What is life?
Euphonies, cacophonies and chromosomal anomalies
intertangled destinies and illusive methodologies
Occurring in obscure dimensionless time
Millenniums fertilized to create the sublime
Perceived by ideations so pure it would seem
To exist beyond mind and to all in between.
Lingering as lore to an all distant past
There is no redo, there is no redraft.
The questions, the answers so rightly proclaimed
are composed and transported by thoughts still unnamed.
In limited struggle, the moments unspent
Become the result of a living lament.
In what and wherefore and why and with whom
we unwrap our existence in this paradoxical womb
Can we find meaning, a clear sign that we see
inclusive to all, this existential decree.
From naught made of all and conceived in a star,
we landed on earth, neither near nor afar
For reasons unknown and telegnosis unclear,
These salient projections are all jockeyed by fear
We stand in the way of unknowing surmise
And find the world is still much a surprise.
A quest overwhelming in distressed sanity
For answers not known play havoc to vanity.
To end these remarks with a questionable phrase
all becomes known in 'one of these days.'
From the moment of birth to when we die, life presents us with dilemmas and questions that amuse, titillate and confuse us. As we get older, we realize that what we thought we knew was all pure conjecture. This poem is meant to reflect the myriad of disjointed thoughts that have run through my mind throughout the years. The "why me?" and "what is my purpose in life?" questions usually are met with ambiguity and incoherence.
Many of us are beleaguered with these conceits and although some find solace in religion, for people like me it becomes an existential never ending struggle.
Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013
Violet, a lovely lady, kin to Purple, can be a contradiction.
Between her fellows Red and Blue (yet more inclined to Blue),
she lies with a calm passion! Unique and unconventional is she!
A symbol of humility, through the ages she has listened to confessions
as she draped the shoulders of Roman Catholic priests.
Yet often in society, she’s been seen as extravagant and vain!
Just for having embellished the rooms and the attire
of monarchs, emperors, and princes,
and just because Violet is flattering to the yellow found in gold,
should she then be punished for her wealth of beauty?
Should her shades with other lovely names such as
Lilac, Lavender, Amethyst, and Mauve
be seen in any other way as simply gorgeous?
Perhaps for her ambiguity as she shifts to deeper reddish hues
then back to cool blue, she is perceived in western culture
as uncertain and ambivalent, for she is not popular with the masses.
Van Gogh, however, understood her,
painting her as irises and showing her in swirls of stars!
And in the oriental world, where she is extolled,
she radiates the sublime harmony of the universe,
as the melding of the yin and yang of red and blue.
Violet, who sometimes spreads herself splendidly
across the twilight skies
and peeks out from rainbows,
is a beauty so rarely seen in nature
that the birds, stones and plants that she enchants
are not even too numerous to name.
Have you seen her purple pearl or coral in the sea?
Have you heard the song of African violet-backed starlings?
But oh! Violet loves flowers. . . Besides her small sweet namesake,
She colors crocuses, petunias, asters, geraniums and pansies.
Not many other things in nature does Violet cling to,
yet she adores the grape and plum,
and with a certain whimsy, she’s charmed purple cabbage,
the turnip, eggplant, and beets!
Rare lady in nature, Violet, my adored, why is it that you are not more loved?
As I cross a field of lavender and breathe you in, the answer to my question
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainess risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good!"
Written December 29th, 2015
For me Poetry is food for the mind, sometimes it is an appetizer to whet the appetite, or it can be full course meal that takes a while to digest. Other times it can be a sweet desert that tantalizes the senses. I hope this piece offers some mental engagement and nourishment.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
In their dreams…
Whisper indoctrinated dialect
Upon my harrowing song
Remove that scented, plastic tulip
Place it upon my oblivious palm
As if we’re in a Sadie Hawkins dance
With petal currencies
I woke up only feeling like a thousand bucks.
A foreign knock-off made of recycled, rubber bolts
Tell me I’m priceless with borrowed, high-interest breaths
Liquidate my potent complacency
To become that symbol of an elitist humanity
Stroke that clouded, diamond tip
With your sensual thumb
Love stamps of approval
After 6 months of quickie penetration
And co-signatures on dilapidated apartment leases
Take me to our creator!
Tell Him I am free!!!
