my way,
making sure NOT to fall into their bad side.
I made sure they were happy, that they were satisfied.
I tried not to make them angry. I always justified,
their judgments and their verdicts of me.
I kept colouring the pictures they drew of me.
But I don't want to impersonate anymore.
I don't want to live a lie.
I will not give up my freedom and happiness,
to satisfy a lot who do not concern me in any way.
If you think I'm too fast, too easy, too open or just plain evil,
simply keep away from me cause you cannot ever change me.
You will not emotionally hypnotize me again,
for now I have fully gained my rights to "live"!
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 5:40 AM UTC
*Verdicts flung out even without gavels in their hands
Justice's muse fumbles in the dark
Her scales tipping to one side
As partiality has become more burdensome
One failure makes a person
One flawed idea creates a prison of belief
Everyone acts as the jury
Playing criticism like a big survival game
No winners, all self-appointed judges*
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
I awaken in darkness
still terrified and running
from the mountain lion.
But what if I’m the prey
of my own judging
captive of my comparisons?
At times I feel those verdicts in my gut
like when I can’t concentrate on a task
I SHOULD be doing.
When I notice my tight gut
and my mind wanting to flee
I can stop trying
and lying to myself
set my imagination free
roam a wilderness I choose
like right here on the flat and fertile plains
of this poem’s lines.
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 2:15 PM UTC
I was never chosen for belonging.
Not by the world, not by blood, not by any hand that ever touched me.
I walk among the living as an exile,
a phantom dressed in flesh,
a vessel meant only to pour itself empty
so others may drink and leave.
I am the altar and the offering.
I tear my own spine into kindling,
set myself ablaze just to keep their shadows warm.
I hand over my ruin as though it were holy bread,
because if love will not have me,
perhaps sacrifice will.
And pain;
pain has been my only covenant.
It baptized me.
It married me.
It crowns me each morning with thorns
and cradles me each night in its iron womb.
It is not a wound; it is my inheritance.
It is not a visitor; it is my god.
Yet still;
there is a howl in me.
A storm that wants to rip heaven in half.
I want to pound my fists against the firmament
until the stars rain down like glass.
I want the earth to feel the shudder of my grief,
to know that I am here,
bleeding, burning, begging..
and no one sees me.
But I know the sentence.
They will spit their verdicts like venom.
“Attention seeker.”
“Coward.”
“Spectacle.”
They will say despair is a theater,
agony a mask,
death a performance.
So I swallow the scream.
I choke on silence until it poisons me.
And I rot.
I rot in daylight,
smiling with dead teeth,
while my insides collapse like a set on fire.
Tell me—
when does it end?
When does this body, this prison,
finally crack open?
When will my lungs sigh their last,
my skull quiet itself,
my eyes close not in weariness
but in deliverance?
I curse the sleepers in their graves.
I envy their soil, their silence, their eternal stillness.
I despise their peace even as I crave it.
Why should they rest while I remain chained,
dragging myself through the days like carrion?
I am tired.
Tired of this cursed breath,
this endless theater of pain.
I have known nothing but wounds,
and I desire nothing but the abyss.
If there is a god,
let him hear me.
If there is a hell,
let it open now.
If there is mercy in this universe,
let it be the mercy of oblivion.
Because I am finished.
And all I have ever loved,
all I have ever trusted,
all I have ever worshiped—
is pain.
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 6:59 AM UTC
Sequester thee eternal sunshine.
The hummingbird does not speak to me.
Symbolizing a new beginning.
Harmony brings Destiny.
Doing the devil's work is heartless.
He can believe liars to this day.
For the biast lies about me the mediator had to say.
I thought heresay was irrelevant.
Her recommendations to the judge were sent.
I was not chosen.
My parental rights frozen.
Demons in human form in the courtroom posing.
Judge Gerald Jessop retired without remorse.
His senseless verdicts concluded it's course.
Who does he think he is to say
or think how we deserve to be separated this way.
At my side is the only place for Ariel to stay.
To take a child from their mother as a baby & a little girl is not for their best interest.
It was traumatizing enough everytime I had to leave just to work my shift.
The judge & his minions at Madge Bradley Downtown can drink giraffe ****
For what they did to my daughter & I's relationship
The devil horned one of red flesh can escort them with his pitchfork to hell as a trip.
Another sunrise they can skip.
Some evil is so bad that not even fire can destroy it
The natural order of things this way is meant.
The biast liars be ****** & die endless torment.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
Her pleas were a song
Continuous, poignant and long
For who would hear her inaudible pleas?
Chained up in a tower, pleading for keys
The tune was a lullaby
No matter how much anyone was to try
The songbird was imprisoned by the immortal agony and revel
She’d made a deal with the devil
Not knowing of his penalties and tricks
She knew what’s done is done and blunders are difficult to fix
Though even to the most oblivious it was clear
That she was to waste the rest of her immortal life in fear
And so, as she seemed to her subjects as mighty and great
Her own verdicts, her foolishness and actions were like a hefty weight
She wore them under her own skin
Incapable to bear her own sin
Her reflection was something she could not see
For all she sought to do was to get rid of its provoking face and flee
Her soul had been sold
For everything around it, was damp and cold
The devil is not someone rational they told her
Alas she did not heed, therefore misfortune she did stir
The contract was inscribed in blood
And now she was a fearful flood
No one heard her soundless cries
And saw her endless tries
No one heard her hushed pleas
And saw her heart freeze
But her soul had been imprisoned in everlasting misery
And all she had was an aftertaste that felt bitterly
The bitterness of life
Had cut into her humanity with a knife
All she ever aspired was to find meaning
Not turn out to be demeaning
Or be the motive people sealed their doors at night
And why men carried guns with fright
She may have been the fiend of the town
With a malicious crown
But all she craved to be was an angel with wings
Though all she did was dangle from the devil’s strings
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 12:53 PM UTC
12 AM silent tears, matty hair, wet cheeks, exhausted sockets
1 AM runny nose, hushed sobs, escaping eyelashes
2 AM car horns, brisk winds, rising goose flesh
3 AM screams, pain, quiet
4 AM unsteady breathing, ripping apart of pearl necklaces
5 AM cocking of a pistol's safety
6 AM whiskey breath, ***** tongue, an empty orange juice carton
7 AM chattering of neighbors and schoolchildren
8 AM shouts of husbands and wives briefly forgetting how to love each other
9 AM ringing of flower shop cashiers, whistling of tea kettles
10 AM guilt, ample remorse for the undead
11 AM business lunches, speedy dates, short ***** to pass the time
12 PM recollections of a first kiss in Central Park, replay of 12 hours ago
1 PM promises to meet for dinner someday, hair salon gossip
2 PM chiming of church bells, unanswered prayers to invisible gods who doubt your purity
3 PM catcalls, ignored pleas of attention
4 PM passing of verdicts, granting freedom
5 PM wasted apologies, divorce papers being signed
6 PM an old woman's sheets ruffling for a final time, descendance of the sun
7 PM lighting of street lamps, laughter over pizza, beers and a dining room table
8 PM locked doors, readings of bed-time stories
9 PM whispers of "I love you", murmurs of "I'm sorry", snores of a newborn
10 PM breaking bottles, crashing glass, foggy windows, smoky glances
11 PM blood stained clothes, yells of fear,
the sounds of a lonely girl running into a busy city street
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
My silent plant.
Part of my family, you’ve always been.
Our home signifies earth; your *** is Eden.
We're union of Chlorophyll and melanin.
Chlorophyll gives you a colour.
Melanin determines my skin colour.
I however, don’t know your language.
Your leaves maybe speak sign language.
Their colour depicts seasonal change.
Their brightness shows being well watered.
You are yet to utter a word.
Sometimes people give bias verdicts.
I hence tell you some of my problems and secretes.
Hope I’m not taking advantage of your silence.
Golden is your silence.
It feels better than biasness and verdicts.
I wish you could tell me when you’re thirsty.
I wish you could tell me if you're timesly watered.
If you could talk, what would you tell me?
Oh how I wish I knew how you feel about me.
Maybe by Darwin’s theory you’ll evolve and answer me.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 7:34 PM UTC
Karma or Kismet
Was it fate or a figment?
Was it karma or kismet?
A fool’s wish or a poet’s dream?
At this point I can’t remember.
At this point it no longer matters.
The moment she walked into the room my life was changed forever.
So much so, that I can no longer remember who I was before she first spoke my name.
Yet this was not the plan.
The world was mine alone,
a playground for my every wish and whim.
I held it in my hand with no more regard than a child has for a toy.
In that land of make believe I crowned myself king over a realm of ash, upon a throne of dust.
For what more could it be without a queen with whom to share it with?
Now it seems that the fates are laughing at me,
because the mere thought of her has shattered the walls of my fortress of solitude.
The curve of her smile has rendered me into Cupid’s fool.
This so-called king has become a servant to the beating of his heart, which now beats for her.
Longing only to find a corner of her heart that could be mine and mine alone.
Hoping that same heart smiles when she thinks of me, as mine does for her.
Not wanting to be the center of her universe.
Just wanting to be worthy enough to be in it.
To be at her side as she would be at mine.
Ruling together the vision of a kingdom painted on a canvas of love with hues of both our choosing.
Truly this must be the way things are meant to be.
Yet reality reminds me once again that these are merely the musings of a romantic, hopelessly confined within the will of fate.
But if it were not for this dream the word 'hope' would lose all meaning.
So continue to dream I shall, until the judge of time verdicts that this should be a figment or fate.
by Michael F. Anthony
February 18, 2012
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Why do I feel that he is still my world!
