Best Arbiter Poems
Enjoy being young, the downward
rush of seeming omnipotence; too
soon the flow, inevitably will slow,
and then, the upstream paddle –
enjoy being moist and juiced...
before the creak and the rattle –
although youth may seem an
unfair battle at times, with challenges
insurmountable, often one pleading
for a divine arbiter, old-age reveals
the true tensile of character – and
the worth of a trying journey before the
welcoming gurney –
Written: September 11, 2023
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Don't fret, dear; let's wend off the strife,
Candor your winsome grace—embrace life.
With a smile—arouse your inner fire,
Ignite the magic; cater glamour to inspire.
Revamp your vibes—yield them to radiate,
With the incitement of compassion, illuminate.
Empower the night to be a canvas for our dance,
Culminate in a symphony of romance.
Desultory whispers—replenish the air,
As diaphanous souls entwine in a rhythm so rare.
The night comes alive with a dulcet melody,
As love's symphony apes, lights shine merrily.
Our souls are in a dalliance—a longing dance,
Bodies squirming, hearts fluttering, stance.
With every toast, zeal will appear,
Early dawdles are the dulcet music we hear.
As a beacon, your smile paves the way,
Honing my grasp, velvety as tunes, light as spray.
The sky is our gossamer, and the stars our harbinger,
As we swirl and spin to the beat of a cosmic arbiter.
Hearts mellifluously carol a saccharine song,
as the opulent moon dances and bears us along.
Every tread, every nudge, every glance,
Speaks volumes of passion in a pastiche dance.
Once again, dear, let's ravel in the heavenly night,
Bosom compassion; wend our spirits; bear flight.
A sumptuous moment, no quest to pretend,
Our hearts will carol—until the seraglio trend.
(in memoriam, Eugene Lawler, d. January 29, 2012, aged 83 years)
--- Note: "The singing machine" is a not so tongue-in-cheek reference to Gene and his penchant for singing whenever and wherever he wished, as well as to his karaoke
equipment and his nickname at bars that featured karaoke nights. ---
You fancied yourself a singer,
and indeed you were.
What songs we heard from you
you had made your own,
and you gave them freely
to all who would listen
(though we were just a few
who were, at times, inattentive.)
Time and remembrance may color
the images you left behind,
and the sentimental songs
you sang (and scribed on silver disks
for us to hear when, and if, we will)
may prod us to recall
your willful, dour demeanor
which could bloom into benevolence
or darken further in stormy sneers
at tardiness, or at perceived
maltreatment of any sort.
You were your own arbiter of behavior
who kept before you expectations
of what was appropriate, for yourself
and for us, the others of your kind.
We were few (still fewer now),
who flocked together on occasion
to celebrate, in quiet fashion,
whatever anniversary we chose --
perhaps your passing date
will become another to be marked.
And your voice, reproduced mechanically,
amplified, may remind us of our loss,
and of yours.
Hearts on fire
Over heads that sire
New couple on the double
Every action becomes triple
Yearning for each other's hand
Maneuvering who has a better hand
On truth or consequence
Or Games of the General
No arbiter is allowed... just being real and literal!
There once was man of means, who owned land that yielded a great harvest.
Thus caused the tearing down of a small storage house, to building a greater storage house.
Over time, he spent much of it being merry, selling small portions to fill his treasure house, whilst still yielding a great harvest keeping the great storage house full beyond measure, equally so, his treasury.
*As scriptured.
Jesus was asked to be an arbiter (an adjudicator, one who settles disputes) by a young man in the midst who wanted a fair portion belonging to his brother, whom 'twas given by virtue of birthright being the first born/eldest, according to the Laws of Israel. The younger brother wanted a fair portion of that that was given to his elder brother according to the birthright Laws of Israel. Therefore, the parable was a foreboding of covetousness, that what Heaven hast blest, thou shouldn't hoard as thine own, but to the furtherance of the teachings of Heaven. For what does it purposeth, when no one knoweth the hour when their life becomes forfeit and whatever has been gained, will go to those who had not earned it by labour, nor to those who have no need of it, nor to those who will sell off all your once prized possessions, at less than its true worth and squander it all away. Accumulation of wealth, is necessary but do not imprison thine heart to it and enrich self, but instead, enrich others, both physically and spiritually.
Date: 06/22/2019
let me live
don't burden me
with more than I can bear
don't coerce me
into believing things
from your reference point
I'm tired
let me live
these decisions weigh me down
the expenditure of thought
analytical thinking
that goes against the grain
of my compassionate heart
taxes me
it comes at a cost
I'm tired
let me live
my struggles with myself
are in and of themselves
hidden land mines
in the battlefield you call life
I'm maimed
walking wounded
looking for that fox hole
in someone's heart
where there's protection
from whizzing bullets of doubt
don't trouble me
with trivials
when I'm only on survival mode
let me live
when I'm of sound body and mind
come to me then
I'll have energy to spare
emotions to expend
and a clear functioning mind
then I can give ear to your grievance
and play arbiter
but not now
if you care
let me live
my life is ebbing
chronic emotional fatigue
alibied by my smile
please be kind
let me live
I only have
this one life
to
live.
let me live
Eileen Manassian
waved away from certain topics
Yolanda and her Singing Saw blade
captured the intellectual integrity
of a generation in readjustment
freedom springs only from freedom kids
so lock your shields and set your pikes
and whatever else unmasks the poseurs
making mischief upon civilization
with zero police penetration
weighed and calibrated by the
by the US Bureau of Insanity
warned by the masked men at Masked Men U.
we'll find out if your daddy raised a fool
putting on a carefree face
clinging to childhood like a lost puppy
once again it's political suicide everywhere
the archetypes are tramping
through my head like Hitlerjugen
convulsed in the Little Death championship
strutting and hooting for a mate
will today's monster be tomorrow's arbiter of grace
Godzilla was eventually tamed was he not
he now does handyman work
and can come around some time
and get that squeak out of your door
that feudal ignorance and superstition
start with whatever impedes your mind
laughter will watch your back
cognition is a word game
rally and carry the colors with insolence
like a glowing catalytic converter
streaking across the endless night
distant from instinct like a horizon
illuminating a physics of the psyche
alive with maladapted ardor
like a dynasty of serial plagiarists
what then exactly is attention
news flash we are way past neolithic
up where the power meets the grid
if your point of observation is outlawed
only the involuntary spasms will remain
and a persistent mania for theology
to be dissected like laboratory toads
and poked with battery wires
where pickpockets with scissors
leave your pants a bit breezy
while clicking the mouse button of God
in a well orchestrated decoy fiasco
a talent show for the inept
tonight we have a knockout lineup
with lots of orange explosions
horrendous vs. hellacious
mastodon hair from the freezer
slapped on the bald spots
by a rapidly wilting imagination
strumming its ukelele in a hammock
burnt to a crisp in a flaming car wash
his soul finally attained its freedom
such as it was soot and ashes by then
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
His language is spontaneously slang with slavish saliva-
Watching beneath his own tooth’s.
What more can he appropriately appreciate when he is left with the tongues of a toothless bull dog, missed up in an unfulfilled destiny.
What is left for him to know is locked up yet again in an unknown destiny.
The ocean is wrapped round in circles of stupid destinies- watered and washed in Liquids of the dead sea; the final arbiter of death.
Fooled and unfilled is what he turned into- 30 years ago.
I was told in the beginning
That a wish may not well be unicorn
With two winged thrust-thronged
To soar upon the cumulus,
And for those who are wishing
Wishes to fall on their laps
Were wholly rendered redundant,
Those who want to attain,
Tainted and tarnished past attainment
Forgetting forward fortune
And glory in goods temporary.
Now those who dole out mischief;
Sowing the seed of acrimony
Rotten in corruptible credo
Reshuffling reservoir of redundancy
To establish the roots of inertia,
Of Demo-CRAZY
Of masq-UERADES
Of lob-BEASTS
Of cons-titu-PATION
Of elders
Of fools
Of economy
Of pain
Of nemesis
Of crying jags
And hopelessness, deep furrows on wanton minds
Remembering the deceit of denigration
That brought doomed to deserving daddies
That it is always a surprise,
Unwilling stallion in the midst
Of same blind, semblance sahibs,
A remembrance of the past remembrance
Raising the boys to take the Salutary gauntlet
of the favour done
To pave the way
For stock taking and a quiet get out,
Of the unending, pass measure euphoria,
Then it fell on the laps
Of a fiery warrior; then
The dance of the macabre
And a sycophantic applause,
Mutatis mutandis, endless queues
Of rebounding stomachs
Roaming, rounder the ruins
Recounting remnant reservoir
Denouncing, declaring deceiving
All one enmeshed in the same pot
For the final stir of the arbiter.
The chains that bind me are soft as silk,
Gossamer to the touch, so thin you wouldn’t think they could hurt...
They seem no more than mere bangles,
Jewelled manacles adorning throat and wrists and ankles
They don’t grate on my skin, barely fray the edges of my nerves
Most of the time I don’t even realise they are there
You must be so proud of yourself my love;
You were the weaver of these restraints,
The arbiter of this subtle asphyxiation
You ensnared me with ropes of words, with sweet nothings
And declarations of impassioned love,
Spoken in the name of God, the Merciful, the Ever Watchful
If only I possessed even a fragment of such omnipotence –
I would not be here now, tangled in this soft silver stranglehold,
In these necklaces and girdles and garters of a lover’s laws
When was the moment where you stopped being gentle
And became, instead, a gentle-eyed tyrant?
I must have blinked and missed it, or been blinded by your beguiling smile
Anyway it does not matter now, because here I am,
Dying a slow perfumed death in your ghostly arms,
Reduced to a bewildered puppet on the ends of your serrated steel strings
The secrets of my being stuffed deep down inside of my soul,
Where you cannot find them – where only God can see
Because you seem to have lost sight of what I am baby
And only God will be the one to show you the real, wild and untamed me
The person I am supposed to be...
Live as others see,
just what it is we do
Uncomplicated so to speak,
Superficial surface, simple rules
unfolding actions
Genuflecting before the holy altar
Or living the life provided
But there is the backgrounder
The arbiter, arbitrator of who we are
Giving opinions, comments
On every lasting moment
Final liable depending on circumstances
That we don’t necessarily agree to see
Directs us to those actions
might puzzle even on lookers
The final ruler, the master slave
Who lives deep down, lives so far down
No one knows from country which
Only guess at his (hers) presence
Involved in more, much more
Then you would ever guess
Smoke reveals flame, spring needs rain
The presence shapes the flowing current
And talks tales to the tiller,
A stronger voice when seas’ in turmoil
Surprisingly directed seemingly
unthoughtful actions
To those who stand and stare
Surprising mostly to ourselves
Unfamiliar with the master slave
Who lives so far below.
Winter Cabin Reality
by Odin Roark
The storm door
Improperly closed
Bangs violently
The clapboard shedding
White paint chips
Wounds without first aid
Flecks of age
Mixing with the drifting snow
Walls shudder with the gusts
Windowpanes rattle their death threat
Should one shatter
Beware flood gates of frozen forever
When will guardians arrive
The stewards of their weary retreat
Providing solace for this place
We so willing endure
Harsh punishment
This loneliness of disuse
The fear of abandonment
Looming
Looming
Always looming
Such anxiety for...
In order...
In order to...
Appease elements restless
Unhappy
Feeling forsaken
The stove sad
Laboring for no one
The refrigerator longing
Waiting like a giant petri dish
Anxious to be opened and examined
Bed covers squirm amidst
Nature's innate seekers of shelter
Six-leggers pass four-leggers in the night
Perplexed
Wondering
Where is everyone?
Field mice
The basements fortress of faith
Anticipate the happy slogging
Of drunken feet above
The excess food celebrated not
Falling through spaces of beamed flooring
Affording reserves for future seasons of need
Thus awaits the wilderness shelter
Determined to remain creative
As temperatures drop even lower
On this little respected life-saver
Multiple-soul make-over haven
Urban's satellite arbiter for sanity
Earnestly it awaits yesterday's loyally
Its generational-visitor relay
Its reason to hold on
Its inducement
To stay whole
Just one more year
Crunching snow outside raises hope
Two mice
Three spiders
One gentle squirrel share
"Got to be more than a bear"
When one reaches the heady heights of longevity
frail as in wear and tear physical agility,
a license to look upon each imminent birthday
celebrated by all in sundry but one’s bemused self,
as a reminder of the ultimate arbiter, time
soon to come a calling with his rigid agenda.
With every sunrise this perpetual antagonist
whom delves in give and take creates the perfect diagnosis,
when he allows one a moment to dwell in years of their youth
then a fraction of an anomaly, forgotten one’s name.
© Harry J Horsman 2016
Person crying and weeping for freedom
Roasted in the lonely cell of criminality
In seclusion from the family, friends
State being the arbiter and mercy-monger
Often kept for pleasure of a few
Never allowed to enjoy all that’s enjoyable
Ever living with stigma and fear of society
Reasoning is a taboo even under hellish pain
Them and us under a Bombers Moon
By Steven Cooke
Making love to my demons
Under the flag of my country
Caught in between the never believer
And a pardon of angels,
Who bargain their souls for my redemption,
Empowered by a nation,
Glorified by heroes departed
My life sanctified by religious compromise
For tonight I fly, under the bombers moon
Nearer to God than most
I see the world differently,
This Earth orbits in a sea of cold
My plane hidden in its recess,
A place where silent screams dwell
And rainbows are sent to die.
Away from the gaze of my enemy,
A phrase worthy of the Devil
Away from the patriots sting,
These too, sanctified by a religious hand.
The History books dilemma
My run begins
My mind listens to a confess of whispers,
The engines my Priest,
The bomb doors open,
Horsemen of The apocalypse,
Released from their tethers
I am the Arbiter of Death
As in Nature, Chance will decide
The faceless will fall
And god willing I will return home.
In the scheme of things
A Cities worth is one minute, 23 seconds
The camera to record in slow mo for Posterity,
And to delight the victorious.
The Impact sweeps away the sweat of past generations
Creates queues of ghosts, waiting,
To lay in row after row, of white marble.
Their silent screams absorbed into Heavens Gate,
A cold Hallelujah for God to judge.
Just another day on planet earth
But don’t worry,
Time, like, the brook of sighs, will wash away these sins
But not the seeds,
For we are the gardeners of sin,
Their germination, lovingly corrupted
In our differences, them and us
The Pillars of capitalism our advantage.
The fear of the Devil theirs
Our final epitaph in the circle of life,
We are conditioned to repeat the mistakes of the past,
As is the Wilder beast to cross the River of Death,
Or theologians using religion as a weapon of war
The devil and the Crocodile dines well, on such a menu
We truly are, a blessed Race.