I will stand here in virtual observance!
Wait, where are you going?
Come back to me!
COME BACK TO ME!
My wheelchair’s batteries are fading!
How will I stand?!
Sadly, they never validated their reality…
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
A sprinkle of sage enhances the flavour of rice
A sage enhances the flavour of life.
A Tribute to Brian Strand
Written: December 30, 2009
An Emily:is a 2(or sometimes 3) line paradox form of poetry created by Brian Strand
(labelled thus, inspired by Emily Dickinson poem 1732).It may or may not have a title,uses a
word with separate meanings,(or one that sounds the same,with a different spelling) with the
intention to mean several things; thereby, to enhance the thought's ambiguity/enigma.
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2009
Dark thoughts emerging from a lifeless spirit,
a wandering ship sinking into the remotest depths;
denying itself reality and its sense of comfort...
and was ever there a lighthouse to disperse its darkness?
A captain stirring his erring ship,amid furious waves,
for an imminent and fierce war,
not noticing the making of its destiny...
fighting unnecessary battles of ambiguity,
hoping that luck would bring it safely ashore;
even a small island was hidden from his gaze!
An unwise listener would not take advice from anybody,
he didn't reject it embracing his own vulnerability;
a good decision that didn't imply a cost...
would he ever been discouraged or lost?
For uncountable years, this eager sea-man,
resisted and spoiled many pleasures for victory...
freezing time to avoid another tragedy
with a perception so sharp to defy anyone's will!
And did he deserve the harshest judgment
from others, who were pleased with their fate?
Loneliness was chosen by him
for unequivocal reasons and he craved it
like the bitterest, strongest wine
to make him strong and invincible...
nothing swayed him from his pride
to obtain that impossible goal!
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2008
To stand ever resolute
Amongst perpetual ambiguity
That slowly expends me
When I am not vigilant
If I have firmly decided
To walk that razors edge
Where the vile assail me
Allow me the shield
Of His name
Where I will ever feel
Copyright © Charles Fuller | Year Posted 2008
Letters of the alphabet,
By themselves are but harmless shapes
Of ink or graphite or digital information,
(Placed in ordered variations of ones and zeros),
But when combined in specific patterns and placement and propriety,
Become the most powerful weapons and tools known to humanity.
How many countless lives have been changed, worsened, improved,
Manipulated, darkened, brightened, ended, or even BEGUN,
As a result of their use by an intelligent mind and deft writing implement?
How much love, hate, kindness, vitriol, care, apathy,
Truth, hypocrisy, forgiveness, jealousy, joy, or even horror,
Has been carried to its mark by the thoughtful control
Of their placement and structure and management?
Oh, what horrible irony there is in the assumption that "words can never hurt" ...
They are, without a doubt, the most hurtful things ever created by man,
And yet their keen and acute ambiguity make them their own saviors,
And by positive application and intent,
Can be the most magnificent and wonderfully
Exquisite creations that we are capable of.
Be ever vigilant when you consider their organization and use,
For by their very nature you may be sending forth
A thoughtful work of fascination and beauty,
Or unleashing a monster of incalculable horror and venom.
WE are the bows that send the arrows forth,
WE are the guns that let loose the bullets,
WE are the catapults that let fly the burning stones,
But we are also the hands that pick the flowers,
That gently part the hair, that hold and caress with tenderness,
That encourage and help and touch and feel and explain and honor ...
ALL by the ways we form and group those individual letters of the alphabet,
ALL in the mindful ways we arrange those seemingly harmless little squiggles and lines ...
If we only treated words with the same care and respect and caution
That we allow weapons and miracles,
For they are easily as dangerous ...
And easily as wonderful.
Copyright © Greg Barden | Year Posted 2017
A Sonnet On It
It comes and goes on idle vagrant winds
hitching rides in briar like dependence
under pressure its aimless trek will bend
for it is not concerned with making sense.
So does it guard its anonymity
its preference - stay lost amid the stir
sought after for its ambiguity
as evil lout or ever faithful cur.
However, it may change with careful groom
take on an aura larger then its self
become the centerpiece of crowded room
festooned with all the trappings of its wealth.
