"weeded" poems
A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.
They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.
They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased i'm up to Kirdford town.
From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.
Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.
Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
An' this 'ere gent from London way.
For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
As light an' limber as you please.
'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent--
'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.
They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.
'E was the foremost at the fence,
And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
For three was at 'is very tail.
'Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
Into the quarry yawnin' there.
Some say it was two 'undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their 'orses on the brink.
'E'd only time for that one cry;
''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one's good enough for me.
For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
That gent what came from London way.
3.6k
Saturday,
A blank slate placed in front of an adventurous child
My imagination took me across the globe,
While my feet danced across my backyard.
Freshly cut grass grew into a weeded jungle,
Only a six year old could appreciate.
The sun was only a summersault away,
And I reached up to the sky with my stubby fingers
To form marshmallow clouds into pirate ships, and circus animals
Back when the moon was made of swiss cheese and superheroes really could fly
No one dared to whisper the word ‘impossible’
To a boy who feared nothing
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
Down by the lake, in the cottage made of stone
The porch is taken over by all the flowers grown.
The walkway needs weeded, and the chimney needs repairs
There are holes in the wood that we used to build the stairs.
The windows are fogged over from the dust in the air
Underneath the shade tree sits my worn out rocking chair.
Inside is full of cob webs, and smells of filthy must
The kitchen sink is tarnished, and covered in rust.
The bathrooms are molded from the absence of use
The wooden floors are covered with a thin coat of dew.
From the lack of attention and tender loving care
The beauty of the cottage has vanished in thin air.
If the time were taken to show how much we cared
The beauty of the cottage, and the warmth would still be there.
Over time it faded, the need of caring hands
Now down by the lake, the lonely cottage stands.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 11:27 AM UTC
even teddy said i got the sickest tricks brah.
like my abilities source from some kinda legendary liquid
/ praise the lord /
monster energy should sponsor me.
a kickflip over the king’s *** hole
& a halfcab for the looky-loos.
i feel so tall when i climb that heap of asphalt trimmings
& see clear from the water tower to the bluffs.
gimme a good day, any day at the bluffs,
bottlerockets & girly birds.
her body brings a swarm of worms.
decomp,
said the f.b.i. men one by one with tweezers.
not quite the homecoming queen, still
wrapped in plastic.
look up.
see that great mess of wires, nest of powerlines and owl bones?
it crackles and croons its electro-spectral purr
all night and day.
new neck tat &
cody spends his paycheck on a crossbow.
we target practice on a bull skull.
wet cigarettes and turpentine-soaked socks for a good huff
in the dry of the roofline as it dumps.
there’s that little boy in a ghost mask again, tap-dancing
in puddles below the streetlamp,
& oversized shoes.
his grandmoms always be watchin’ from the window.
[whispers] she’s teaching him magic.
lucky unit 19: where our young dead damsel once dolled
herself up, you see
men and headlights would roll thru thrice nightly,
maybe more.
& i remember her punch red lips &
big whicker hat; while she weeded and watered her garden of begonias.
the sheriff’s deputy, hart? hicks? hogan? well he loved her a bunch.
stole her clothes in the middle of the night,
& sat beside the river sobbing into clumped fists
of bra and blouse.
i bought ******* from that guy once or twice.
harold? howard?
guess who showed his face today?
josiah, from unit 08.
since the incident with molly’s beagle, he’s been rarely seen.
took a bee line straight for the mailbox.
