"wielded" poems
People cheat,
people lie
To get ahead
or
just to get by.
They do it out of deemed necessity
or
have made it a successful habit.
Some would feel bad,
but
some wouldn't lose sleep over it.
Some lie to protect...
Some lie to infect...
With little remorse
or
full blown guilt.
Either way
risking
all they've built.
A lie is an accessory
that most tend to abuse.
A convenient mask
for the ugly truth
that most would misuse.
Lies are...
The bane of relationships
Destroyer of trust...
Conveyed by irresponsible lips.
So have I ever lied?
Have I ever desecrated
honesty's pride?
Have I ever wielded it
to save others from harm?
Have I ever employed it
to boost my charm?
No I haven't,
now that's a lie...
Spouted that so easily,
I didn't even need to try...
Honestly,
YES I HAVE.
**I am no exception...
I am no saint,
I'm only human**...
with an ill sense of direction.
I have lied...
How about you?
Search deep inside...
You know you have too...
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
The chocolate digestive is a marvel of invention
Custard creams are sickly, but worthy of a mention
Shortbread can be gritty, steer clear of the cheap ones
For if you love your biscuits, your pockets must be deep ones
For perfect dunkability, the hobnob leads the field
But prone to going chewy if their packet isn't sealed
Bourbon creams can satisfy when nothing else is offered
Avert your eyes from pretzels, no matter how they're proffered
The lowly Garibaldi is an underrated treasure
A macaroon is excellent for eating at your leisure
Enjoy the home made cookies and the chocolate crispy nests
And save a pack of party rings for fobbing off on guests
But biscuits can be functional, with keen survival craft
A packet of pink wafers can be used to make a raft
Penguins can be hollowed out and used to smuggle crack
And if you throw a ginger nut, you'll always get it back
A Jaffa cake is handy as a snowboard for a spider
And flapjacks are a sustenance and energy provider
Wagon wheels are lethal when they're wielded by a ninja
Brandy snaps cure cancer with a tiny hint of ginger
Experiment with biscuits, they're a versatile thing
Try horizontal dunking or the highland shortbread fling
Keep a packet stashed away for when the end is nigh
And always have the kettle full, and milk in good supply
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Out of a **** he made Great Art
It was no ordinary **** no!
It was straight from the heart, that
****
It had lain too long in the dark
Now was it's time to start
To make its bid for freedom... and for stardom.
It flew like a dart that **** from the
heart
Like an arrow strung from Cupids
bow
Little did it know how luminous it'd
glow
Becoming one of the Greats in the
Farting Canon.
It was probably the greatest **** poem
ever written
In my own humble opinion
It was very daring and it smelt of
onion
It was certainly the fairest fartiest
poem I ever seen
If it was one of the three Musketeers
It would have to have been
D'artagoine.
It inflated like a balloon, blew up like
a great glass bubble
Then it popped and headed off
toward England
Flying further afield than any ****
had ever flown
It touched people's hearts, bewitched
every nation
Resounded around the world
Yea! was heard in every Kingdom.
It flew long, it rounded the Horn
Like a Lark, that **** it soared and
sung
It was no boring old ****
It was far fartier and fruiter than that
It was a King of Farts
Way above the fartiest of farters and
all the farting Arthurs
It was the real King Arthur
The King Arthur of all farts and
Farters.
A real Belter was that **** that came
from the heart
That had all the Angels singing in
their cloisters,
A real work of Art just like Mozart
Or remember... remember your
Shakespeare
"Hark! A **** a **** Whereforth art ?
Thou ****
It played its part, that **** yea! it
wielded its Excalibur.
O! there's nothing I'd rather do than lie here blowing sweet bubbles next
to you
You! on your little flutey flute flute and
Me! on my big Bass Trombone.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 7:24 PM UTC
This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the ***** of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house
Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,
Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
3.8k
Black dress,
Black lace shawl,
Red cherry violin,
Black frets and strings,
Black bow, white mane or tail,
Tensely poised
To move along the strings
In dances sensuously slow,
Tantalizing strings
To vibrations sublime,
Singing listeners to sway
Eyes closed, adrift, in
Streaming consciousness.
Other movements quick and sharp,
Impossible for any heavy-wielded harp,
Dancing pirouettes of sound,
Jetting needles sharp,
Then reeling tremulous...
These caterwaulings of a horse's tail
Held tautly on a stick.
A deaf man here beside me,
Only seeing, reads about
The music that I hearing, feel...
Somehow feels the Muse,
Sways to the dancing bow.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
Pharaoh Tutankhamun graced the Egyptian throne,
A ***** brisk and spry.
From his majestical hands, dangled a scepter
And on his handsome head, sat a crown.
His empire was at its peak
For he wielded influence all over africa.
The bearded Europeans and nubianS sought his protection
For egypt, was a haven.
So organised was the land:
Amun-re and maat protected the people,
The country grew with the help of viziers.
Agriculture was a noble profession in the land,
As her economic markets were the best in the world
Egypt gave light to Greece and Mesopotamia
For her civilisation altered many a life.
And also, was the birth place of man
Such, was the land of egypt
The middle ages stroke and Europe went to sleep
But mama africa gave birth to many strong children:
Ghana, Mali, Songhai and many more
These children shoke the world with their riches and organisation.
Such was the history that africa recorded before they came.
Fredriech Hegel in want of speech said:
“Africa never had a history before the whites came.”
Such a mediocre declaration from an illiterate
For in place of his brain, graced a kidney.
Africa was well civilised before the bearded people came:
We had a religion
We had education as seen in egypt
We had a well organised system in all aspects.
We had everything needed for prosperity,
We attracted them with our gold, thus they came.
But most of all, we believed in equality.
Such was africa before they came
But when the bearded people came,
They altered our ways and put us in stocks
Then said: “we had no history.”
Oblivious that africa had made history,
BEFORE
AND BEFORE
THE
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
So this is as it was, the old wound still itches
Glimpses of your face and my heart still twitches
If time heals all wounds then what am I to do
When my life has been frozen
Since last I saw
You soften your eyes as they flickered to mine
Skirted the contact then burned deep inside
Gritting my teeth in the pleasurable pain
A razor machete in welcome invasion
Expertly wielded through my jungle of thoughts
Clearing a path and discovering
My soul lost in
Your damp forest of evergreen trees
Rooting my soil and growing up through me
Bringing fresh life to my stagnant dirt
Oxygenating the air of my earth
Reversing pollution, reviving, refreshing,
Regressing the growth of the thorns in my flesh and
Cutting the cancer that
I might live,
Leaving your legacy scars.
So this is as it was, the wound still itches
Glimpses of your hand and my heart still twitches
If time heals all then what can I do
Since my death was frozen
When last I felt you.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.
Logan Robertson
8/4/2018
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
Tenebrous pastel diamond steps,
wielded in a sterile estate.
legates of bequeathed curiosity, boil Olifant eyes in a cake of mesmeric petroleum chances, wry in compound sleep dust.
Abtruse hands in acrimonious cackle, rights of primogeniture, consume reptilian hearts.
Wobbly, rib cages gesture j'accuse
Ownership, Mannhattan.
By the mercy a phosphorescent syntax, enticed by Creation,
exorciso false prophets, irreconsilable versions of Source.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
I am a poor man
sitting on the corner of
Your Conscious
and Your Reality.
All day everyday
I sit in that spot and
beg for change.
But keep your quarters, nickels, dimes
for someone else
'cause all I want is a cup of change.
A cup of change
to water my feeble hope, thorny rose
rooted in concrete hatred.
Roots, like my fingers,
too feeble to hold anything
but this patch of dirt to remind
me, I exist.
ALMS! ALMS! ALMS for the poor of heart!
But keep your quarters, nickels, dimes
for someone else
'cause all I want is a cup of change.
A cup of change
to wash away the muck kicked in my face.
A cup of change
to cleanse the wounds made
by verbal bullets shot out of nine millimeter mouths
wielded carelessly by boys society has deemed as men.
I sit in this spot and fester,
like a dream deferred.
My skin, cracked and brittle
like aged parchment, hangs over my frame
like sheets over antiqued furniture.
I sit in this spot with
arms open wide, heart open wide, eyes open wide
BEGGING FOR CHANGE!
But keep your quarters, nickels, dimes
for someone else
'cause all I want is a cup of change.
A cup of change
to strip the lies and propaganda
from the decrepit facades of your ideas,
storefront workshops left from the age of enlightenment.
My body yearns for nourishment
but I can't afford your lies.
But keep your quarters, nickels, dimes
for someone else
'cause all I want is a cup of change.
Now I'm not asking for a Jesus on Galilee moment,
just a cup of change to feed what's left of my soul.
But who am I to ask for anything?
I am just the poor man
sitting on the corner of
Your Conscious
and Your Reality.
All day everyday
I sit in that spot and
beg for change.
But keep your quarters, nickels, dimes
for someone else
'cause all I want is a cup of change.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 10:54 AM UTC
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
Blocked
I've tried everything to break through
You think I'm lost
Confused
That I don't know who I am
I know exactly who I am
Warrior
Lover
Shaman
In that order I classify myself
Time has shaped me
Has it shaped you?
I can't get a read on your soul
Have you found it yet?
The sword
The bow
The mouth
All are deadly when wielded by one who knows
Waking nightmares
Memories of lives past
Blood, and glory
I know who I am
Stop calling me broken
I'm not
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
At the old market place, there is a locksmith
The slipshod ancient road leads to his shop
In the business of repairing locks and making keys
For almost half a century, a dedicated soul
Right from a tender age he picked up the skills
Accompanying his father, to learn the tricks of the trade
Slowly he became adept at repairing the locks
Like a wizard, replicating the keys, for those have lost it
His name spread quite afar, for people sought his help
In times of trouble, as they were locked out of homes and shops
He knew the heart of each and every lock
Reviving at the touch of his dexterous hands
As if he used to command the locks to open at his will
Like a ring master at the circus
Each and every key combination were memorized by him
Recalling them like a mathematical genius
With the permutation and combinations, he found the magic numbers
He wielded the keys like the archer’s precision
Always hitting the bulls-eye
He knew each and every house in the town
For, over the years, everyone had come to him for help
He was the only one who knew the key to open any lock
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
The words of anger you spill can penetrate deep into my soul, your icy chill makes my blood run cold.
The constant judging glances that you cast my way can instantly make my courage fold.
But that's just a family affair.
It cuts so much deeper when the knife thrusted into my back is wielded by one that shares my family name.
A person that I would die to protect suddenly has me second guessing if they would do the same.
But hey , that's a family affair.
You can bring out of me a rage like no other person can and in an instant all I can see is a fiery red hue.
But despite it all we are family, you will always be connected me and I will always be connected to you.
That's how it goes when it's a family affair
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
H ow is it possible to have so much hate
A midst all of those that I’m ordered to love.
T orn by the need to stay here and fight-
R eeling from weakness I thought I’d outlived,
E dging towards a fall I must stop, I’m
D odging the arrows, to keep keeping on.
F rightened that I’m not as young or as smart,
O lder than I ought to be at my age, I’m
R emembering when I wielded weapons of youth.
M y armies of wit were were invincible then,
Y et now only shadows of warriors past.
E nemies bumping the sore spots they caused me, with
N ever a thought or respect for my toil, I
E nvy their callous neglect of my pain and
M emorize odes to the loathing I feel.
I light bonfires of hatred and hope not to get burned
E scaping through tunnels of madness and fear into
S afer environs where I can breathe free.
ljm
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
Meaningless *** Poem
5/4/2014
Set your gaze upon the man across the bar.
Watch him as he casually drinks a beer and laughs with his friends.
Gossiping about past drunken nights' ends.
Ends that were met with a warm welcome's comfort.
Ends that involved taking a woman to bed without much effort.
How many do you think that man slept with in high school?
A mindless **** count as if they were tools,
willing to be wielded and fooled.
willing to be picked up and ******
in the back of his ****** '04 pickup truck.
Maybe he's had at least one meaningless ***** with that **** of his.
So tell me this.
Please, why is the *** I have meaningful to him?
If his *** is shallow, then why does mine fill his hatred to the brim?
What's worse is the way he claims to 'know.'
The signs I give off that are guaranteed to show.
1. I wear tight underwear.
2. Their color scheme has a brightly colored flare.
3. I sit with my legs crossed in a chair.
4. That tells him I want it down there.
3. I get up and walk to the bathroom with a sway,
2. No straight man would dare do that.
1. ****** Marys and Long Islands are dead give-a-ways,
0. I held hands with a man walking into the bar.
But the same as him,
I could take someone home and forget their name.
I could gloat about it to friends the next night out for two minutes' fame.
I could go on with what to him could be an ordinary day.
But because it's me, it's more meaningful to him.
Because I am gay.
Let's have a toast for the ********** as Kanye once said.
Let's have a toast for homophobes who take women meaninglessly to bed.
meanwhile my meaningless *** only finds meaning in their heads.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
passion wielded is like a flaming sword
stronger than the human body,
quicker than a spoken word…
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 6:56 AM UTC
Right food forward, left follows
Forth by the gravitational pull of his electric eyes
Like a magnetic force
Drawing me in, attracting me,
Influencing my strings, convincing me
I am still the puppeteer.
My hand slips away from the grasp of my rules
It has become busy
Tangled within bows and gift wrappings
First, my tongue.
It parts my lips, drools at the gleam of the sharp blade,
Then, communication falls.
Second, my ripe cherry of purity.
Naked. Peeled. Devoured.
Finally, the puppeteer demands
Take a sledge hammer to the wall.
Reveal the heart once and for all.
Tear it out. Gift wrap it.
Into the emptiness I plummet
Down into the bowel, through the stomach
****** awake by the sinking feeling
Empty room, all truth revealing
Right foot forward, left follows
Forth by the gravitational pull
left by his hollows
Body trapped in in the lingerings of his magnetic field
His electric gaze the portal
Storing the Love Comedy wielded in Horror
Tear out your heart. Gift wrap it.
Place it into his arms
Watch him drop it.
Mouth gaping. No tongue to speak.
Just eyes watching, from above to the side
Out of body out of my mind
I am the puppeteer who tore out my heart
Gift wrapped it with bows
Hypnotically placed it in his arms of doubt
He dropped it.
Severing me from the gravitational pull
Awakening me from my trance to witness
My heart there
Pulsating
Against the cold. Concrete. Floor.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
I knew that eventually you'd hurt me
I knew that I couldn't be friends with a girl
who wielded a knife so loosely
without getting cut a time or two
I assumed they'd be accidental
that you'd just get a little too close
and nick me in the side
but oh how I wish
Even a jab at my arm or stomach
wouldn't have hurt
the way it did
when you stabbed me in the back
disappointment and regret
flowing from me
as I am on my knees
and not even an apology
from the girl with a ****** knife
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC
*Hail to Caesar now, Zeig Heil
Noble Eagle Standard flies,
Schutzstaffel in midnight legion
Disciplined long stabbing knives.
Heil to goose stepped march precision
Noble Eagle Standard soars,
Centurian’s in closed division
Screaming stukas strafe azores.
Fist to leather armour snapping
Stiff arms high in thronged salute,
Hail to Caesar sing the Legions
Zeig Heil Waffen SS brute.
Discipline of Shield defences
Stabbing lances follow swords
Clouds of arrows fill the heaven
Dachau’s ovens roast the hoards.
Winged Aquila flies the column
Wielded high as Roman’s would,
Black and white with red blood running
Swastikas where Jews once stood.
Europe caste in corpses rotting
Women screaming in the land,
Deutsch and Roman locked forever
Destroyers both, in history’s hand.*
Marshalg
In response to Anselm’s “Two Translations”
25 March 2013
On a cool and dry Autumn afternoon.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
take me to Paris, she said through star-filled eyes
through which she couldn't quite see
and his shadow beckoned her delicate hands into the unknown
and when she touched the Eiffel tower it felt almost as cold as his hands had been
when he picked her up from the grass
but she ignored his ice hands
and instead
hummed to the tune
of his contralto voice
even when it raised with every hoarse breath
as it turned to terrifying storms of thunder
she lay in silk as her artist's muse
soft fabric against skin
chills sweeping up her back
goosebumps against her arms
yet she smiled
but she longed to hold the paintbrush and swim amongst the bright colour
when she traipsed across sunset fields
she felt his grip tighten
but she treasured the security
that he wielded
in his rough hands
and when he hit her
it felt like a kiss
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC