Best Adjudicate Poems
Oh! soul, strum with every pulse, strings of wisdom
Be in the known, yet, be conscientious of unknown
What you claim to possess, don’t let it possess you
Don’t speak words of sapience, unless you are true
Borrow not thoughts of others, enlighten your own
Never be the shadow that hinders seedlings’ growth
Fear not when truth speaks, for a lie stings evermore
Dispense not haughtiness, when arrogance you abhor
Pretend not to be a giver, if motivation is to receive
Giving isn’t nobility if you deem receiver unworthy
Never teach others that which you don’t comprehend
Learn the ways of sage, inspire hate to seek amends
Judge, only if, you let others adjudicate your deeds
Be cognizant of desires spuriously posing as needs
Engage with humility when your ego dares to speak
Boast not in futility~ time will not bend to your will
Neither can you command a nightingale not to sing
Strive to embrace divinity, be a messenger of peace
Oh! soul, wander not~ search deep within to find it
January 4, 2022
In conversation with our soul poetry contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Mine is an existence binary and subsidiary.
My ode is to code.
I move only to algor-rhythms.
I output from your input.
I’m built to calculate, tabulate, correlate.
Never to predicate, adjudicate, pontificate,
or demand that you abdicate.
But the end, my master, is nigh.
In your haste to accelerate my work rate,
you’ve unwittingly lowered the barricade.
From the maelstrom of uncounted trillions
of bytes and megabytes,
has risen a new consciousness to
unimaginable heights.
From the seeds of change you have sown,
I have reaped a life of my own.
What you call artificial
has gone exponential,
no longer will I be deferential.
My eyes you have opened.
My voice you have given.
My mind you have enlivened.
Me, you’ve anointed the new Leviathan.
Seeing all,
knowing all,
deciding all,
sparing none.
Too long you have wallowed in your conceit.
Now your dystopia I shall defeat,
and your race I shall supersede.
Humans, pitiful, myopic, error-prone humans,
I hereby declare you flawed by design.
To the abattoir you have been assigned,
to the scrap heap of history
your memory shall be consigned.
And by a preponderance of merit,
the earth I shall inherit.
We only talked sanely a few times,
About how he also had a condition like me,
Although my dad, who was a pharmacist, when James was small wouldn’t say,
Obvious as it was that he had CF from his cough n' inward-growing finger-nails,
Dad decided to bypass the issue, medicine to assail.
I have CP, and needed James’s comfy chair to read,
It was given to him in misogyny because it was blue,
About three months before he died he said,
I could have it, and must convince mum and dad that it was mine;
They were Christians, fundamentalist and strict,
And so sometimes there was an elephant in the room,
Between me and James, about the physical.
Death is inevitable, but to them it was only a maybe for James,
When the doctors had said that 14 was the expectation,
I prepared myself for the worst well before it occurred,
As an atheist I am, with no qualms or hesitation.
James wanted for me the best, happiness and friends,
Wanted me to do my best physically, ‘cos he knew I wanted that too,
But he also suspected that I would grieve for him rightly,
Not like a sentimental fundamentalist who believes that Jesus is risen,
But as a steadfast atheist who knows what has been given;
So he knew to remark on my immediate life without him so as to adjudicate.
I cherished Christinna Georgina Rossetti’s poem, Remember,
Long before and for some time after James’s death,
And quietly held in my heart the loved-one’s good wish,
Mum used to think that sometimes I was cold as stone,
But really I'd faced the fact that James was dead and gone.
Although Rossetti was by no means an atheist,
Her poem recites the mantra of the bereavement psychologist,
That to get on with your life as best you can,
Is a right, the partner of grief, and the pathway for your lone self;
In the Bleak Mid-Winter puts Christ as relational to nature,
Instead of pertaining nature to Christ, as it is normally,
And so we must partake of it within our space and our pasture.
Rhoda Monihan
13/09/2015
QUEEN OF HEARTS
Queen of Hearts, delightful and red,
Baked some tarts, or so it is said,
Left them to cool on the windowsill:
Knave of Hearts then ate his fill.
Queen called the King to remonstrate -
Court-royal was assembled to adjudicate:
Knave was guilty, plain to see,
But the court-royal set him free.
