It’s lonely here, at the top,
the manure high and much
to shovel; fertilizer on sale
today! My family business,
hauling and distributing animal,
fecal slop – pungent every
route and obligatory stop...
Quite enterprising to make
good use, of what they eat
and freely let loose --
all nature born to recycle --
?~Wonder if the soul resents what it knows,
the scented consumption of bodies kills
what it grows --
knows what it uses (a generation)
to make love and
strife (life the fickle-begetter of life)
leaves from behind such an
odious spice… Clouds form,
sky spits and rains – man eats,
drinks, sh’ts on all mountains,
in seas on rolling plains. Seems,
no-matter what man produces
involves decay and pile of stink --
When God planned His evolving nature,
did He perhaps have occasion to burp, pinch His Nose,
fart and blink?
within tall tower
lie the trappings of power
they charge by the hour
more than idle wish
beyond turmoil and deceit
search for lasting peace
results may vary
when words pursue their quarry
brave soon turn wary
no world famous sleuth
sought the source of lasting truth
within voting booth
life as form letter
deceiving the begetter
is simpler better?
odd things which we do
some people play sudoku
others write haiku
writing what we see
becomes confusing to thee
yet thus will it be
"A Serious Matter" is a free-verse-ish or "loose" villanelle.
A Serious Matter
by Michael R. Burch
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter:
I love you better despite the fetter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
Now even though you’re my chains’ begetter
and keep me your slave with that braless sweater,
I love you better despite the fetter.
You say you’re afraid that you’re getting “fatter,”
but your curves are my lust’s prime aider and abettor.
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
When you come to bed in sheer lace, my thoughts scatter:
first to the firmer, then to the latter.
I love you better despite the fetter.
I love you madder than any hatter.
Listen, love, it’s a serious matter!
Keywords/Tags: villanelle, love, love hurts, mad, madness, slave, slavery, lust, passion, desire, curves, lace, bed, chain, chains, fetter, fetters, ties that bind, mad hatter, madder than a hatter
Father I’ve been a long way from home;
Daddy I’ve finally know where I’d belong;
In you
I do
Belong within the view of you
Your very essence subdue
I’m you
O' FATHER GOD I'M YOU--I AM IN YOU--
The very reason I belong;
Is because I’ve been in spaced
From the universe, energy graced
My purpose and being been all
I am that I am because
I’m part of you I choose to be loved by you
Pa Pa I’ve been walking alone;
Begetter Elohim I’ve finally know where I so begin;
In you
I do
Belonging in the fields of vision
Your very essence quell
I’ve made a conscience decision
I’m you
O' FATHER GOD I'M YOU--I AM IN YOU--
For your very purpose, for your glory;
Created in me your individualize story;
Holy, Is because I’ve been graced
From the universe, energy space
My purpose and being been all
I am that I am cause
I’m part of you I choose to be loved by you
Father I’ve been a long way from home;
Daddy I’ve finally know where I’d belong;
In you
I do
Belong within the view of you
Your very essence subdue
I’m you
O' FATHER GOD I'M YOU--I AM IN YOU--
10/31/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2023©
Tik tok goes the clock
With each set of time
Her energetic vibrant being
turns frail
She who i'll never call by her name
In retrospect,she raged
Against this decadent diabolical world
She raged to give her bairns the best of life,
The tenderness of her infinite love
In equal measure we give our allegiance
Albeit in absence of economic strength
We never went to sleep with growling tummies
Neither did we walked bare and unstitched
And the coldest of the nights went by unperceived
Even in her recurrent nostalgia phase
I still see her
The sailor who weathered the storms for me
The soldier who fought my unseen battles
The angel that brougt tranquility within in the dead of the night
In all eternal divine
Through her brisk and lethargic life
I hold her in my warm embrace
My fourth god
My begetter.
The lump in my throat compelled me to believe.
that once there was a time of festiveness,
which has now turned into a vicious rhythm.
The unrealized desires are reduced to tears,
where the laughter of childhood turned into subdued smiles.
The severance of your own begetter,
aches just like dry spells in a well-plowed field.
One's good spirits become a cage of gloom for the other.
They thought they were emancipating, but who knew they were culminating in something that hadn't even commenced yet.
This is what I am enjoined to be:
Hyphenated !
Bound to vacillate between self-aggrandizement and self-annihilation
I straddle two unrecognizable worlds
only to find solace in none
I am the begetter of my malaise
all made of ungraspable memories and deferred living
Unable to liberate presence from the grips of absence
I dwell on both edges of supposed being
that meanwhile refuse to be reconciled
?for fear that I dare reconstruct my long lost identity
There I stand
a hyphenated land
gazing at imposed images
donning the masks of free choice and self-agency
Unity in Origin Variety in Expression
Under the sky I live
Over the grass I walk
Free air I breathe
Natural water I drink
Nature in me I am in Nature.
At death I get mixed with earth or burnt in fire
Transformed into other elements, get rebirth;
I live perpetually in Nature
Nature in me I am in Nature
I have no existence without it
In natural state it is in equilibrium
Without shortage or surfeit
Nature is Divine
Anything antagonistic to it is anti-divine
I cannot coexist with such entity
I am one with Nature, with it in unity.
One is the unity
Origin of beings and things
The Infinity, the Eternity;
“Ekam Sat Vipra Bahudha Vadanti.”
Variety is the key to earthly life
There cannot be one word
Many are the words
It is the way of life;
True language is as many
As human hearts in happiness or agony
Variety is the vibration of Natural life
Monotony is the begetter of perpetual strife.
(c) Aju Mukhopadhyay, 2021
My Archangel name is Angelo
though I'm not fallen
my favorite color is Indigo
rumors spread and fall in
I was born with a fragmented clavicle
to stop me from flying
so I stay on the earth to be affable
full speed I'm vying
I can't believe what they have said
that I'm the Angel of Death conception
I'm not conscious of what text they've read
I appeared in people's dreams brethren
My name means messenger
which is what I am
forgive my lot begetter
I received the Blood of the Lamb
Honey ... you
Sweet on my tongue
Licorice and almond eyes
Dark hellos, darker goodbyes
Begetter of my sugar rush
Such corporeal candy crush
Thighs and sighs to heaven's hush
Lush, to wonder just how deep
Oh so slowly, tenderly
Love me fast to sleep
Hard sin, saccharine
Very confectionery ...
My Marzipan.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Metaphor Of Love" Poetry Contest, Bobby May, Judge & Sponsor.
Call forth the war
Call forth a cunning shroud of aptitude
Bring down the damnation
Extinguishing the virtuous spender
Thy father of darkness, brightness
Let me call forth the dawn of a new era
Bringing down satire upon the blaspheme
Draining their wretched sublimeness
Build thy father’s tower of the begetter, in submissive
A shield that withstands the hostile ill-natured
Thou shall remain unbreakable, Thou shall remain blistering
For they cannot counter
Thy spirit, thy last breath, thy essence shall not be swallowed by the fury and flames
The scorcher of the skies, the quake of the earth
Let the light you hold glide across the lands
Hear me now and engorge my words, so life of all ether can concord
Upon the heaven gates and upon the magnified perdition
The principle forces that you wield binds are hands creating elasticity
Bringing obedience upon enormous power
Purify the bitterness upon lost souls
To stand free, calling on a brighter invocation
For fiercest queens, the finest pedigree,
Begetter and bestower of all lauds;
For foulest plagues, the fairest remedy,
Despoiler and destroyer of all frauds.
Revered for rectitude, renowned for laurels,
You helped reform the world to honest fame;
Reviled as sinister, renounced on morals,
The world deformed you to mendacious shame.
Now candid trade’s betrayed by blackened graft,
And harmless wit’s harangued by hurtful wile,
And simple skill’s arraigned by compound craft,
And vulgar pride's maintained by vulpine guile.
The grossest lies all get averred for gain
Since humblest truth became impugned and slain.
Sorrow tumbled into words, an antidote
When sobs choked; venom in the throat.
I hear in wrath, again, his disgusting gloat.
Follows, her muffled groans upon each smote.
In a while, she whimpers in an awesome note.
Probably, in pain, bearing his lusty frote.
I lay jack-knifed, as ever, a vain mote.
Tears overflow in such relations of fraught.
An unwanted witness I’ve been, still zygote.
Begetter that blessed me with love drought!
Who cares? My soul long for draught.
No more! I’m tired of being the scapegoat.
I pray to thee, free us of this cutthroat.
In time please, send us thy lifeboat!
Date:17/06/16
Placed 10 for contest Desperate Housewife by Poet Destroyer A (2/07/16)
Placed 2 for contest Sadness by Silent One (11/02/17)
I accuse..... Part 2
My parents who instructed me,and to the letter follow
Kneel only to God,to people never my head bow
I was next line to promotion yet rebuffed to kowtow
Long stagnated and ached my way to elbow
My wife who spent elongated years galore
Taming an old curved rusty nail and implore
God I cease minding the home business no more
Her undisputed realm and sovereignty restore
My offspring who at meal times would engage
In heat,intensive debate and seek to enrage
Their begetter who on them conferred archery
Yet shot me once they attained full mastery
Yet could medication be of any use
To what a whole epoch has abused ?
Abdelwaheb Dhaou.
Villanelle : Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
No not all the tasters of Isphaha can patch it back whole
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
Poetasters all to echolalia Babel be haunted gone
Where words will sour and curdle in a soup bowl
Bequeath not an image which isn’t wholly your own
No patchy poet’s torn image can verily be sewn
Whose poems cannot own up to an innate soul
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
Who says poets are not to the calling be yet re-born
Which mewling mumbler hacked his way to the goal
Bequeath not an image which isn’t wholly your own
The easiest persona is still the begetter of the poem
Words strung in any old order fit well into any old hole
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
No treasure equal to a people’s spirit anyone disown
The fearless voices of a people’s pain the world console
Bequeath not an image which is not wholly your own
Living did you your true voice with packs of lies loan
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
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