a package. a prize. a decoder ring/secret map sweepstakes
to be seen and deciphered.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Mariana in the Moated Grange
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
3k
They call me Dr.Strange because I don't thrive from the same ambition as the rest of my generation
I don't desire to **** every **** thing that walks and breathes
I was never a fan of getting high and skipping school
Hell the worse I've done is beat a ngga's *** for making a girl bleed
Yeah I'm so ******* hood, badass if you would
A permant resident of wish a ***** woods
Where we specialize in the art of whoop ***
But at the same time I am kind
As gentle as a cotton ball
I will protect those who cannot protect themselves
Instead of being that coward who is left asking what if
But don't get my kindness twisted thinking you can trample all over my tiny self
Stomping me into the ******* ground as if I'm some type seed
But if you still have the urge to try me get this image in your head
I will make sure my weeded foot travels up your *** and out of your mouth
I will not be afraid to rain down the scorching sensation of the hurt all over your flesh and bones
Causing you to sprout like a god **** bean stock as I just smile walking the opposite way
It is sad ****** these days try so hard to pretend to be all bad-ass, talking so much **** I don't know whether to give them tissue or breath mint
Then what makes it even funnier they beat on these young girls thinking it makes them look tough
But in actuality it makes them look that much more of a ******* to society
**** is this really what male *** have come down to
A mere nuisance to society
A nation of fuckboys and male hoes
Is that what we are really aiming for
sigh wow I wonder what I'll have for dinner tonight
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
~~~
Mouth to Mouth, Chest to Chest
~~~
"Heard the song of a poet,
who died in the gutter"
from Bob Dylan's song,
"It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall"
~~~
heard the song of a poet
who died in the gutter,
last verse, last curse,
not a shout, more a mutter,
a question answered in the asking,
mix tape tune of mournful and joy,
a dying man's elixir.
who will me,
anyone recall?
I will.
not each poem, nor stanza,
but more
each hard rooted, weeded
and impossible to remove letter,
will come to be in,
carried and burnt upon my chest,
chiseled, precision hand tooled.
though my body to dusty ash
fated inevitable,
following yours,
those letters of yours,
will not to heaven ascend,
but come to miracle rest
on the skin of another, renewed
***for this the way poetry gets
passed on,
a sustainable, renewal
natural resource,
never down,
always, always,
upward
ear to ear,
mouth to mouth,
from chest to chest***
~~~
July 10, 2015
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
I hoed and trenched and weeded,
And took the flowers to fair:
I brought them home unheeded;
The hue was not the wear.
So up and down I sow them
For lads like me to find,
When I shall lie below them,
A dead man out of mind.
Some seed the birds devour,
And some the season mars,
But here and there will flower,
The solitary stars,
And fields will yearly bear them
As light-leaved spring comes on,
And luckless lads will wear them
When I am dead and gone.
2.3k
Distraught, with alien invaded heart
I partied with the night in my thoughts.
Dark, distant and silent as perceived, yet
She was candid, sweetness personified.
Let me taste swigs of wine from her cup
Sung me a lullaby of ethereal starlights
Dreams plucked from nights, she gifted
Weeded out nightmares deeply embeded.
On a dream boat chosen,I set sailed alone
To an emerald island at the middle of
the ocean,
And made up my mind never to sail back.
Adamant I was not to be out of that dream
Beloved, erotic, night conjured up for me
With the twist of her psychedelic finger.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 2:09 PM UTC
"Mariana in the Moated Grange"
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
1.8k
These wet rocks where the tide has been,
Barnacled white and weeded brown
And slimed beneath to a beautiful green,
These wet rocks where the tide went down
Will show again when the tide is high
Faint and perilous, far from shore,
No place to dream, but a place to die,—
The bottom of the sea once more.
There was a child that wandered through
A giant’s empty house all day,—
House full of wonderful things and new,
But no fit place for a child to play.
1.7k
We popped ourselves up to the ideas of pop culture
and adopted the looks of orphans
spray paint and swear words
too loud overcrowded mischief
the misgivings of being too young
children throwing tantrums over ice cream
calendars fell and the montage ended
we were flung across the globe as dandelion seeds
weeds to be weeded
I was playing tight rope on the fence
and fell on the side with no safety net
skinned knees and black eyes
the stoners the dropouts the thugs and **** ups
***** and *******
******* and ********
these were just words
deactivated model replicas pointed at the head
college student with a chip on the shoulder
and the one they called the jester
and the one they called the king
with return addresses tattooed on arms
the awake became the living dream
no time for nights of nightmares
enough scare to go around
pack another GB and cry some more
my blood is ink dripping from the pen
yours drips from thighs and forearms
you want to be the new thing
you forgot what the original means
and burned all of your dictionaries a while ago
check my *** cheek
the origin is there
UK/USA
now all the lights are off
and the moon hangs fat, sacrificial in the sky
do you want the moon? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the moon.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
in the beginning
was BamiBami
He the True God
the One God
He wanted everything for Himself
this BamiBami
so He weeded out all competition
and ate all the food at Cosmic Meat
Yum! Yum!
said BamiBami
*More! More!
