Best Articulated Poems
Take AI’s verses
and make them yours,
fake wisdom through
generated synonyms,
stolen from
the thesaurus of thieves.
Maybe there are no pages for
inkless minds
that lack creativity,
or maybe pigments
in their ink have no stability.
Originality comes
from an authentic realm,
so why become a poetic predator,
stealing this pain,
and claiming it
as your own
testimony of healing.
Think twice when
you confuse
my silence as blindness.
I can see through
those soulless words,
that hold no
meaning nor insight.
You influence me to
question if your
quill actually
comprehends the
depths of the
metaphors I’ve woven.
Poetry is not always
defined by iambic pentameters,
nor by syllables
and insincere irony
articulated as
illusive imagery
in your fabricated foolery,
as every stanza is
how a poet perceives the world,
weaving words
into artistic confessions.
A poet’s heart is
graphically
bleeding upon
the edges of a canvas,
sketching sentiments
in shades of scarlet and sangria,
dipped in acute
amaranth acrylic.
You copy generated
text on
your virtual feed,
finding opportunities
to paraphrase someone
else’s personal prose,
yet remain ignorant to
feel their aura
from screens far away
"The Theory of Positivism"
It’s criminal
all theories tie that life
in neat tight black bows
the presents under
that tree of life
wide spread
arms once wide open
now closed
are presence of mind
essence embedded
in a heart shut tight
pumping blood cold steel
silver bullets
tutorial delivers the student
an exercise exorcised
in a class room
all glass barriers
broken
revealed in sharp shards
by observer
with scientific mind
articulated
strings
unravel irrationally
Love is the Key
that opens
and locks all doors
Irrevocably
no tears shed at weddings
future turns it back
on past tensed
were there
weddings
question mark
in time
sealed
official
red wax
stopped
Survival
reflex
temporal
hushed
yet
revealed
Pull the Trigger
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
“Remember Us” / Aqualung feat. Sara Bareilles
https://youtu.be/J5Ecrt96ojo
Assessment, 2.
How can we “cure” deviance when psychological positivism has many
distinct and conflicting theories?
https://openoregon.pressbooks.pub/ccj230/chapter/4-6-positivist-criminology
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Positivist_school_(criminology)
https://www.bartleby.com/essay/The-Psychological-Positivism-Theory-On-All-Of-F3EBSL9CPLL5
trigger.
https://www.goodtherapy.org/blog/psychpedia/trigger
LYRICS/ "Remember Us", Aqualung feat. Sarah Bareilles
https://genius.com/Aqualung-remember-us-lyrics
I took one thought, which then led to some others.
These thoughts were not my own, but they conveyed
a picture bigger than my mind alone
could conjure, and a frame for them I made.
I showed this collage of bright thoughts to others -
thoughts articulated by stunning minds.
So proud was I to frame them for display.
I looked at all of them as precious finds.
But many could not see the beauty in them
(the beauty of their logic). Then I saw
some people spat on them and called as garbage
those very thoughts that filled me with such awe.
Some glanced at them and said they might have credence.
Most people would not look at them at all.
The ones who spat on them walked right up to them
and ripped them from the frame up on my wall.
They took those brilliant thoughts I found so precious
(those thoughts which formed ideas I’d found true)
and mocking them, they cumpled them all up.
Into the garbage bin those thoughts they threw.
I picked them up, uncrumpling them, and since
great people’s thoughts they are (not pearls for swine),
I’ll show them to the few whom I can trust
to not mock thoughts that have turned into mine.
Jan. 10, 2021
I listen to the waves sighing,
like words seized from the weary,
an island that trembles
to the tune of every tide forged
with artificial aquamarines,
like accolades articulated
with aesthetic lies,
misleading the mindless,
ridiculing the rhythm,
as if we are all blindfolded ~
bleeding ballads of the broken,
borrowed from buried poets,
still breathing amidst their demise…
But if only they knew:
imageless imitation never
impressed the Imagists,
the ones who care
not for rhyme’s retardation ~
that sounds like absolute absurdity.
So tonight, as I write
with granite and garnet,
I long for perfumed light
to school the manipulated rules,
claiming to know it all,
sitting in their emptiness,
unaware of neither
what’s right nor wrong.
I am the unblemished;
I breathe not illusions
embalmed with poison.
I am original ~
a word that no longer is present
in the dictionary of the deceitful…
Winter approached
in hours of finality,
quelled midst midnight's
imperfectly lit enticement
of darkly notable
impressive spirits,
motioning a welcomed
goodbye gesture,
laying to rest
a chilled salutation,
as ghostly ambitions
commenced to play
a well articulated
empowering seduction,
chasing lullaby's softly
dreamt enchantment,
sleeping peaceably
unfurled beyond
destined reawakening,
condemned to limbo
“Sacrifice”
I believed
I believed in Man
Lucid was my Love
for you
I walked the longest line
for you
I articulated
the message
with my blood
drop by drop
you drank my story
I drank you all up
Through the windows
of my soul
I watched you
from my skies
Did you feel my tears
when I reigned
down o'er you
I guess some did,
others not
I believe
I believe in Man
Here is my hand
take it
Those with courage
come take my hand
I believe
I believe in Man
Those with courage
come take my hand
I walked the longest line
for you
Like Romans laughed
and turned their backs -
Do you think
I’d turn?
I’ll keep walking
towards you -
I won’t turn back
I still impart
my message
to you
Sublimely
amidst the
majority
not the few
I believe
I believe in the
Love and Light
in Man
Those with courage
come take my hand
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2020)
Easter, 12.4.20,
Sydney Australia
“Look, he is coming with the clouds,”
and “every eye will see him,
even those who pierced him”;
and all peoples on earth “will mourn because of him.”
Rev 1: 1-7
“It is by faith that poetry,
as well as devotion,
soars above this dull earth;
that imagination
breaks through its clouds,
breathes a purer air,
and lives in a softer light”.
“BELIEVE”
My perspective is of pristine settings,
A vantage of raw beauty.
Articulated in a naturalistic way,
With great tenacity and duty.
I’m an interpreter of what is sensed,
The author of my own experiences.
I write from my writing spot,
Of many of nature’s lenience’s.
I capture momentary flashes,
Of inspiration, which I adore.
I’m forever occupied and proud,
To be a chronicler of outdoors.
Words have color and intent,
texture, size and shape;
loosed by emotions we give
legs to lowly travel, and wings
to keep them aloft~ those articulated
ribboned kites we fly in our poetry
Once released, we can never take
them entirely back
Words knit together and scatter,
Blend and splatter
Mend and shatter – make smile
and tear...
Words are everything to
marvel under and over
Something for everyone
we should both treasure
and fear.
Synchronized Perfection 1-26-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Synchronized Perfection
Breathe in the feathery tickle, whorls of sweet spice in synonyms,
Similes that make you sneeze exhaling fresh lines of images
On swirls of ink gel conceived in the passion of inspired vertigo
While a joyful unbroken strand ignites hypnotic godly fires
And opaque falls from enigma’s vision releasing rhythmic respirations
Into blank lines and cryptic puzzles haunting insight flowing
With the whimsy of grace in one, uninterrupted breath to unravel
Obstacles of articulated lost verses on satin thermals of lyric grace
Gliding across a flat white parchment sea of conundrums opened
Riding in the groove blessed by synchronized perfection.
Written: April 6, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We dwell in the sanctuary of slumber.
Where stars fade away, light may encumber.
Oh, the comfort found in weak rays of light.
Do they disappear quickly as a passing night?
Fireflies dance upon the summer's veil.
As winter jar embraces me, I stand pale.
Gazing at horizons, seeking a distant light,
Does it seek me, too? In the depths of night.
It softly murmurs, filled with a deep desire.
An intricate interplay of destiny and attire.
Does it hunt me down as well?
It behaves as if it were a mild wind swell.
Keeping hidden tales from the light.
Articulated with precision and clarity.
Seasons, adorned with heavenly sight.
Nature's pattern was weaved into parity.
In hues of gold and crimson blaze,
A symphony of beauty, nature's praise.
Whispering gently, my name echoes.
Through the corridors of time, it flows.
A melodic refrain, gentle and sweet,
In the realm of echos, our souls meet.
Bathed in a light embrace,
Reaching optimum grace.
A speck emerges, sudden and small.
