Best Adroitly Poems
What smug pseudomorph
inhabits my reflection,
adroitly mimicking my
every manner and expression,
mercilessly mocking me
with flawless simulation?
She is the great pretender;
a master counterfeiter;
a furtive opportunist;
a thieving imitator.
She is a soul-sucking demon
of the gravest degree;
a brazen parasite
feeding on health and ingeny,
pillaging my youth
with savage gleam and glee;
siphoning my precious hollow
of vitality.
Time ticks across my aging face
while our eyes lock in defiance,
and in the end, my spurious friend
will demand my full compliance.
So, with a twinkling eye I wink
at my mirrored facade,
acknowledging this fearsome foe
with a playful nod.
Respectfully reciprocal,
she gestures back to me in kind,
and we part as esteemed enemies,
to my last breath resigned.
However it goes, nobody knows
Whatever your belief
You as you are, and those afar
Through centuries of toil and grief
Hardships they solved, as they evolved
Bring us to date and time
The past is the past, today won't last
Opportunities pushed to the side
With flag unfurled, in a perfect world
Equality and freedom are one
With sword and shield, privileges yield
Then both become undone
Color or race, religion and mates
Must fight for what's legally theirs
Riches and waste, power and taste
Blindly turn from despair
Bitter and charred, Solutions come hard
Ignorance and greed are withstanding
Social issues, adroitly abused
Are solved with understanding
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Deceit of sun when rays are still but porous;
unwelcome thief, afford my dream more seconds.
Some dappled shadows flit through mystic keyhole;
alight upon pellucid remnant image.
I stifle yawn as thoughts embrace the vision.
My ever-restless spirit merits story
which doesn’t evanesce at first obstacle
encountered when issues foisted upon me.
Embarked on travels, trinkets of high finesse
that crossed the boundaries of reality.
The past firmly imbedded in the future,
illuminating a path predictable and
imbued with fantasy and peccant grandeur.
Adroitly I manoeuvred through initial
self-doubt that plagued a multitude of people.
Circumlocutory whim of eidolon
expertly gathered evidence to support
demand that’s straddling realms, but I will resist.
I read the missive through and then carefully
enfold my dreams in cocoon, preserving them.
Unpleasant facts I spat out like an obol
that’s placed under tongue of recently deceased.
The critics can wait with Charon for day of
reckoning – future set aside for visions.
My dreams swim at the edge of river’s conscience.
Expectations made dreams luminesce brightly,
but withered in morning sun’s naïve splendour.
Like sands in the hourglass, the grains of wisdom
filtered through consciousness and needled thinking.
I set aside the search for epiphany.
Old heads know more,
but can't explore anymore.
Justly, they exploit experience,
adroitly squishing creativity.
Too old to play,
with naivety.
My heart enfolded the hued horizon of dazzling dawn,
the yearning brush soaked the sunburst colors,
painted a Monet garden blooming with my love,
unfurled the facsimile of your floral face,
adroitly adorned.
The luring luster of lilac rose lined your lips,
quivered with the cadence of the dancing dew.
As rhapsody rippled in my heart’s mesmerized meadow,
at the edge of stalled time I soared in euphoria,
endlessly enchanted.
In the velvet vale of my mind fashioned by fervor,
I carved a charming channel of longing to reach you.
The climbing cloud of my craving came down in a torrent,
making my melodic love a meandering river,
earnestly enthralled.
The oasis of my mind one day dried in the desert,
dripping cloud drenching the desiccated passion didn’t stay long,
disappeared with the draft of the summer wind of discontent,
as in the sand storm the dregs of divested desire drifted away,
utterly unowned.
The river of longing in my abandoned valley got lost,
the fervent flowers I gave you withered in your vase,
but your memory preserved some in perception,
the ones you liked the most,
amazingly adoring.
When in the lonely hours they would appear apparently alive,
take you to the valley of flower we had been together once,
it was me they would then let you know,
and allure you with my unwritten absence,
eternally engraved.
Tongue; in Valetudinary STATE.
For Barbarous and Flagitious
Portance is very Bedraggled;
A-be-ce-dar-ians,
or the Adroitly,
are ALLERGIC
to Crass and
Uncouth
LIPS.
Pace, G
04-22-2012
"The Value of Reading"
messages impressed
upon the secret keepers.
when is late too late?
to divulge the truth?
"I know this is a shock"
arrives far too late
when it is anticipated
by the writer pundit
keeping tabs
on runnaway horses
trained at the gate
tokens laid for bets.
what then sister?
if all should go awry?
the next caller phones
and relays, it is you,
so-and-so, who has
passed away today,
chemo didn’t save
the day.
"I know this is a shock,"
the other says,
"Love you, call me
when you want,"
breezily relayed
"here if you need,
call me
when you want";
but you, so-and-so
are already gone.
cruel deception
closed doors
on all that was
once close,
always true, forever
standing ground,
turned away.
betrayal keeps close
its cruel deceits
for untrue stories
buried deep.
cruel keeper of secrets
what cloistered
confessional opens
its sorry doors?
to understand
you, the you
who utterly
shamed and ignored.
LOVE
delivers
the
the truth
without delay.
Christmases,
Easters,
graduations,
birthdays,
two lives,
adequately
destroyed
r.i.p.
today.
cloudy
messages
adroitly
employed:
LOVE
came,
it considered all,
not once did it turn
away.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it."
betrayal, lies, deceit, trust, books, death, loss, mirror, silence, sister, love
Ida Kincaid
1866 - 1903
I was Ida Kincaid
Wife of Charles
And mother of a pernicious brood of five sinister sons.
My first born required eighteen hours of excruciating labor,
And I should’ve known then!
After Charles, our son, finally had his behind swatted
By the venerable Doctor Lont,
Charles, my husband, smoked a relieved cigar under the willow tree there,
By the front porch of our Milton Street cottage.
My second pregnancy was like the birthing of a butterfly from its bulging cocoon.
The bloody struggle, I surmised,
Would be my last day on this Earth.
But Doctor Lont
With handkerchief and black bag in tow,
Adroitly saved my life with trembling hands
And a distant stare in his saddened eyes.
Miraculously and stubbornly
I pushed three more squirming boys out of my swollen aching womb,
With the fifth destroying my kidneys.
Charles never knew this,
But I must confess.
Doctor Lont, old Doctor Lont,
Kissed me when Albert first saw the light.
And for a minute there
Old Doctor Lont stopped trembling.
When equanimity falls to the wayside
And the eyes empirically survey the hillside,
It’s Einstein’s time that I can’t bide,
Mawkish mental masturbation adroitly I chide,
Thy self,
Then my discreet self in its inchoate knowledge of reality,
Like the mass of humanity
Dissembling about Nature,
And Nature in turn disassembles matter, that we build up and think
Matters,
Your death is no grand spectacle even if it seems to be,
wrought cosmologies wield fantastical narratives of eternity,
Even when my hero Nietzsche in his tautology: Amor Fati unfolds itself like origami into eternal recurrence
Don’t get any ideas about permanence.
Take an uncompromising acceptance of reality, isn’t that just akin to Buddhist philosophy?
As discreet markings form abstract symbols of meaning in letters that form alphabets, that form words, that form sentences, that form phrases that compose ideology to compel us and histories, that inform us of existence, don’t get too cozy with them as they have a way of presenting like the Horizon,
The horizon, you know is just an illusion.
I do not subscribe to Pascal’s wager, Dawkins showed me the light,
I do not matter much, but no matter, as surely as I exist nothing is more precious.
All religious cosmologies aside, miraculous evocative entertainments beguiling distractions,
"Cogito ergo sum" Descartes comforting statement.
You bring the inside out,
this doubting mind can be certain of existence, by our certain doubt.
“Thick Skinned – What it Feels Like for a Girl”
When you speak
it’s as if stars cascade
out of your mouth
galaxies you produce
musical incantations
that I listen religiously to
I watch your lips
form glistening cupids’ bows
they spread wide open
like the subtle legs
of a forgotten nun
whispering vesper wishes
before priestly sermons
and John Donne
your hushed and salient
remonstrations, you now
plant me in your
sentence,
no, that this should
never have occurred at all
we are irreverent
in our choices
forming new begottens
you usher from the
pulpit of your world
eloquent reasons
to justify wrong from right
right from wrong
as if your internal fortitude
consists within a
mirror universe
deep and soulful
it promises
more than heaven
those curves
and waivers
contracts we signed
some time ago
souls sunk in a
bad marriage
and hushed assurances
of ‘til death do us part weatherin’
kissing the skin
against my throat
the very place
my comeback is primed
to be launched, yours
deliver that kind of
loose compensation
lathered in snake oil
and a clear path
to redemption
that tie my hands
make me mute
I was launched long ago
from safe harbour,
now
off sure
to lay down all my
naked vicious antigens
I have grown in
the petri dish of my
muddy life to fight your
viral love
like diamonds
your words
they sharpen and glisten
cut through
the thick tempered
glass of me,
through the epidermis
of a close-packed woman
you laser your refined tongue
eyes viscerally undressing
you address the wide open
tableau of me, knowing
you adroitly twist your points
penetrating through
to the now
all too familiar
subcutaneous
safe base chakra of me
within a short space of time
I am sold
into
your chicanery
wanting little of the
life that was before
the unfortunate
taming of me
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"What it Feels Like for a Girl"/ Madonna , Paul Oakenfold (Remix)
https://youtu.be/tbtt0WTKqnQ
https://www.huffpost.com/entry/8-steps-that-explain-why-_b_9143360
http://www.hiddenhurt.co.uk/domestic_violence_poems_1.html#learned
https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/7940/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/What_It_Feels_Like_for_a_Girl
If I was Leonard Nimoy I would rush about the place,
I would hold my long pointy fingers in front of me as I sprang from door to door,
My pointy boots deftly propelling me from shadow to shadow my pointy ears sleek in the dark,
I would wear an elf’s cloak like a slender bony wraith and be like Pan in the woods.
If I was Leonard Nimoy, ceaselessly running here and there,
I would fondle things, peruse things, and look under things and open cupboards,
A real nosey sneak, climbing through windows and going through draws,
I’d sniff other people’s belongings with my long sensitive nose,
trying on peoples clothes, reading their diaries, wearing their shoes.
If I was Leonard Nimoy I would be a real cheeky bastard,
Quickly rushing about, hands in front, cloak flapping behind,
Stooping like a thief in the dark, arranging dinner dates, making phone calls,
Then I would vocally abuse people and adroitly cut them down.
If I was Leonard Nimoy I would use my Vulcan logic to orally molest people,
I would line people up with my stone hard glare and coldly hurl verbal perversions at them
Willowy fingers, hunched shoulders, flat black hair, pointy ears, spikey shoes, cloak fluttering behind.
Expressionless, cool, thin and dexterous, I’d cause a right awkward mess behind the scenes.
I needed you In love hopefully grading on to what we had unjustly you fleet abnormal in just finished of what is love conjunction,
Bleeding form are love force on - attached by are father’s graced by the idea and govern of power they looked in fear and enjoyment shamed for there adroitly,
We looked in are eyes as you asked if it was real I just beat the words from my mouth crying my words forcefully we love both men and women you strongly loved in a woman I couldn’t get such devotion to one of the two it never came in a day but many that I never doubted tell my mother disgrace you loved to see in doubt and now undoubted fighting it for what we feel is normally is not yours,
You try more feeling the same solution and yet you cry and beg yet I cry to get you're undivided love as a brother as a gamer as a friend it’s not god that stop me it’s what I want are love to be in the since of godliness. He cries not for are incest but for are communicate of protestation in are minds we aroused,
School is what we forced down are trivial honor for David for you to be in his court for me is for you’re existence I try not to cry if I fail you must do the same as of I you must evaluate your options and choice,
You're lucky never touched they desiccative muddily course to loved on the spot of preparation of gashes blanked in inner fears joyed in immurement please don’t make me see you this way go and love the ones that engage in your simplistic act of enjoyment,
One more try not to leaded on are ways are endgame is to let all love but to love all not in the thought of sex we jump with out hesitation only hurting those with preparations of man for God.
Alone at four this silence my amazing ally
The quiet is astoundingly amplified
One person always awakes adroitly
Once again annoys, but I aspire to align
One accolade accomplished; I didn't scream
I can only be accessible if
Alone again adjust my thoughts to God
Date: 04/08/2021
The garrulous, Greek grape gatherers,
Joined joyously with jocund japes,
The olive pickers and Ostrich plucker’s,
Celebrating the seasons success in song.
The querulous quiver of musical quavers,
From a quorum of quality wine quaffer’s
Reverberated robustly round the room,
And resonated rhythmically from the roofs rafters.
An altercation arose amongst some aggressive Athenians,
Averting an armed argument was avoided adroitly,
By brave, bold buskers, brusquely berating their bombast,
And loudly and laudably lamenting such Loutish leanings.
Personally I drank my Retsina and went back to my Hotel,
The Veiled Rebecca
The neoclassical Italian sculptor Giovani Belzoni created The Veiled Rebecca in 1863. It depicts the biblical character Rebecca, wife of Isaac (son of Abraham ) who veiled herself on meeting her future husband .The artistry and high level of skill of the sculptor is evident in the establishment of stone as a fabric covering the body with folds chiselled with such skill that it appears real. A veiled woman during those times had become an allegory for Italian unification .
Benzoni's workshop made a number of copies , one of which is in the Salar Jung Museum in Hyderabad , in India.
A few lines on the famous sculpted image are presented below:
The Veiled Rebecca
Melody in marble , a sculptor molded you as a fount of mystery ,
You remain cherished in the sacred vaults of history,
Carved in stone , veiled , as you stood before Isaac , immaculate art,
Cloth folded in stone, did Benzoni adroitly insert,
Your face , hidden yet alive, millions of watchers admire,
A countenance that blessed tales inspire,
Every awestruck voice your enigmatic grace does ponder,
You remain , a perennial source of mystery and wonder,
For eternity, O Rebecca , would you remain behind the veil,
Your hallowed story time shall repeatedly tell.