Yum! Yum!*
and Mighty He fell sick
and He had no mother to make Him chicken soup
and He had no woman
to scream Him out of His Indisposition
But He had One Predisposition
and so He
vomited the Sun
and He vomited the Stars and the Planets
and the Cosmos
(and He vomited with such vehemence
the cosmos and the stars and space,
they’re still moving outward)
and then He turned round and He made one final *****
and He vomited the Earth and all its creatures
that includes you and me
and think about that,
that makes you puke
(say Hi Puke
to your fellow human pukes…)
and since then we’ve always puked
look around, and you’ll see the muck and puke
we’ve even gone nuke
All Praise be to BamiBami
He of the Divine Puke
and that’s how we got here
not by a fluke
but by a puke
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
I am dirt,
I like to bury plastic
and broken glass inside of me.
How do you get rid of a body?
you bury it.
How do you keep treasure safe?
you bury it.
How do you plant a garden?
you bury it.
How do you express your emotions?
you bury it.
..right?
You can bury a lot of things
so why can't you bury those?
My soil is no longer plentiful
all my sprouted plants have died
the grass is thick weeded fuel for fire
because I like to bury
the worst kind of things
inside myself.
I must remember,
that it simply will not do,
it might seem otherwise
but it's true,
you can't bury everything.
(Not without repercussions)
I must remember,
that I cannot bury my fear
bury my lonlieness
bury my depression
anxiety
anger
longing
and heartache
under food.
My feelings have been hurt
but if I bury it under
some nachos
I won't have to look at it.
I'm not as pretty as the rest
but it's okay,
I'll bury it under a mound
of cinnamonroll frosting
a burrito
a smoothie
a banana
It's okay,
I know how to make myself feel better
my body knows what to do
when it is in peril
to survive
to thrive
I must bury the bad things
through satisfying my tongue.
I must remember, though,
these things cannot be burried
under a buffet
cannot cower behind Ben and Jerry
no not even the fruits of the land
can gain me enough weight
to forever keep these feelings bound.
I must remeber that the only way
to survive the feelings,
is to expel them.
How do you get rid of an old blanket?
throw it out.
How do you toss a moldy peach?
throw it out.
How do you get rid of the emotion-fueled eating?
throw it out.
Throw it out I say
Rather
Throw it up
expel it
get it out
It's burried deep
so I must throw away all that's inside
in hopes maybe these feelings will be cured
throw it out
throw it up
you can throw out a lot of things,
so why can't I throw out this?
I can't burry these trials
so I must briefly drown
and send them down the drain,
that's the only way to feel better
that's the only way to get through this
the only way my body knows how to survive
and thrive
don't bury it!
throw it out I say
throw it out
rather,
throw it up.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
Summer heat burnt
raised eyebrow
there’s no water
says the roof’s crow.
Filled are the ponds
dried weeded
forgotten bonds
pleas unheeded.
Everywhere searched
not a drop to drink
feeble throat parched
on the death’s brink.
Pleads the crow begs
I cannot wait
with little eggs
waits my mate.
Weeps my soul
don’t stand aloof
keep a small bowl
water on roof.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
Typically British, rather insane.
English men do walk on water.
Ha ha, jolly hockey sticks, snooty noses up in the air.
A game of jolly cricket, in the middle of the sea.
Just an annual event; as tide resides and holds up a bank.
Supporting stumps and a scoreboard.
The water got scared and bailed out.
A gang of weird cricketers stroll across the Solent.
In between the smiling waves.
A quick match indeed, for after the sea recedes, the tide creeps in, the pitch is gone.
Jolly funny posh folk, trot home for a scone and a bubbly fizz as stags and hens, they head off to the shore.
In their cruisers of pleasure, hey ** off they go!
As when the tide is in they cannot walk on water.
To hold posh debate on the final score.
To muse of experience just left at sea.
Guess no groundsman needed and pitch never weeded.
(c) Livvi
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
The old monk
with Parkinson’s disease,
bug eyed
through thick lenses
spectacles,
his fingers
shaking the host,
is unable to find
the tongue
in sick monk’s
static mouth.
I weeded
the cloister Garth
flower bed,
back aching,
God
at my young
bent shoulder.
The youngest monk,
squat and black robed,
holds the ewer,
while the abbot
holds between
knobbly fingers,
the aspergillum,
to bless the monks
in the choir stalls,
after Compline,
before
the Angelus calls.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
what texture did the skin take on
before it gave up and swallowed you?
did you ever for a second think
that you could be safe when
your fingers never stop twitching
every time you examine your neck in the mirror
there was a time before your hands
were reasons to hold on tight to anything
that could breathe
don’t tell me they’ve always been
this hungry
you must have known a night
before you had to bury them beneath pillows
to keep them from biting at your ribcage
fenced in by notions you put in your own head
they weren’t always this restless
there are ways to think about dying
without burning it into your skin
and there are nights that crackle like pyres
when you slip and let the embers sink in
and you think what is a body
but a vessel for sacrifice
but living on sharpened stakes
never felt so good
stop convincing yourself
it feels good
this depression is overgrown
you’ve never weeded the garden
didn’t water the flowers
and then turned away from your withering
too ashamed to call it your own
don’t you wonder when this self-hate
became the only trait that stayed hidden and safe
take those itching fingers to the shovel
and dig fresh beds to lay in
stop lying in the excuses
and uproot this grave
how does one climb out of a life
when every day is the same
when did you get so forfeiting
that you stopped attempting
to pull your body out of this?
i know it’s hard
to convince yourself this woman is not
the sum of her parts
don’t believe the man who spits at you
when you don’t agree to be the object of his rage
is sane
he will stay the same
but it’s up to you to stop
believing him right
and seeing yourself through his eyes
you are not a statistic
or a receptacle for pain
stop blaming your ribs
for holding on so tightly to your heart
for all the ways that you hate them
your organs are still smarter than you are
because they hold on
like deadbolts and locks
when you manifest the world’s sickness
in your brain
stop blaming yourself
and take the reigns
get a grip
that isn’t cataclysmic
learn to live
instead of picking at scabs
just to feel a pulse
you have gotten in too deep
and you are above this
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
I often find myself being Governed by Idiots of moderate Intelligence,
Not Governed, necessarily, in any Political sense;
Governed or Controlled by someone in a position of Power:
Whether within a Company or a Bureaucratic hierarchy; or a Job Description (An"Expert" or "Executor" );
Or someone with physical superiority or gender qualification.
Whatever, whenever, however --> Some people abuse their Authority over others.
Some in Authority have worked hard and diligently to reach their positions -->
My hat off to them: Good Luck and Congratulations;
You obviously deserve the Privileges attached to the Responsibilities.
I have no qualm with such Authorities,
Providing they don't abuse the Social Trust (too much...).
However, there are many People invested with a modicum
Of Authority that so Deceives them;
These People are self-conceited delusionists,
Ever eager to swagger and boast and abuse Their given Trust -->
A modicum of Authority with a modicum of Intelligence
Is tantamount to disaster for someone else.
Unfortunately, that someone is often vulnerable to the Abuse;
Someone given to being Victimised,
Either by Age or Gender or Sexuality;
Or by physical weakness or Belief or Conviction;
Or by circumstance or timing or just plain Bad Luck.
I'll accept most Trivial abuses of Authority -->
Good Luck to them, providing it doesn't impact Me and Mine too greatly.