Coyly fan itself beneath its bonnet
listening as others read its sonnet.
submitted to – Pen A Sonnet On It – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Janis Thompson
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2016
Wise Enough to Know
I'm wise enough
to know what I don't know
I think fast but my brain's slow
rivers of thought
cause my mind to flow
Still it seems I'm dumb enough
to put on a vain show
Will you follow me
to the places I want to go?
I look through windows clear
I'm over there by the juke box
wishing you were sitting near
Watching you play with your ear
Dumb me I close the curtains
darkening the atmosphere
thinking you might see me better
and come over here
I lack swag and courage
I'm paralyzed by my own fear
I'm wise enough
To see my own faults
And accept them for what they are
They seem smaller when viewed from afar
I can't drive away quick enough
in my pimped out get away car
I'm dumb enough
To be blinded by this prosperity
I like the ambiguity
of not being able to see
my own incongruity
Maybe dumb is part of my personality
I'll probably never be the best version of me
after all I'm my own worst enemy
I try denying that money can change my heart
Still the cash flows from the art
Break it down by numbers tear it apart
Pop the balloon with a dart
Gas from my ego
smells worse than a fart
I'm wise enough to know
I've got a lot of learning to do
If I knew you you'd teach me
I'm sure it's true
I could become the me
of the who's who
Crystal clearly seeing you
I like your particular shade of blue
is there anything you can't do?
I'm dumb enough not to know
to much learning can turn me into a fool
I'm the thread to your needle
smooth like plastic
I've stretched so much
you might think I'm elastic
Unable to be held by a wooden spool
I hope you find my multicolours cool
stitch this heart to your fabric
for you I'd gladly play the fool
I can't swim but I'd jump in with both feet
to the deep end of your pool
You'd help me be wise enough
to avoid the traps and pitfalls of life
So if you are dumb and wise enough to be my wife
Stumble with me into paradise!
Another collaborative piece with my friend Freddie Robinson Jr.
Thank you Freddie you are inspirational. I am also glad my wife stumbled with me or perhaps I tripped her so that I could catch her. Either way it has been paradise ( at least for me).
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2017
Translating ideas through energetic muscles
and calculative minds
is his doing
knowledgeable tricks and wise options
converted to the physical for the honour and glory
is his aim.
The one at the top of the chain
possesses his own repertoire.
A personality with tactical onus
is the one and only expectation.
Catastrophic it is;
when such a charisma is tempered with
An effective philosophy gives him fame
but ambiguity in strategy wins the point
a winning atmosphere brings out his etiquette
a loss- he treats so diabolical.
Every attack is a litmus test
mental kunfu blended naturally
with physical dynamism in display
closing down angles, tight markings
speed injection, courage cultivation,
identity-showing formations with opponent-neutralizing weapons,
massive onslaught, defensive solidity and quick counters
all for a harvest of victory
coming from the equations of his thoughts
watered by distinctive motivational skills.
A team player who's always outside the line
The football Manager is he!
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014
The God that never was, puts one shoe on at a time
And spends four hours in the make-up room
Putting on mascara and eye liner for the darker look
Occult man of seemingly rebellious nature
Is deified by the masses that show up to performances
He, a man of strong portrayal even at a skinny 155 pounds
Grows stronger with every compact disc sold and the overuse of base
Blowing out of a sound system which rocks the car next to you
While you wait for the light to turn green
Abandoning social mores of quietness well into the night
The appeal grows everyday for a man really just making a living
Out of his fans age group they have no idea what he is
Whether the media builds him up or tears him down
As a good guy to hate and a bad boy at heart
Any press is good press, though infamy might be better for sales
Topping the charts and making parents sick of his songs
He is a beneficiary of childhood splurging and so inclined to be
The adults wish for a mere fifteen minutes of his fame
So their children would listen to them with the same respect
But who were they when listening to cassette tapes?
And the bands of the eighties put on make-up then
A man of mixed persuasion people are drawn to his ambiguity
The role model singing about jail time and Hennessey
A toughness to some is a weakness to others
It makes you wonder if the man knows who he is!
Whoever that is and for all it's worth
There will be more than enough of him to go around
In his image that is larger than life
Copyright © karl marszalowicz | Year Posted 2011
While a part of my soul longs,
To be carried away,
To another world,
To a mountain top,
To a lonely place,
To where the air is thin and light,
To where sensations stop,
To where feelings end,
To where noise is drowned out by clouds of silence,
Just wants to be where my soul belongs,
Entirely available and present,
Near to who I am,
In the moment,
Here and not there,
To the voice,
Do you see me?
The wings that lift me into the sky,
Soaring in the icy drafts,
Glide with grace,
Leaving no trace,
Of the invisible pilot,
By the reigns,
Of the eye of the mind,
Like a drone,
Operated in some far off place,
By a craftsman conjurer,
Whose fingers mime,
What the imagination can not speak of.
Like a dream,
Where the magic fluid of time stops,
Just long enough,
To not disrupt,
The trust of continuity,
The wings contract,
Revealing an intention,
In a slow,
I am carried,
First up and around,
In a giant bow,
Like the swinging arch,
Of destiny’s hand in the sky.
The torsion and kinetics,
Leave no ambiguity,
What awaits at top,
Hanging upside down,
In the air,
In a chair,
Is unspeakably worse than the crime,
Devised by the mind,
Whose role is to parole,
The empty fallacies,
The narration of self,
When the screaming starts,
In the eyes of those you love,
Is the absurdity of your own silence,
Is the utter feeling of having already given up,
Is the incompatible peace in knowing the end was near,
Somehow not bothering even,
To just say, hang in there my little friend,
I am with you, I am near,
Instead just sitting there,
Waiting for it be be over,
Who you love most of all,
Sits alone in tears.
That my friend,
The rest is just,
A blissful crash.
Hiding is the remedy,
Fighting the disease,
Forgetting is the poison,
That writers conceive.
I will go then,
To that place,
Where solitary men,
From the fires of the soul,
Where broken drums,
To walk among,
To count alone,
Scars and wounds,
To touch and wander,
To love and let go,
To make amends,
With friends and foe,
Just one last time,
Intensely eternal words,
Only she could know.
As if by doing so,
The sun could set,
On the shoulders of all that I have seen,
I would say,
I am not broken yet,
Do not forget.
On the art of living,
For the sake,
Not just yet.
The marksman who chooses his arrow,
Is not like the blind falling sparrow,
In his sight,
Whether day or night,
The beginning of time is now,
Bend it then man,
Forfeit the other plan,
Make from the shaft and plant it.
This then was not a poem,
Nor, was it ever,
Meant to become one,
Which is not to say,
The obvious desire,
In the mood portrayed,
To write something poetic,
A gem even,
A crown of jewels,
For the world of fools,
Those miserly souls,
Being something entirely different,
A monstrosity of sorts,
Entirely myopic, dystopian and fake,
More than blurry,
Always in a hurry,
To cover over what was never even there to begin with,
One might ask,
What was it?
To which I respond,
Hat in hand,
Letter of resignation,
Hidden in my sleeve,
Be patient reader,
Do not despair,
This little speech,
Is meant for the air,
To be inhaled only,
By those addicted,
To disreputable habits,
Those little rabbits,
Who rise from the orifice,
Of one we all know,
Yet never did notice.
This then was how it ended,
Never to be amended,
Just left alone,
To make peace,
With the words,
Who always do,
What they please.
In the beginning was the deed…
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
Great men and small men,
what does it matter?
We all fry in the very same batter.
is not a hot flame
but if we don't
it cooks just the same.
Running a country,
living a life,
Lao Tzu said,
"Keep it simple!",
avoid all strife.
Copyright © ahellas Alixopulos | Year Posted 2011
One door closes and one door opens.
My life proceeds in speckled sunlight,
dark to light and back, a shifting lens
of ambiguity, never sure of right,
only sure when the results come in
of those things that turn out wrong.
No, I don't believe in concepts of sin,
but, oh boy, the wages are clear and long
standing. Decisions made so many years ago
in the best of faith just seem to hang around,
like a long term plague, while actions low
and made in haste, disappear, can't be found
and seem to have no consequence. Justice
only exists when time metes out irrelevance.
Copyright © ahellas Alixopulos | Year Posted 2011
Bucky Fuller Big Bang.
Bucky Fuller Big Brain
My Friend Bucky Fuller
came down to me today.
grows not-not binomial
and gravitates aft
Space and Time
poetry as rhyme
Convex and Concave!"
My Friend Rumi Gloomy
said to me today,
"When you are perpetually yearning
and searching for Health's Holonic Spirit,
you will, in time, conquer all obstacles."
"When you are perpetually yearning
and contentedly searching for Nature,
you will, in time,
conquer all dissonance
and unbalanced issues,
suffering bicameral cognitive irrationality."
My Friend Bucky Lao-tse,
enjoyed laughing to himself
about this racey quality of Time:
When the highest type of Nature hears Time,
Becoming co-arises in confluence with it,
When mediocre Nature hears Time,
Being grows coincidentally aware and yet unaware of Becoming Time.
When negative Lose-Losers hear Time,
Decomposition breaks into double-negative ecological ambivalence--
If Time were not bi-humorously coincidental,
it could not revolve self-inevitably
with coincidental biometric
binary Time-linear strings of Languaged Polyculture.
Therefore we re-establish logos:
"Who understands Time seems dull of comprehending
Yang OVER Yin-Yin Balance;
Who is wiser with Time will seem to slip
while refining Tipping Point
wu-wei discernment, and dia-metrics
and bio-metrics as geo-metric primal;
Who redeems Time seems to travel
forward and backward across bi-linear
(0) Core Information Metric Webs
Co-Redemptive Trees of Life.
Superior character appears like a hollow
Negative Yin function as Sheer white
Great logic and justice appear insufficient
with (-),( );
Fractal RNA linear function appears (-),(-)
double-bound ambiguity entropic
Pure value appears like decompositional double-Yin-Yin.
Great space has no absence of Convex Yang;
Great virtue takes long to mature;
Yang Full-Left deductive,
back toward future Yang/Yin
Bicameral Balancing Wisdom.
Great octave harmony can be faintly heard
when subtly, implicately played Win-Win ecologically;
Self-Optimizing and Sustaining Form has no contour;
because optimized (0) dialectical function
emerges fully contoured fractal
and dimensional as 4-Prime Linear;
And Time hides within a +Polynomial
It is this Time that is adept at lending
both midway power and economic value
toward becoming primal fulfillment.
New elliptical rings of energy
evolve from inside out,
so inside Bosonic ring of time
emerges square root fractally,
Time can only push out convex,
4-dimensionally and seasonally smooth-structured,
coincident concaving past with future rings of octave function.
Each prime ringing Eulerian function,
predicts and predicates,
a dia-cycle earlier,
whether that be a moment
or a year,
or a day,
or some transactional prime relationship
objectively and naturally economized
Time's prior seasonal "moment"
of bio-metrically calculable DNA-encoded time.
My friend the Wise Doctor
told me what to say,
Time's dimension emerges coincidentally,
subjectively shy of consciousness
as virginal fertility,
and objectively ecological potential information,
rationally and primally bilinear,
with (+) radiating
in forward-Yang perspective,
while (-),(-) bi-linearly mutually decompositional,
within metaphysical-only time,
Bohm's implicating reverse-temporal order,
and recomposes within each moment of spacetime,
as +/(-)0 = c-squared = Eulerian prime function
= Positive Polynomial binary information
= (-),(-)Polynomial bio-normic regenerative
PositiveVector-Yang OVER NegativeVortex-Yin-Yin,
Constant Temporal Tao dual-dark Twoness,
with square root of +/(-)0-dimensional Prime Fractal.
Please confirm this hypothetical as True,
that Hydrogen's "1"
is also a fractally balanced
dynamic of temporal self-perpetuating
Bosonic composite of Elements
just as RNA is composed
Midway balancing U+C+A+G.
In this way,
we might bring our Universal Atomic-ionic
and Thermodynamic-ergodic theories
of bi-linear Time with 3-dimensional Space
c-squared + c-squared + c-squared
trinitarian synergy of equivalence to
and P = NP as +1/(-),(-)0binary Tao
Balancing this Tree of Life's Uniting Wisdom Time.
Ecological Language strings our Win-Win Game
teleological strategy and song,
and Zero-Soul bicameral Theorem
using bio-metric DNA double-smooth structured
elliptical prime boundary-structure,
with Permaculture Design's RNA-rooted
All this, running on
to tell our Great Transitional Understory
of Religion and Natural Reason's Beloved
Concave within Con-Vexed.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
I live in a city of a Indian state
where you can discern refreshing greeneries, that accommodate
the kingfishers,Rollers,peacocks,snakes and white cranes
Although rice is the major crop,black lentils,sugar canes
corns,sunflowers and groundnuts are the seasonal crops
Since it is a rainfed area,the agriculture rely on rain drops
Pongal,the three days festival is celebrated in mid-January
for the year harvest,as a thank giving ceremony
The Brihadeeswara temple,inscribed on list of world heritage
along with airavateswara temple,surviving 1000 ages
have convoluted stone carvings and intricate sculptures
reveal our ancient cultures and they are our treasures
I am talking about the beautiful city
Even though it is a city,people's behavior
pretend you to feel like an unrivaled village
The people are more generous and obliging
No religious gap among us,Christians go to mosques
Hindus to churches,Muslims to temples,we are unique
People came from different regions and communities
Nayaks,sauarashtras,marathas savvy the value of unity
and we are living examples of unity in diversity
we follow all the traditions without ambiguity
Tamil is our official language,the name
of city reveals the unvarnished fame
Copyright © Supraja Kannan | Year Posted 2016
Where is the nation once united under God?
Broken is the moral compass that guided her.
The people slept, while the devil was at play.
Like a fattened calf, we are wipe for the slaughter.
The sky has darkened across the heartland of America.
The clouds weep tears of anguish, the earth crumbles.
Where are holy words of prayer, now muted in fear?
The law of the land usurps the will of the people.
Shall we passively drink at the fountain of compromise?
Waters of right and wrong are muddied in ambiguity.
May we rise up on behalf of our families and freedoms.
Be a voice for the helpless cries of the unborn holocaust.
Let us not let our land turn into a massive landslide.
Or fall unwittingly into an abyss of hedonistic ruin.
For, united, we can break the strongholds of the evil one.
And take back our land, for "In God We Trust".
Written on 7/28/2015
Copyright © Laura Leiser | Year Posted 2015
It’s in the dictionary: disambiguate.
It reminds me of Bush’s misrememberate,
a word that always makes me hyperventilate
and sometimes even makes me discombobulate.
They’re words for those who want to circumambulate
proven facts. Politicians overcompensate
with sesquipedalians to overcompensate
for ideas they’d rather not disambiguate.
They also tiptoe as they circumambulate,
or say, “Oh, I guess I must misremeberate.
That liberal press just makes me discombobulate
and more than once it’s made me hyperventilate.”
It is not abnormal to hyperventilate
when one’s stumped and trying to overcompensate
while working so hard not to discombobulate,
worried that someone’s going to disambiguate
his harangue. Then he’ll claim to misrememberate,
or convolute the truth and circumambulate
it if he can. If he can’t circumambulate
embarrassing stuff, he might hyperventilate,
which sometimes causes him to misrememberate
the lies he’s spewed. So then he’ll overcompensate
and slip in some truth that might disambiguate
the ambiguity and discombobulate
his campaign. Then his hopes to discombobulate
the electorate and to circumambulate
the truth will be dashed. If folks disambiguate
his thoughts, all he can do is hyperventilate,
although, he doesn’t want to overcompensate
and say he’s been known to misrememberate.
The admission that he might misrememberate
could lead voters to think he’ll discombobulate
under pressure. He’d rather overcompensate
by making up stuff that will circumambulate
the simple truth and make you hyperventilate
and just too distracted to disambiguate.
Politicians overcompensate, misrememberate.
If you disambiguate, they’ll circumambulate,
discombobulate and then hyperventilate.
Copyright © Tom Harris | Year Posted 2012
the murky depths of the night drifts off the lone fisherman
to the tamarind yellow river shaded with ecru of ambiguity;
wind whispers wrapped in sweet somberness and shivery softness;
yonder a hint of golden honey light beckons a beautiful uncertainty.
Copyright © hija de la luna | Year Posted 2016
the serene people whose ease of manner
once made him yearn and confabulate
are laughable cartoonish and piteous now
could have been much worse he said
as his last breath left his scarred throat
feral hand closing his own eyes
St. Pudenda greeted him at the tall gates
under the lights at Checkpoint Charlie
Mariachi trumpets rolled out the mauve carpet
and a dog barked from behind the garbage cans
from all infinity we end up with this
a realm of syntax governed by ambiguity
she read from a large ledger atop a marble pedestal
why a ledger rather than a laptop is anyone's guess
apparently the vanguard party had been evicted
by Frankie Boxcars and the Hollywood mafia eons ago
in the great schism over the digitization of paradise
no jury of his peers he noted with unease
nothing of telling import she imparted casually
eyes darting up and down the pages
as if something previously detected had been airbrushed
arrested for self amplification she went on
and sorcery and coughing in quiet places
how did you sleep she asked with a beaming smile
I don't know I was asleep he intoned
I suppose we can reveal the joke she mused
but I was dreaming he countered
backed into a tight corner by snarling lap dogs
tossed into a kidnap taxi with a sack over my head
marched with a gun in my back
through a forest of clichés
fed lines from a hideous new sitcom
about sex among the homeless
a weekly broadcast on Piñata Vision
of course it was more fun
not being an active target
but what choice did I have
knowing what I know
poor dear thing she continued
there is a better version of everything
a law of nature completely natural
and yes it is densely beautiful and
smoldering with awe like a corpse in a bathtub
try to avoid the truly grotesque
in favor of the marginally grotesque
we love having you in our science dept.
with the state secrets and midget porn videos
masquerading as the way things actually are
where the misty cows moo in contentment
and the Vaseline runs hot behind sanctuary doors
horrors altering the course of suns
between the here and the there
every bit of it needless she giggled
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Copyright © Walter Alter | Year Posted 2016
As for that sky far
In the shoreline of the summer when I like
The spectacle of the orange field which clings and
Calling voice of cat, in consciousness,
Raising the bubble, distantly it keeps being.
You looked at the illsion of the ice? (3)
The infinite sound and the infinite color.
When I make it left in the surface of the earth.
To the inside where your smiling face is a wheel of love and hatred.
A stem in ego room in Altair planet
It looks like a pocket watch.
"Cachi and Cachi..... "
An Symbol of a word Operation and living (1)
A flight of a petrel Conflict and the distinction (2)
It is distant! To deep sea…
The jewel Asante family creates, (4)
To an anti-bodhi tree
Even in remainder being fantastic, it is tempted.
As for the non-geometric living thing which was seen in dream,
It stays here.
When you shout, the countless unknown living thing,
It overflows around my eye.
It looks like a cosmos field in September.
A fruit is connected the next season.
This song to the color of the last carnival in November.
This desire sigh for you,
and it will dote to a severe disgraceful behavior on Egon Schiele.
All to the deep sea!
When whoop crouching on the train,
The place is a lonely life place.
Your the brown of tea on the table
From finished poured into a cup
"Yesterday, in surveying investigation of zelkova
I was went,
The pants when he entered the grass plexus,
The things that came with it there. "
To say that, you held out the palm of the hand,
To Me showed us Torilis scabrai
We need index in this sand!
Arrived at the place,
Nor can also sit to stand in there,
The only BODY that I, (5)
The world is complex entwined.
(1) words of symbol management, from semiotics of Perth, I lead to France of Saussure, a typical sign says that the lives of human beings.
(2) flight of petrels, lie in Conflict and the distinction in the noumenon of Kant located behind the essential experience says that.
(3) In rebuttal method of philosophy of science of Popper, official of the ice does not have an absolute meaning. It has been hanging on the (1).
(4) implies the October 1996 issue of National Geographic.
(5) French phenomenon in Merleau-Ponty's body theory of scholars, the body has the ambiguity of subjectivity and objectivity, also, stand it, the previous teacher disciples to nearby Upanishad of philosophy in India that sit it means sit in. And, life is featured in the October 1996 issue of National Geographic, it will take to the "LIFE WITHOUT LIGHT"
Copyright © beach Happiness | Year Posted 2016
You lay on white cotton sheets with the hospital logo imprinted
on the cloth and on the fabric of your life talcum powder for
your bed sores anorexic washed out gastric spittle dribbling
from ulcerous mouth facing what had to come no more shine
no radiant beauty just a living corps in the moonlit dusky night
Fed up and fed through lines in your flaccid arms scared from
where the needles had left skinned putrid innocent islands had
succumbed to chasing the dragon fallen off addictive wagons
breathing shallowly through white powder perforated nose
the stigma of questing for life in ecstacy a dim echo of delusion
Noose marks round your neck overdosed under-clothed a crazy
lunatic dishevelled mis-resemblance of what should have been
was meant to be a vibrant journey not eclipsed by crying despair
Your parents had called you Luna Flora the moonflower in their
pagan hippie delight had not considered the toxic poisonous stars
Moonflower one of the most romantic plants in the garden sweetly
fragrant trumpet shaped blossoms unfurled in the night pollinated
by moths like white powder spreading beauty and toxic devil’s weed
Luring enticing tempting dangerous hallucinating agitated confusion
when sucked in too eagerly not knowing where and when to stop
Like belladonna which you had meant to portray the night flower
shed its shadow cast indigestible spells over your paths on earth
too short wasted rejected drowning in sorrowful blindness side-lined
from sun and sparkling stars into the wicked night of helpless evil
you withered rushed from shot to shot one too many dirty cannulas oozing
A desiccated child-woman of the night pushing and pulling from
client to client giving your sex for their money extorted by pimps on
street corners dirty sprung mattresses feeding phallic prickly bursts
of sprinkling disgust a skeleton draped in loose lucid skin fondled breasts
you opened your legs closed your shame for anti-heroic heroin
Dressed in white cotton you marvelled stone dead in lunar radiance
from your marble coffin at midnight when the bells chimed good bye
when your friend and you parents had lost their minds and only child
at the final curtain last act of resistance to the ambiguity of Luna Deflorata
vanished to fangs of white powder white pills translucent misery injected
Written at midnight 22 August 2016
Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016
Our love is a slide show of passionate events
having staggering moments which are only real in fiction.
Erotic signals jam together to make
imaginations of fantasy more concrete than natural elements.
I feel your inside, I respire your breath
our shared desires are because our souls are covered in one coat.
I’m so wired into you that our independent lives
stay connected through one switch.
Using the clouds of affectionate freedom as our play ground
is its simple manifestation when on;
shared tenderness promoting the low ranking calmness
over sexual desperation forms an interplay when off.
Clients of goodwill execute their propaganda of happiness’ varieties
spraying sweet scents of mystery and the colours of ambiguity
to a mortal phenomenon so supernatural,
like a tree of many fruits and a robe of many fabrics;
a kid with many voices and a top held by many hangers;
a stream flowing from many sources and a butterfly with many wings.
The dynamism of the propagation of our steamy flavours
gives reality a gracious bond to divinity.
Your world of romantic satisfaction
has made mine so affluent that
Gold has become more common than stone.
but distance has unfortunately brought me down
to my knees and made my head stay in constant bow
in intercession of when we will meet again to continue
this orgasmic character of rare happiness.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2016
Imagination of my heart, be still
Is it not true that thoughts define our world?
And bring to light obscurities that thrill.
For in the mind, new ideas are unfurled.
Genesis, like Einstein’s Relativity,
Embrace complex concepts still swirled.
Religious beliefs seek sanctity,
The pursuit of truths proposes questions.
Imagination sees ambiguity.
Theories evolve, offering solutions.
Discrepancies in the mind’s eye revile.
Daydreams and fantasies launch suggestions.
Within the brain collected thoughts stockpile.
And the heart of imagination stays.
Therein lies progression’s basic beguile.
Knowledge and true belief soon parting ways,
That brings us to the heart of imagination.
Are hope, truth, and peace lost in latter days?
Has the brain become man’s great coronation?
The crowning point too often worn askew.
Sometimes men thrive, beneath domination.
The heart of imagination breaks through.
It is not found imbibing happy pills.
It is found in the woodlands or a coo.
Imagination seeks God’s foreordained will.
For it was set at life’s ordination.
It is the brightest view within man’s thrill!
Be still, heart of my imagination.
My faith combines with facts to find this truth.
Man like beast was formed by God’s creation.
All…discerning Heaven’s declaration –
November 8, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Challenge Title 'Words - The Heart of Imagination?' - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Brian Johnston
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2014