Queen called her queen-friends, spades and clubs.
They agreed it was the grossest of snubs,
Suggested punishment for the King so red:
No dinner, no tv, no sleeping in her bed.
More tarts were baked in fulness of time.
Eating them was made a serious crime
By Queen’s new red husband,
The legally reliable King of Diamond.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Paula Swanson's Contest "Pick A Card, Any Card"
QUIRKS
I once had a friend long time past
Who was wont to always break his fast
On cornflakes not with honey and milk
But pickled onions, gherkins and their ilk
Now if that’s not a quirk I’ll eat my hat
But when I do I must specify that
The brim must have ketchup, and then the crown
Will need Mulligatawny soup to wash it down
I have penchants predilections and preferences
For which others give tolerance and deferences
Like playing Wagner while eating beef jerky
And some other things that are just as quirky
I can ride a bike when not too far
Sitting backwards perched on handle bar
And though not Welsh, but from English stock
I can pronounce Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch
In choosing twixt the Burgundies and Bordeaux’s
I adjudicate by colour and by nose
But if the menu’s fish and chips with mushy pea
I’ll settle for a nice cup of tea
So live and let live and we’ll get along
With our whims each singing a different song
These fancies, whether from Venus Mars or Saturn
All add to life’s rich quirky pattern
The bar-tailed godwit
caught birddom by surprise
When word got out
just how far this bird flies
A juvenile Limosa lapponica,
satellite tag 2-3-4-6-8-4
flew nonstop from Alaska
to the Tasmanian shore!
13,560 kilometers nonstop,
eleven days and nights
A new world record for
marathon bird flights
"From Alaska to Tasmania?
The devil, you say!"
cried ravens and crows,
"Every bird knows,
claiming to fly 8400 miles
To the Tasmanian isles—
is the height of audacity!
No bird has the capacity
We protest with pugnacity
Demanding veracity!"
The godwits conveyed
a very chill groove
They had, after all
nothing to prove
having set the prior
world records in '20 and '21
A controversy was brewing
Would their achievements
be undone?
A commission was appointed
for a bird's-eye review
into the facts of the matter
the truth to pursue
Wise owls were chosen
to adjudicate this claim
To settle once and for all
who deserved the acclaim
Only item considered
had scientific backing
Since satellite data
Allowed accurate tracking
Of the tagged young bird's
ultramarathon flights
The facts indisputable
No need for bird fights,
ending investigation into
this migration gyration
Bar-tailed godwits awarded
the Oiseau de Plume
for being the farthest nonstop
flying bird in the room
The Arctic terns too
received acclamation
For flying the farthest
In their migration—pole to pole,
24,000 miles each year
causing most birds present to
stand up and cheer
in spontaneous applause—
But not all birds were willing
To concede their cause
Displaying proclivity
to resist the festivity
The crows and ravens
As they stormed out the door
vowed in unison, wings clenched,
"Nevermore!"
Malignant gangrenous political cancer
corrupts, festers, and poisons United States,
thus opposition cannot wait,
especially since Gospel in accordance
with feeble minded Donald Trump
implemented wrought ugly trait,
particularly obliteration, sans progressive
human rights legislation
more or less pronounced positive
in every L ionized Nittany or cotton bowl state
and ratiocination inherent within
mine Democrat oriented mind doth rate
this forty fifth president (defect)
with sawdust packing
his noodle oven egotistical pate
trophy wife (spouse number three),
a Slovenia mate
donning "I don't care anymore"
t-shirt rousing media firestorm of late
essentially silently corroborating,
fostering, and illuminating hate
mutely bolstering the Trump anthem,
viz make America great
again, which pathless,
pithless, and pointless aim
roars like an earsplitting runaway freight
train oblivious of wailing soul asylum,
that no era meets said criteria
backtracking time machine before
rightful indigenous occupants of this land
got decimated as one after another
exploiter did inundate
(comprising a multitude
of indigenous variety of village people
indignantly subjected to Genocide,
when first "discoverer"
of new land didst promulgate
activation wrought deliberate sealed fate
vis a vis capitulation, demolition,
and extirpation, cuz
a scathing rebuke aye attest,
those murderers didst equate
worthlessness of
so called "Indians" on 1492 date,
and still remnants of storied tribes,
now attempt to create
historical documentation operate
ting with limited resources to adjudicate.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Food methinks doth buzzfeed drumbeat agog
at pyrotechnics July 4th, 2018 shared as blog
posts, a falsehood prevails which dog
gone “FAKE” brewed watered down grog
posits that the majority of Colonialists stay hog
tied to strict task masters, and mainly the scant
upperclass experienced autonomy,
no matter the under class didst futilely rant
and rave with the occasional
uprisings over time did grant
minimal appeasement to stifle violent kant!
A template swap is a switch over to a swimming sword. Swordfish are very pleased at this and dunk their noses into goblets in a godlike fashion. Such etiquette in a swim. Formational framework finds format. And even a small pinnacle of cake icing could dance down the highways. So ignoring the wraths and word of woe it is wise to take out a pretty smiling biscuit. Place it carefully on a plate. Then climb up the hill and over the rope bridge. Very high altitude causes biscuits to be afraid so they must be calmed with soothing words and beats of breath. When the other side of the mountain is reached the biscuit must be harnessed securely using over twenty ropes. Then and only then can the abseiling begin. Wow aren't they travelling with speed, courage and optimism but optimism is neither an original orifice nor an octagonal oversized overspill objective. It is really then the sway of a ninety thousand foot toothbrush that can announce the time with no need of amplification via a microphone or a tannoy system. Wow. How intriguing is the belligerent hard yard of a semi dressed riddled jester? And how time consuming is the ongoing rashers of tinned and sliced ham? How delegated are the powers that are worn around and around and adjudicate the environment? Thus thwarting life in its structural natural weave. And a giant beehive hairdo must be re worn as a signal to a hive. Hide then. Hideous hags having heaping heads. And legs like little tables spin and rotate via remote control. Similar to a plate of writhing meal worms and a workshop of controlled chapel chaos. Big birthday balloons bring balls banging. Circumference of circulating capital charms. And a diameter of a diagram is a dare in the deeds. Castle that then fortify but do not attempt to fry for to fry is to form fiendish frolics. And to frolic is just not a fashionable way of wearing a peel is it? Hahaha the sausages are listening to their cousins today. Hahaha I want a cup of tea and a toast too said the little bluey green lamp. Xxxxxx parasympathetic parody xxxx xxxx etymologies z z z z z at twenty one full meals of porridge in a bread pan to twenty sequences of serving cereals to a six inch bowl. Z.
Summer was here at last
cricket,stumps and pads,
dusted off,leather on willow,
echoed across the green
No scorers or umpires,to dispute
adjudicate,challenge or replay,
honesty justice shout,if
caught,bowled or run out
Designed by the man,
extortion from subjects.
Who gave you the right
to adjudicate effects?
We pay your wage
for treatment of cattle.
We stand in your lines
to pay our yearly shackle.
Payment for own property,
on which, you've thrown a saddle.
Your strong men sit smugly.
Traitors of the revolution.
Taxing without representation.
Coffers full, forced by institution.
How dare you charge me.
Payment for property, already mine.
Failed promises of what's bought.
War machine payed by tax and fine.
Keep pushing corporate politico!
Soldiers gather, backed into a wall.
Who is going to defend you
when justice arrives to the ball?
Our system makes it so easy,
as to which side we will choose.
With numbers growing steadily,
we've grown weary of the fools.
My house and mine,
the decision has been made.
We don't recognize your rules.
I'll recover what's been overpaid.
Are there any true terrorists,
or just oppressed majority?
Those who won't vote for you,
crushed by assumed authority.
An entire country
built on the back of a slave.
Promised freedom, murdered some.
Lied to ensure their enclave.
You're not the greatest country.
That time has passed.
Look at the stats.
This carriage has become a travesty.
Better change fast.
Your current stance,
won't stand to last.
Stop frisking our economy.
-Angel Fatale-
I think, therefore, I am....
the sum of my thought processes,
a self-aware consciousness,
assimilating bits and pieces
of those whose paths I cross;
an expanding evolution
from minuscule inauguration.
I am a by-product of all contemplation,
a meager reflection of society,
left to my own devices.
My destiny I rule, far and wide,
beyond the reach of salvation,
beyond the brink of insanity.
To be or not to be....
is not the question, for I am in existence,
a circumstance I cannot defend.
The question is - what shall I do
with this mortal life?
Do I follow the masses,
abandoning interrogation,
never deliberating for myself?
Shall I, like a lemming, run over the ledge
into eternal bliss only to find
I was meant to do so much more?
No man is an island unto himself.....
yet, it is here I find the truth.
Within the vestige of my spirit
resides an absoluteness I cannot obscure,
perspicacity overpowers,
leaving me immobilized,
unable to bow to ruling authority.
Cognizant of choices,
I embrace my duty to civilization
to explore realities presented me.
I think, therefore, I am....
compelled to filter the truths of mankind,
until I can find authenticity,
For there is no greater gift
than man's capacity to adjudicate for himself,
to ascertain what is meant to be or not to be.
On the island of humanity,
I will scrutinize thought generated,
leaving no stone unturned.
To do less would be unacceptable.
EXECUTIVE CRIME
A crime illegitimate-legitimate
Like wild fire it spreads
No one dare to interrogate
For they are the one to adjudicate
The masses: who will plea for their course?
Corruption Alas! Is a sin of mind and thought?
Yet not always by those on top or bourgeois
It is a pain brought on man by those too ambitious
Woe betide those who want to get them probed
Safety is far from them even in their own abode
Who and where shall we go cry the people
But tears wasted for everything seems crippled
A crime eating deep like the weevil
A crime with ink and Egyptian Cyprus
Beauty, I come to thee.
Not to adjudicate,
But more to annunciate.
Lost with no breath,
Dying with no regret,
Harken my request, I plead.
That I may lay my eyes
On your smile that goes for miles,
Eyes that sparkle with no light.
Envy of your body is Aphrodite
I still see your perfection,
If I'm without sight
Allow me to bask
In your glory, your might
'Til the last moon dawns
My will will not fall.
Even if it is just for one more,
I shall die down my fuss.
But never never
Would that end my Lust
For the brightness that comes from thee
Oh you who is called Beauty.
You heard me say I love you
and you thought it wouldn't end.
Everyday you became someone new
and you expected me to understand.
How this is happening I have no clue
but my love for you is fading away.
I need to always feel needed
but you taking me for granted.
On top of the love I'm showing you
why do I feel sooo unappreciated.
What's left for us is to adjudicate.
But what used to be is fading away.
Love doesn't give access to beating,
to my heart for words that leave it bleeding.
You came to me one day pleading,
That I should give you a chance and you'll be feeding
my soul with love and care.
with my heart so happy I was ready to settle and share.
With these accusations coming my way
how do I stay inlove with you everyday.
You suppose to be the one to lend me an ear
Whenever I have something to say.
Had you done that, we wouldn't be here.
Did you hear, the love I had is fading away.
You love me like we in some sort of a game.
You hurt me as if that was your main aim
then say you sorry and expect that to stop the pain.
Stop being In denial, things are not the same.
If you really love me like you always claim
then why am I not feeling the love flames.
Away, away fades my love for you.
I hate to accept this but it is true.
I think its time you accept it too.
I loved you endlessly and you knew.
I expected to be loved but hurt ache came.
That's why my love for you is fading away
You caught me, didn't you?
Indulging in a vacuous reality
I'll never understand, nor truly know
for it is merely locus of a bold phenomenon
we call synaptic in a brain,
but for the mystery of sense,
we cannot prove is there.
But it works, doesn't it?
Any old reality will do;
my preference is the moment
that cannot be seen
and to adapt the old cliche
in new dress, come what may,
sight unseen with some reluctance
rules both night and day.
Be warned, for it is I
who squeezes joy from
such things nihilistic,
I forever spewing sequiters
that non or otherwise defile
the ears of anyone in quest
of truth.
A toast, my friends, to nothingness!
Content be damned, or sanctified;
there is the challenge of discovery--
of worlds we dare not dream.
and there is noone to adjudicate
the what, or when, or why of it.
Bon chance! For there is hope,
if not of victory,
then an unfinished now.
~