Semi-longed-about tales that rip apart the holiest grails, and shower the besmirched with real gold who knows how much silver is with that gold! A coppery patina is all over the copper plates they are dated Egyptian and seen much waste, yet why do you not ask the river bend? When friends are coming and money spent? Does the sleek shimmer in the night, conjure ghosts which oft delight? Does the sun upon daybreak curse the puppy small the meals disbursed? The river aims not true north as the north star plays on lyres striking lightening bolts on open paidby waitlocks on other staves.
A Soul besmirched of its might;
Pummeled into the abyss,
A disconsolate plight;
Left with void, with butchered bliss,
Ostracized, by its own allies;
For now their fidelity surely dallies;
Oh! The revered one, what lures me behind
Show me the path, I shall grind
Forbade my blasphemous thoughts,
Reverberate my echo, to a thousand knots!
Once a connoisseur, with grandeur and glory
Now, an abdicator with a story
The molestors of the innocents..Are predators, child abusers vile and disgusting ' i have forwarded the term
pred o viles.) Not the current term in ( drainstream media over-use.') Also being
Used on independant pod-casts..)
The term is more suited to Jesus..! It makes
Me boil up to see how so many re-gurgitate the bait, that was intended to be
In common use by now..They tell you a word..A plan.? Before its in force.' If you use the term p-aedo'phile...You need to learn more ( about psyops ) do some re-search and stop being a helpfull fool.?
All blessings I am not angry with you..' I
Just ask you do due dilligence.)
It sat with double doors propped open
inviting the poor, the sad, the broken
Its dusty shelves stuffed and sated
with objects – some fresh, others dated
I carried my dreams with heavy arms
formerly dazzling magical charms
Now in tattered cardboard boxes
a life in unresolved paradoxes
Prized possessions, cherished memories
adored as luxurious shiny accessories
Their worth besmirched and unfamiliar
traded for coins of gold and silver.
Dust laden window grilles,
Lime scales on the shower door.
Detritus below the fragmented doors,
Commiserating the saudade and furor.
Blackened cushions besmirched with dirt,
dusty sheath peeping thru sleek curtain pleats.
Scalloped valance swaying and bewailing in silent grief.
Scattered around are the pages of the brief.
Culaccino marks on the table,
Shriveled up and dried plants silently standing in a row,
A zestful soiree, which took away all the glow long ago!
liberating...
the recognition
of a job well done;
infinitely more worthy
than any trophy.
a chef's kiss explosion
at the realization
that an accomplishment
is, at last, celebrated
that one crying for help
is seen and heard
that one is enough
for the Lord
notwithstanding
walking with feet of clay
ain't it grand...
one soul -
out of a billion -
knowing
how bright another shines?
isn't it a blessing
that he or she sees
the spark
of the besmirched gem
deep within
when the universe remains
hopelessly blind?
it's an answered prayer.
A Sonnet Without A Usage,
Doth not this piercing soul go down
with timeless songs unsung by you?
Besmirched like coal this old clown
feels singed, moreover feeling blue
Fork the mile come to my rescue
deliver joy to me beloved one
Suitor of my core, I love you
more then time more than sun
Nucleus of my dreams come hither
for this old buffoon needs your smile
you know he wishes not to wither
seared but un-scorched he is defiled
Oh Edith love, refuse me not
this old fool still thinks your hot!
not for contest
The girl with the looking glass
Is walking down the stairs
Daintly steps,happy lass
A girl with zero cares
The girl tumbles down
The scene a little sad
Knees hurt, torn gown
Away goes the joy she had
The girl with the looking glass
Happy as the sun
Is besmirched with the event past
Lips brushed,all happiness gone
The girl with the looking glass
Is cursed with the fate of a broken glass
To Sir,
or Whoever Runs the Universe:
I’m here to say
your vision appears flawed
your choices bewildering and sad,
The pure besmirched,
The good disparaged as but fools,
and the precious,
oh so precious,
Young of youth, lying dead,
captured in war-for-profit
Fallen amidst a distant country’s
ruin.
Please explain,
Explain, please, Please do:
Those white-haired plastic men
ego-triumph-ant, contests winning won,
with cameras flashing on wide smiles,
reporters reporting them.
Men who step quite meticulous and careful
over smoldering city ruins
dodging honor love faith and grief.
Grief spilled upon ground
stained dark red
spilled and soiled deep
deep very deep
upon the earth upon mothers’ hearts.
Your vision Sir,
perhaps opaque?
Your foresight limited in dim light?
Or, perhaps a game bizarre you play,
with rules chameleon drawn?
Oh pray, Sirrr,
pray please do tell,
keep not silent
do tell do tell
Why men forget to be
What once
they promised truly true…
Once upon a time
they promised,
but alas, forgot to be.
Sir! You Have Besmirched the Good Name Of My Pangolin
Nothing can be the same now -
before the recent pandemic
my companion Pangolin
Boris and I,
were carefree,
and happily plying our trade
as chimney sweeps in Siberia,
but since the ‘great lie’
we dare not show our faces
in any town or city,
for they have labeled Boris; a good, kind,
not too gentle creature
as a SPREADER'!
O the calumny. the infamy the inaccuracy!
Now our only recourse
is to have him dress up as an Anteater
and move to Bolivia.
I lie bedraggled, disheveled,
scrunched up and crinkled,
in a pile,
like ratty raggedy
rag doll,
besmirched,
defiled and exiled,
for being a
spineless,
limp
wimp.
In a land far, far away,
Where courtrooms were made of clay,
The judge and jury were but mere puppets,
Dancing to the tune of the media's trumpets.
The accused was brought forth to stand,
His fate already sealed by the press's hand,
Guilty before trial, his name besmirched,
His reputation tarnished, his future smirched.
The trial was but a formality,
A charade for the masses to see,
The verdict was predetermined, the outcome set,
Justice was but a thing to forget.
The media, the true judge and jury,
Wielded power, a dangerous fury,
With their words they could make or break,
A man's life, with a single mistake.
So be warned, all those who tread,
In the court of public opinion led,
For the media's pen is mightier than the sword,
And their verdict, the final word.
One day in lonely alleyway
a stranger sauntered with a sway
Among the stash of smelly trash
laid a framed canvas smeared with ash.
Looking at it he had a hunch
that the thing might be worth a bunch
so, he took it to an art shop
next to the old, battered bus stop.
With gentle care, the artist brushed
as stranger looked intent and hushed.
The dislodged ash revealed a trace
which proved to be a father’s face.
When the restorer’s work was done,
the pair beheld with faces stunned
the father looking at his son
with a forgiveness heaven-spun.
The painting was a masterpiece
the kind that’s lent on short-term lease
or sold at auction for a price
set high the wealthy to entice.
The muck diminished not its worth,
priceless it was though smeared by earth.
A parable of human life
besmirched by sin, sullied by strife.
Judge not a soul by outward look,
as some are wont to do a book.
Human life is of matchless worth,
because of God who gave them birth.
Blemished
She lives with dishonour;
Besmirched
With hate, she’s surrounded
Broken-down
Her fate was thrown into darkness.
She is the mother of evil
A scum-bag of a woman
A lowlife
A rotter
She deserves death;
An eye for an eye.
In response to the mother who abused and starved her one-year-old son until he suffered a ‘horrific’ death, then sobbed about it on Facebook.
Tonika Willoughby, 28, is said to have inflicted appalling and ultimately fatal cruelty on her toddler over an extended period of time, which culminated in his death at her home in Labadieville, Louisiana, on November 9. 2020
A Facebook page that appears to belong to Willoughby
She posted: ‘November 09, 2020, is.
Da worst day of mah life,’ on the day of the toddler’s death.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Your holiday in Italy
Has besmirched your legacy.
Your Cantos, they plead,
But don’t exonerate,
Not as far as I can see.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Did praise from Hemingway
Whet your narcissistic thirst?
As an ex-pat abroad,
Did you assimilate
What enlightened nations curse?
Dear Mr. Pound,
You made Il Duce smile.
There’s evidence that proves it.
Was your Republic of Utopia
Bi-polar by design?
Or was it simply hubris?
Dear Mr. Pound,
You strain my intellect
With your imagery of life,
And turn my conscience
Hard on itself
With a keen, dissecting knife.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Your lyrics sing to me,
But your politics offend.
You peddled fascist ideology.
If you want my true opinion,
I refuse to condescend.
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