However, there are those instances of abused Authority
That can destroy People's lives, either directly,
Or attempt to destroy or damage People's Lives,
For No Good Reason, other than They can.
These Abusers of Authority **** ME OFF no end
And They Must Be Stopped, Weeded Out and Put in Their Place.
They have no Consideration for Others
And the damage done can last a Lifetime.
Enough --> F**k You, ******** Pull Your Head In Before You Lose It!
Too often the Abuser is absolved of Responsibility;
Too often They hide behind a smoke-screen of Legitimacy;
Too often These Idiots Abuse because They can get away with it -->
They wear the Uniform;
They have a purview for Order or Peace or Protection.
Don't get Me wrong -
In the Heat of the Moment, Things Happen, Good or Bad,
And Mistakes are Lessons learnt the Hard Way;
Accept Your Responsibility along with your Authority;
Front up and give a True Account
According to the Facts and Your Decision(s) for Action;
Accept that SomeThings are as They are - UnReasonable as They may Be.
Don't Abuse Your Authority!
TRUST ME --> YOU'LL REGRET IT!
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
Once said
A wee whisper
A mere seedling
Broadcast into
A harvest of hate
A bullhorn of bull
Once weeded out
But did not eradicate
Muffled
But not silenced
The harvest is back
Verdant fields of lie’s
Grow wild among us
Words of hate printed out
Pressing on the impressionable
Tearing down tolerance
Breaking down brotherhood
Building up walls of isolation
Closing doors to sanctuary
We MUST head off hate
Tear down those walls
of ignorance
Blow open the doors to wisdom
Smear the words of war
And SCREAM...
NEVER EVER AGAIN!!!
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 11:44 PM UTC
Is this what you’re looking for- some comprehensive clearance?
Darling, I've died a hundred times in my head
You run a knife through me, it wouldn't make a difference
I am already dead.
But maybe it’s your turn now
For it seems you’re too alive
Turn around, take that final bow
Give that last hi-five.
They've weeded you out
There’s nothing left in you to bloom
Does your life revolve around doubt?
It’s alright, you’ll be gone very soon.
Right, left, front and back again
Why are you dodging the bladed lunge?
Don’t be scared, courage is a thing you need to attain
Hold my hand honey, we’re going to take this plunge.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
It used to be a need like addiction.
Broken creeping open at the seams.
One person one relentless affliction.
You've been my remedy.
Ointment to my pains.
Soothing the carcinogens in my veins.
Its taken time countless characters.
You've weeded out the unwanted.
Fear and weakness thwarted.
A love incomparably intense.
My perspective now shifted.
Like a viscous veil you lifted.
Building on what's left of me.
You are no longer my necessity
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
The French peasant monk
scythed the tall grass
by the drive to the abbey
he spat
on his creased palms
before work,
Dio è lontano
ma vicino
the Italian monk said
after Mass
clearing the items away
and I aiding him,
deep bell tolling
from the tall bell tower
echoing across
the surrounding area
down
to the seashore,
sans nous Dieu
ne nous sauvera
pas sans Dieu
nous ne pouvons pas
the French monk said
quoting someone religious
from some book,
incense
in the air
mixing
with baked bread
and cold stones aged,
I gazed at the cloister
felt along
the waist high
orange brick wall
musing on the flower bed
where a monk
on his knees
weeded,
la confiance en Dieu
et non votre
propre faiblesse
the French monk
chided me
as I peeled potatoes
for lunch,
silence after Compline
deeper than an ocean's depth
more profound
than Plato's musing,
pale moon
casting shadows
in the cloister's hold,
I hugging myself
during Vespers
against the harsh cold.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 1:41 PM UTC
Earth moved around, crumbs under feet, sod busted, sprigs weeded.
Can’t trample in the outside, kept separate like wheat and chaff.
Only fruits may cross the boundary to crisp sheets, comforted.
What matter worms toiled, enriching bounty-bearing soil for you?
Those souls take nature’s course like hens lay eggs, hemp flourishes.
When men care to nurture as nurtured by mothers they have been,
Then happy homes result from dark gardens’ give and take.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC