"wrangles" poems
Kudos to Kaepernick.
I just cannot drown all my beliefs and ideas, even if it contradicts my flesh and soul. When I heard that not standing up to the tune; that has always succeeded on sweeping all of the messes underneath the sad reality, to be deemed as subversive, I know that Rosa would definitely clench onto the seat tighter than ever.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
To drag our body out there, all over the precious hills and fields, while acting as if the scale has always been set fairly beneath you all this time, will hurt you more than myself. How can a mere matter of things decide our future, our destiny? We shall shape our fate, you shall shape your own fate, and to be judged on the perception biasedly built in the name of order for thousands of years, is a situation that should not be endured by anyone or anything in a tiny dot within this vast universe.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
And for that, I cannot stand proudly and profess my love to you as of now, even though I will always wear my heart on my sleeve for you to see. To be cheated, to be manipulated, to be deemed as surplus, by those at the tip of the plateau, that cunningly asked us to forget all the tangles and wrangles for the love of this sacred land, while unashamedly distribute everything off the land, off the ocean amongst them, is the last thing that we should allow to happen. I am one of those people that are not able to put on the mask on top of our meant-to-be honest faces, to say hail to the thief is worse than the eternal grief. I have never dreamed of burying the hatchet with them, not even for a second and if I ever do it, I shall be condemned and dismissed for forgetting the roots, the fons et origo of mine. To love you does not mean to stand still to the soulless melodies, to love you does not mean to bow down to the meaningless piece of cloth that has overseen countless infiltration and bombing over the years.
Kneel, my friend, kneel.
To love you is to fight for the rights of many, by any means, even by not standing up. When black is no longer the symbol of miserable, filth and calamity, we shall then breath with ease, stand on our feet and fully embrace the real meaning behind all those majestic words.
Kudos to Kaepernick.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
Go, Soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity
And virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing—
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing—
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can ****
3.5k
Life it's just a boardgame
But it comes without instruction
There's happiness joy
Devastation corruption
Good days sad days
Cruel ways crime that pays
Gotta learn the rules fast
Play the game
Make it last
If you wana be a winner
Got more chance as a sinner
The games hard can't be slow
You'll Learn more as you go
There's pleasure treasure
Love we can't measure
Politics religion
Prostitutes and virgins
Special occasions
No order in the nations
Good intentions
Wrong interpretations
Wrangles scandals
******** n vandals
Temptation resistance
Council tax insistence
Birthdays holidays
Cruel ways crime that pays
Gotta learn the rules fast
Play the game make it last !
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
THE MOUTH of this man is a gaunt strong mouth.
The head of this man is a gaunt strong head.
The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians.
The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans,
Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown.
The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt,
Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness
Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof.
Brother mystery to man and mob mystery,
Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands,
He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people.
The heart of him the red drops of the people,
The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people.
Humble dust of a wheel-worn road,
Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow,
These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd.
The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many.
It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
2.3k
*step this side..
no, you.. that side!
in a line, in a line.. quiet now – get ready for fire.. no miss!
please line up the children in neat rows, get them ready…………………..*
1.
eyes are misted over – something happened in the gap
hooking-up strangely with estranged sons lost in custodial-wrangles
alienated values;
family-core defunct like a super-shiny apple with putrescent-flesh
long-beard wants a son after so many daughters, sits unwashed in the smoke
gender-penalty – sorry, sister.. you chose the wrong straw
you remain in that cage till we say come out
2.
bread-basket filled with stealth-grenades
rights and benefits squirm in slick-oil of rules
peasant skirting the limits of the city; even rats fare better
cloak of goat-skin, the shield hides serpents beneath
the hunter will aim for the head, land in the centre..
yet an inch or two too high
sentry, close the gates and bar the window-frames!
3.
inadvertent greed and control; aggressive power
news-man dies for feed that’s untrue, anyway
picture-man twists an image to suit the viewer
all kinds of lines disappear so quick – ****** jokes, theatre, life, even poems
and if you’ve never had the sad combo of sick and homeless,
famished and cold,
tired with sores
oh, war will be courteous enough to bring you all these, on a platter
and more..
*there is no border when we all roam in hunger and in fear
like the orphans in crowded-camps
high-rankers sit far away.. ominously "well-off"
chew on hard-cheese
gulp down red wine
but the throat still feels parched, and that bayonet is too short
its fear will kick in.. on a day least anticipated
would you be shocked if it is a child who will drive that wedge-stick home?*
st – 14 march 2014
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
The gaunt brown walls
Look infinite in their decent meanness.
There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,
The fulsome fire.
The atmosphere
Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.
Dressings and lint on the long, lean table--
Whom are they for?
The patients yawn,
Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.
A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.
It's grim and strange.
Far footfalls clank.
The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.
My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .
O, a gruesome world!
2.1k
This country's being privatized
By politicians using private eyes
Manipulating through public lies
And their hate filled cries
The question becomes a stark why
We ask the dark unwise
Driving us to laced dimes
Or writing ****** rhymes
Love is the answer I surmise
Nobody else buys
Emotions have no value in the marketplace
Unless you're of a certain race
That reminds them of themself
Then they're more likely to share their wealth
We need more than paper *****
To tear down these paper walls
The order becomes too tall
When we apply an objective concept (currency)
To a subjective principle (value)
Our ideas of value get tangled
Our empathy is mangled
Our discourse becomes angled
Discussions turn to wrangles
And cats are bred Bengal
As our domestic lives
Never left the jungle
But there's always a rumble
Regimes always tumble
Humanity continues to stumble
Earth's health starts to fumble
Molesting the planet like a creepy uncle
Until we see our follies unfold
Then will we be so bold
To say we can do it on our own?
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
The owl and the pussycat came home from sea,
Their boat had finished its course.
The cat took the honey, and most of the money,
Then filed a suit for divorce.
The owl had a hard time finding a brief,
But the pussycat had it made.
For you see the poor owl was a ripped-off old fowl,
But the cat got feline aid.
They argued away, for a year and a day,
In court, where they made a fine show.
Till the owl, said he, would better off be
In the land where the **** trees grow.
He was asked, “Are you willing to sell for a shilling
Your share of the boat and guitar?”
Then after long wrangles and tough legal tangles,
The owl and his brief said, “We are.”
So the owl and the pussycat went their own ways,
The cat left dancing a jig.
She hopped on a plane and got married again,
And the owl went to live with the pig.
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
I wonder if she can chalk her hollow face
Sometimes her plumage wrangles in indisposition
Like Cormorants lacking buoyancy with a sea breeze
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
Column by column the legions' feet
march disciplined down Watling Street,
followed by rumbling carts and grumbling
stragglers leaving villas crumbling.
To Rome to save the imperial home,
making Britain an enterprise zone
for Saxons, Vikings, Celts and Angles,
savage battles and local wrangles.
Weeds weave tapestry around a tomb.
Dust encrusts a silent Roman room.
Mosaics stare at the rotted roof.
Painted plaster falls, jigsaw proof.
Perhaps when shopping centres fail,
and motor cars no more prevail,
when wattle homes are reinvented,
then thinking time will be augmented.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Praised by a drunkard,
Just when my craving for respect,
From Oprah, Obama or
The Queen,
Seems to be all the appreciation I need,
She,
Walks in,
Demanding demurely, hand
Held out, just
Two sticks.
Her praise almost makes me cry –
she is so dignified
tight dress not too
tight, just so –
Fabulous shades she says, glasses I reply.
Everybody needs words of encouragement sometime,
And she wrangles,
A full pack of cigarettes from me,
Between my shopping list, a burgundy coloured,
Brandy glass and,
An Orange Juice,
Placed just so,
Always good practise to keep a spare,
Packet of cigarettes in the car.
I am still laughing.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
Watch me bear
Face deep for forethought
Left at the doorstop
Because fear wrangles
What present thought can't CANT grasp
This eternal emotion
This this human commotion
So (please) don't be afraid to say love
If it's for me
Whether it's cried for tomorrow
Or a breath unto yesterday
I'll hear
And I'll read you
Because your body's a novel
Let me take in every page
Every word
And the visually modulating trademark of autumn
Now lacks monotonality
Since forgetting myself in a kiss
But isn't that the point?
When love's white as fire
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Told of a Übermensch
Und obwohl ich bin nicht der Übermensch
Vielleicht kann ich deinen sein
I can't stop and won't
Unless you want me to
Because for you
I'd hopscotch heartstrings
And crisscross cardiacs
Because all I want
Is you to be happy
(and maybe a little bit naked)
Because you mean more to me than letters mean to words
Than stars mean to sky
And if I Neruda a poem
Will you Fitzgerald a novel
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
*in the house of poems
there are no words
only sheaths of rapture
color and puzzle cutouts
on an empty table
mute
composed of shadow thin
aching smoke ghosts
desires
aphotic and tender
twisting souls in labyrinths lurid
*** shake sweet inky *******
that turn earth
to pleasure domes
and shadows
like cimmerian children
in harsh judgment
******* on
purple night shade candies
burning incense and black candles
uncrossing energies foreboding
while subterranean crystals
refract burnished glows
pulsing blood diamonds
in sacred heart manias
throb with warm breathy kisses
on plates of ash
engulfing
a terrace of pink flickering tongues
drooling and biting
that turn mere pleasure
into inflammations of ecstasy
oozing creme de menthe saliva
where souls levitate and flutter
on bilious stained beds
copulating
being impregnated with verse
smelling of warm **** cauldron
fetuses curl
in their little crib's
and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles
afterbirths purged
poems emerge
like sand bars and palm tree islands
from
sopping woven tunnels
and
caress upturned poetic posteriors
dancing in glitter frilly word tutus
while torrid confessions
dreaded breakdowns
and resurrections
dress themselves in garments
of language re-pleat
quickened by eloquence
in the house of poems*
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
You sure ain't got nothing when
you're in love with every lady
you meet while there's leaves between
your toes that are spread around
the street.
The boy wrangles in anger
but mostly just helplessly
until the snow fall crystallizes
the earth and makes all wind
northern blown.
Sisters scratch and hiss over
dresses stitched in 1666 while
hiding in a black lit room, texting
and making sure their attacks only
make others' dooms
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
In the house of poems
there are no words
only sheaths of rapture
color and puzzle cutouts
on an empty table
mute
composed of shadow thin
aching smoke ghosts
desires
aphotic and tender
twisting souls in labyrinths lurid
*** shake sweet inky *******
that turn earth
to pleasure domes
and shadows
like cimmerian children
in harsh judgment
******* on
purple night shade candies
burning incense and black candles
uncrossing energies foreboding
while subterranean crystals
refract burnished glows
pulsing blood diamonds
in sacred heart manias
throb with warm breathy kisses
on plates of ash
engulfing
a terrace of pink flickering tongues
drooling and biting
that turn mere pleasure
into inflammations of ecstasy
oozing creme de menthe saliva
where souls levitate and flutter
on bilious stained beds
copulating
being impregnated with verse
smelling of warm **** cauldron
fetuses curl
in their little crib's
and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles
afterbirths purged
poems emerge
like sand bars and palm tree islands
from
sopping woven tunnels
and
flow stone stalactites
as pink ballet pastries
with architected calves
caress upturned posteriors
dancing in glitter frilly word tutus
while torrid confessions
dreaded breakdowns
and resurrections
dress themselves in garments
of language re-pleat
quickened by eloquence
in the house of poems
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 4:18 AM UTC
Oh you the daughter of eve,
Sister of mine, let's not discuss
about pain tonight. Eminence of
you can't be undermined. You, the
centre of existence. Masked by
indifference, an epitome of love
hidden behind. Your skin's golden
hues, sun can't hold a candle to.
Beguiling is your pensive face.
Your serenity envied by the doves.
Supplications - your words,
reverbrating the court above.
With a lioness gait, you crush
that dismay. Wear valor as
your cacoon. Your mesmerizing
aura, like a magical spell.
Your trust, a life to barren dreams.
You, a panacea to everything.
Your gentleness belying your
strength. Farther are the fears,
trembling with awe. Untethered by
critique, are your abilities. You,
a versatile being. Who wrangles
with you, is perplexed by his inner
disputes. Who abondons you, destiny
desolates him too. Worries that
occupied, were they worthwhile?
You as delicate as beetle's wing
Stooping with burden? That's not
your thing. Never accede to that
degrades your esteem, for you are
a fairy of dreams. You, the crown
of a king. You, a goddess of life,
this world but a slave of thine.
Mark my words. Even if I depart.
I believe you are mashal to
your darkest path.
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 5:52 AM UTC