Why do I still love his beautiful curls!
I hold to his memories, like they were pearls!
I'm stuck in emotions, twisting like whirls!
Does he realize I've lived through these lashes?
Will he even know, if my number flashes?
Wonder if my smile, on his screen-saver he watches!
Wonder when memories peep, he stops or backlashes?
Do I regret, now as I bethink?
For an affair that was gone, even before I winked!
We were man and wife, though it was not inked.
We felt our love, would always keep us linked!
Does he still care? Does he still tear?
Will I ever dare? Why do I fear?
Verdicts were made, and we adhered!
Just live to bear! Life is austere!
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 7:14 AM UTC
Jesus . . .
Healer am I: of disease and infirmity;
By My stripes were sicknesses gone.
I Physician great from eternity
Am--tearing into two malady's gown.
I Lazarus called forth from the tomb--
Four days dead--to live in life more.
New things can I do with ailing womb,
Brain, eye, spine, and any ***** for sure,
Despite the doctors' verdicts. Believe
Just in Me, to bring thee cure.
For in My balm shalt thou find true relief.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
Yeats said romance was gone and dead,
Back in the day when most tears were shed.
Times when the IRA were up and strong,
Days when they could be seen doing wrong.
Not right now, when its just biased times;
The next Love/Hate enlightening their "newest" crimes.
Our time does differ from the old.
And if Yeats could talk right now, a different story would be told.
We're due a time when they all come home
Cross the shores and along they come.
Times when they are safe to stay,
Unlike the war years when they were forced away.
The times when Yeats said our heroes did us good.
Now, no novelty, no heroes: villains. Although, there should.
President Higgins, the 9th to stand.
Who speaks of "our own Aisling" in this shared land.
Our time does differ from the old.
And if Yeats could talk right now, a different story would be told.
A hundred years, we're still the same.
When the "recession" is so easy to blame.
A choice that Sinn Fein never got to make,
Lead by Kenny, the government's mistake.
Choices made, nor law but religion.
Medical misadventures under moral obligation.
A jury given a choice of two verdicts: one story,
Savita's death, goes down in history.
Our time does differ from the old.
And if Yeats could talk right now, a different story would be told.
Our time when networks send youths to their grave,
An earlier landing caused by how others behaved.
Still mothers shed tears upon the pit of their sons,
Ashes to ashes, a new war has begun.
But, a type that is different in a virtual way,
For the past is the past and today is today.
That's how our times differ to those of 1913
And if Yeats were here right now, what real difference would be seen?
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
Let thy be to the marriage with maiden
Made thy life not seek of any other
Living a contrast of sweetness and pain
Thus be a mother with sons and daughters.
Constrict verdicts of every known evil
Construe what is bright inside with thyself
Let not both severed nor darkness prevail
Souls utterly preserved within the shelf.
Constrained thy fire walled our time not to flame
Have no bashful faces distorts to frown
This mesmerizing life portraited frame
Someday I and thee will be out of town.
Let thy love be demised to the marriage
Thus faith be lived until our dying days.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 10:05 PM UTC
Questionable verdicts
Lead only deeper into the forest
Judgment never saved the day
We flow with the circumstances
Only hoping that another
Would do their best to
Be a fair comrade
Silly though it is
When their hobby is
To put on a mask of
I’m here for you
Only to take if off as soon
As your guard is down
With their glib grin
Enjoying your naive
Denial of everything
They believe themselves to be
So do you go?
Do you adjust the expectation?
I chose second
And yet the mask goes up again
What for? To remind me
Of a moment’s weakness when
I allowed myself to entertain
A thought that you
Could be so much better than this?
Can’t stop being myself
And there’s still a sense of purpose
In being present with
All your masks and deceptions
But can you stand
Awareness of your reflection?
How terrifying is it
To sit staring into silence
That isn’t even the silence
But the unspokenness of
Your own worst fears
That no one but you stirred up
Like orange juice in the coffee
You spoil your own drink
Because thirst is what you know best
And the moral of the story
Is somewhere where the
Intention was lost
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
We are now back to regular programming,
Plugged back in the normal curve of our every day.
The high from the pill is rapidly wearing off,
Proactively looking for a more stable source.
I have arrived to the conclusion that I have to find someone like me:
The sender of the first message,
The one who cares more,
The half in a better half.
I am trying this thing called vulnerability,
To learn all possible probabilities.
The thrill-seeking, trigger-happy one,
Plunges to the void right after the day is done.
To find someone like me would mean I can be like them --
Like them but better.
Though who am I to cast verdicts on personality,
As the grand cosmos is something all of us cannot see.
The downward spiral wants to be freed,
Enlightenment is what we need.
Get through the day, the week, the month, the year or so,
Get through Time
As Time is the ancient incantation for liberty,
We know we can and some time we will be.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC