would you trust anachronistic revitalization by youthful tastelessness ?
underline your forgotten manipulability
in ripped knitwork or
delineate godlike bedding from nympho childlessness ;
paralyze and mummify our preteenager psychopathy
with predetermined celiocentesis .
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 13–19, 2026)
never be anachronistic !
trust your goodly nature
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 13–19, 2026)
CONVEYING VITALITY-:-
universal
laments
shadow
individual
motifs
of FLEEING FORTUNES
endure
wearisome
struggles
engaging
existence
within OUR NATURES
occupying
burgeoning
themed
anachronistic
scenes
No comfort for the stickler, sticking literary fixtures depicting conflicting inklings to their minds as perfect pictures.
With one stroke of my pen the standards rose again and damned be lesser men.
As the pros of prose impose and profess, chaos needs redress.
For I, who's distress you must address, now cower and cleanse this mess, confess my prowess only serves to impress all reason to, "stop the press".
Anachronistic the measure of their metric, imperialistic so the eccentric can spiral in tantric concentric circlejerks.
Central to themselves, it works.
The stench of sh!t, a rose by any other name, smeared with effluent smirks.
With all due respect you may cling to the historic.
If you wish to press/play, I will lay waste.
I'm not here to copy/paste.
The past won't be replaced, though clearly trampled and retraced.
Finding you're fittingly faced with chagrin laden grimace feeding bitter distaste.
Thou is to doth o'er and o'er, as men of the cloth in unrestrained glory.
Touting the gospel loudly and poorly, wholly unaware it's a fairytale story.
In the shadow of time, the soul finds solace,
We wonder why the years lay down in silence,
Why we remain closed, like birds refusing flight,
Seeking hidden meaning in the language of flowers toward the sun.
We close ourselves, like old, forgotten books,
Misunderstood by time, which watches with cold eyes,
We, who love words, are lost,
Searching for ourselves in every verse written with hope.
Perhaps in losing, we will discover the pure essence,
That something which makes us eternal, beyond time,
In a world where souls flow like rivers,
Leaving behind only the longing for what might have been.
If only we had the courage to lose ourselves completely,
To surrender to the wind whispering secrets,
A wind that calls us to embrace fragility,
To lose ourselves to find ourselves whole.
Perhaps only then, carried by the waves of the unknown,
We will understand the true freedom of being,
Carving our path among the dancing stars,
Carrying us to places where memories become real.
There, poets always find their place,
Even when the world no longer believes,
In their songs, forever anachronistic,
Obsolete, yet permanently contemporaneous.
A woman hangs on my parlor wall
Perched Precariously in her picture frame,
A garish feather placed upon the hat upon her head
Her dress, a ruby red, ruby red.
Cobwebs kiss her ivory face-
Spiderweb cracks trace her glass eyes and porcelain nose.
A mouse or a moth chewed a hole in her side
Anachronistic blue tape hides the embarrassing blemish with a worse one.
The children who scamper through the halls of the old house like painting eating mice-
Make up ghost stories about her.
“She was murdered by her husband”
“She was poisoned by her maid”
“They say she walks these very halls…”
“Waiting..”
“No..”
“Hunting.”
I watch the painting day and night
Perched in the same chair,
Nothing to wait for
Nothing to want.
I Whisper in the children’s ears as they pass me by-
Although they never hear
She is here, she is here.
Poems come in all shapes and sizes
Forms and formats, types, and themes
Comes a question that invariably arises
What about mere consciousness streams?
Must all poems have rhythm and rhyme?
I’ve seen collections of words appearing
Which require inordinate study over time,
Never revealing any message endearing.
I asked the poet, “What does this mean?”
“What are you saying?” --worthy of space?
Precisely what is the lesson I can glean?
And the poet will tell me, to save face,
“A brand-new form, I call it ‘modernistic’”
Poetry, to be sure, but incredibly obscure
I would not hesitate to label it anachronistic,
For I’ve never seen anything like it before!
Written October 16, 2022
It is said that the world is quite strong.
When we both agreed, we were wrong.
But systemic risk leads to a spare call.
And it makes life hazy, as we shall.
When weak surfeit fulfills incisive inquiry,
the diction is made utterly dull and wiry.
Implied options for a farewell gathering
The effect is similar to lathering.
A dreadful jester with mixed craziness.
When guilt clouds your eyesight, haziness
A genuine illusion and a shaky submission
You are vigilant in the face of recognition
Lacking a faithful foe as a recent symbol,
To a mindset that is wrong at its core.
For the moral majority, act proudly humble,
to develop skills in each particular sector.
While skilled amateurs and realistic untaught,
assist fetch harmony to the dissonance.
This reliable test incites calm unthought.
That is aimed straight at the outer imminence.
It requires steadfast cynicism and rustic grace,
so as to withstand this negative preening.
And sway away from school without a trace,
to allow the word "normal" a fresh meaning.
Written: September 29, 2022
Decreased dissension
grudgingly did abate
unclouded protests trumpet
Trump to abdicate
irrefutable proof generates
activist voices to accumulate
linkedin over Green Party
blessedly to administrate
hoop fully figurative tide
will turn and aerate
political atmosphere whereby
progressive minds will affiliate
otherwise business as usual,
cuz spewing deadly particulate
will only aggravate
dire straits, where
webbed wide world series
of unfortunate events will airdate
prophetic apocalyptic fate
especially if nonprogressive
stodgy commander in chief re-elected
flush with bigotry and hate
increased chance (chants) ripe state
for revolution avast swath
of population to amalgamate,
and overthrow anachronistic government
absolute zero survival unless dramatic
nondestructive strategy eschewed
to supplant exploitation and mandate
radical transformation, which dramatic
shift off grid if lucky requisite
Earth friendly manufacturing
can possibly ameliorate.
Last Names
by Edmund Siejka
Whenever I meet someone
At a party, a restaurant or in line at a store
And the conversation turns to last names
I respond politely
When they ask
What nationality is that?
The question strikes me as anachronistic
Like how old were you when you were born?
For some of us
The spelling and pronunciation
Of our last names can be challenging
Harboring a jumble of
Consonants and vowels
Without rules
But we need to remember
That each last name has a proud past
And each name has a future.
If rudely pressed for an explanation
I sometimes describe my last name as “American”
Clearly stating
That my great grandparents immigrated from Europe
Over a hundred fifty years ago
And we’ve been here ever since.
In this day of fluid identities
My answer seems somewhat vague and evasive
And occasionally met with arched eyebrows
From people I hardly know
But it stops them from asking additional questions
As I feel under no obligation to say more
After all
Didn’t we all come from somewhere else?
I come before you, humble and contrite,
deaf from your thunder, sightless from your bolts.
You rage, but frankly it’s a downright
anachronistic in this day - the volts,
the decibels, all of these fireworks
are for a newbie, not for someone who
once looked inside your mystery black box
and made a plain and obvious breakthrough:
we do not differ, you and me. The same
blue eyes, short beard, marital status, age,
surname, forename and patronymic name
and tendency to fall into a rage
about nothing… So, please, abate
your fury, put aside your thundering rod,
absolve me of my sins, elucidate
your plan about me and date me, God.
I drop my guard and rabble raps my door
Which welcomes no anachronistic arrays
To dampen the mood on my floor.
I watch on the beach as she reaches the shore
Where in remorse for me she prays
Cos I drop my guard and rabble raps my door.
Next, deep recesses in my mind roar
When on my heart spirituality she sprays
To dampen the mood on my floor.
I pick myself up although I feel sore
Gladys, by dint of pleas, my fears allays
As I drop my guard and rabble raps my door.
In a twist of fate, I dig deep into my stamina store
Hoping my reluctance Gladys no more waylays
To dampen the mood on my floor.
Tired but fired up, I opt to organise the cheesy chore
When in the end Gladys my silence slays
As I drop my guard and rabble raps my door
To dampen the mood on my floor.
Reminds many of Adam
Some of anatomy
Some of botany
Some of iPhone
Some of Steve Jobs
Some of etymology,
But Newton of the why
And that’s phenomenology!
— Ram, R. V.
All
things made
yesterday
are too clunky:
phones and computers,
cars and televisions,
ships, airplanes and satellites,
huge machines that human hands created.
Now technology is evolving;
is God also an anachronistic?
Written on 7/25/2016
-- Just a bit of silliness --
"Baissez le rideau, la farce est jouee..."
---- Daumier
39 & 1/2 days had passed;
the rain had lessened.
Noah, grungy and grumpy,
paced the wet deck
like a caged Lion of Judah.
Reading the Odyssey by blubber-light,
Jonah, a free-thinker, cruised
in his whale below; he marveled,
captainishly, carefully pronouncing
the unfamiliar Greek, an uninvented
tongue he couldn't speak.
Ham, an adherent to all the dietary
restrictions, was relieved
at the journey's almost-close.
Consultation of the Holy Books
had proved he wasn't kosher
and, therefore, could not be served.
Still, Shem and Japhet eyed him oddly.
They had a lean and hungry look.
The wives, sensible lot,
cleaned the kennels, did the chores
and tried to keep an even keel
in the anachronistic mess.
They drifted onward,
tired of fishing fruitless waters,
doubtful now of being made
fishers of men.
All things considered, it was
a perfectly normal situation:
men were mystics
and women staid and sturdy workers.
And yet, Ararat, still beneath the waters,
may not have been the only futuristic
structure in this grey, flat
seascape.
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