Best Allocution Poems
It’s amazing how a simple glass of wine,
Can unleash a hidden thought or meaning
You’d think as much as I’ve consumed in life,
I would have a tome that’s gleaming
Full of wise, sagacious oratory
Of thoughts that help the mind
But maybe it’s all piffle, of the wrong kind
You see it’s a very simple thing,
If you’re a writer from the heart
It doesn’t matter how or if you cloud it,
It may someday become someone’s art
God has provided us one of many bounties, the grape
That sometimes helps unleash the sometimes hidden shape
Of some very blessed minds from the most blessed of us all
It may be a way to help reach our true selves, or sometimes break through a wall
So now that I’ve made this potentially absurd assertion
It’s time to prove the theory, with some not so perfect allocution
Of some wise, thoughtful insight into a single glass of wine
For without passion and effort in the making
It may not enable the divine
So maybe try a glass of the fermented grape
When next you feel the block of the writer,
And when others read your work thereafter,
Things may turn out brighter.
We all hear about the habits of successful people,
My habits are not the same.
Successful people, whatever that means,
Their habits seem kind of tame.
I don’t read a lot, nor organize my year,
Nor ever get up bright and chirpy.
I enjoy writing my thoughts, living spontaneously,
Then waking up feeling blurry.
I dance in elevators, touch hot plates,
And practice arguments in my head.
And rather than minimizing distractions,
I live with color and music instead.
And when I’m on the phone I don’t sit
And pronounce with perfect allocution.
I walk the house laughing, joking and swearing-
It’s a trusted institution.
I would like to eat healthy, drink water, walk heaps,
And regularly go and press weights.
But I love my kebabs after a night at the pub,
Dancing, drinking and singing with mates.
Actually, the other day, I went for a run, through the rain,
In the car park, to my car.
It was a fun little run; I dodged bullets and missiles,
Pretending I was a big movie star.
Well, thinking about it, my habits are successful,
Other people’s just don’t match mine.
To me it’s about being happy, open and free, it was easy,
“Success” I would redefine.
A miraculously flat prison
A site of utter allocution
Bearing witness to decision
Beholding not of retribution
Conversations with it an act of utter futility
Covering does not instill a sense of humility
Dimensionally free
Damning still is thee
Efficacy is still eluding
Escapism found brooding
Finally, a simple pathway to contrition
Fracture this mirror, my final decision
Huddled poor the masses, did you say, not I.
Whirlpools hide the dragon and it's eye.
Needles would I thread upon one point.
Before the Gavel falls, I'd hear your allocution.
While one was never made, ambition grew.
Each priest before his god, one never stood.
Here a rose and there it's bud, yet beauty paused.
Lillie's look caused her to Donn a rustic mask.
James McLain Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I am a child beneath their sky,
A hush of stars, a lullaby—
And all the world was built of song
Until the night betrayed me wrong.
No judge could see the soul I kept,
No jury heard the way I wept,
They took my name and made a stain,
And left me naked and in my pain.
The doors were steel, the floor was stone,
The cries around me not my own.
A shadow moved—then terror came,
And no one dared to speak my name.
That first long night they took my light,
No morning ever made it right.
The cell was small, the screams were loud,,
Another bled to death beside.
His blood, a starburst on my face,
The proof that I was out of place—
Too soft, too strange, too full of sun,
Too innocent to hold a gun.
They said, "You have your trial anew,"
The law made promises untrue.
They signed the paper, stamped the day,
Then left me there to waste away.
No hand reached out, no voice replied,
And so I lived as though I’d died.
I said what must be said to leave—
They smiled, but did not care, believe.
I’m not made strong like men of war,
My mind a book they won’t explore.
I’m different—soft—autistic, still,
And none could see my force of will.
They wanted blood, or guilt, or tears,
A pound of flesh, more not less,
Not innocence, not broken years.
Without allocution, speech, or plea,
They never once looked into me.
So tell me now, what must I do—
With truth ignored and shadows true?
I walk among you, marked and marred,
With justice lost and judgment scarred.
Yet still I dream of meadows wide,
Of springtime rivers I could ride.
For even in this ash and crust,
Some roses bloom in blood and dust.