Darkness that outshines them all.
Oh, that ethereal glowing
A strange beauty, perfectly flowing.
Gravity, oh, how it strikes, high
With a force that no one can deny,
It hits adamantine, with all its might.
A power that holds us tight.
Efo Komla Afeke Dumor
Fruitful palm with cheerful fronts
Pride of the soil of Africa
Adored in broad shades of confidence
Never minced words articulated
Words of truth and fidelity
East, West, South and North
Yesterday at noon as I tarried
Your warm chair was empty
This might be a byte I perceived;
Of your professional sense of humor
So I dared to ask: where is that friendly bee?
Whose voice echoed for attention
Attention to focus on Africa, mother Africa
Soon came a dirge: our brother, has joined ancestors
Shakespeare,Nkrumah,Mandela
On the land beyond the river
To broadcast sweet news untold
Oh! Komla Dumor!
May I view a smile for the last?
Sleep well Komla! Bien dormir Dumor!
Her embedded dialect,
Savored
I become a speechless stanza,
Craving her conjugated inhales
Hopped up grins,
Engorge momentary lapse of pre-judgments
Grandfathered seconds pass my retinas with
3rd eye epiphanies,
As she encroaches my textured tomorrows
How do I fly upon this gifted morn
When her lily-coated grins placate my Gaia wings,
Without uncertainty’s scorn
How do I breathe new breaths,
When her articulated verbs
Conjugate my silence
…
©Drake J. Eszes
After all is said and done, cliché style
(Forgive me if this does not rhyme, I'm moving
Past rhyme for the sake of rhyme)
You will have gone away rich and returned for more
Because you thought you knew what you needed
To feel loaded, fulfilled and needed
You thought you knew your needs
And had articulated and defined them to a tee
You knew all the similes that ran parallel to your feelings
But those were nothing more than thoughts
Which is why a mind is such a terrible thing to have
You thought
You knew the right ingredients for happiness
Just the right mix
To make laughter and an electrifying smile
A happy ever after which, you thought
Existed in cash and came contained
In bags of gold marked with silver linings
which you carried a thousand miles
Only to end up clutching a plastic smile
Because all the nonsense you collected turned out
To have a mind of its own
So, you met yourself returning from that place and thinking
Was I better off before I became better off
Or did I believe a lie? Of course, you were drunk then
And you certainly are drunk now
Except you have no idea what it is. You're in the dark like me
And even now I hear a chorus of ayes and nays
And someone letting out a wry laugh and shouting amen
Because the bottom line is this; this will resonate
Even if it doesn't. I will let you be the judge of that
Folks trying to nod and shake their heads at the same time
Take it easy people, this is exactly what you think it is
Name it what you will. If the cap fits, I suggest you wear it
And so, cliché style, you returned
To the place from which you had returned
Because enough was not enough. You wanted more
But needed less of more and more of less
And fortunately, or unfortunately, about this you were clueless
All that glittered was just a bag full of humus
And once you admitted this to yourself a new light shone
And you wondered how come you'd missed this all along
But couldn't dwell on that because you had better things to do
In the end you gave away all the matters that had mattered
And in half breaths cursed and muttered
Words and phrases too precious to repeat in this space
In the end you were richer without the riches
And much more comfortable without the restraining breeches
From a society that had always wanted to define and control your mind
‘Tis a wondrous bit of structure,
Literature is indeed
And from this, an insightful glimpse of culture
Truly marvelous to read
Lest we negate such writings, these we overlook
Nay, treasure these works of fine penmanship
These that have been structured by true finesse
Every page of every book
Is truly something of craftsmanship
Certainly more, but never less
Oh literature, how you’ve stood the test of time
And many trials you have faced
You have no preference, be it free verse or rhyme
Every work is something of beauty, and not merely haste
Ay, ‘tis exquisite writing I do sincerely cherish
Writing that shall never decay
For mankind is bound to cessation, this, not known to writing
Man will see finality, but ideas shall never perish
Truly, a notion to live by each day
Words that are surely inciting
Language lends inspiration to the mind
This we transfer to paper by pen
Such moving words one labors to find
And this process, we repeat again
But what is in literature that which we seek?
Is it the sophisticated nature of such diction,
That of probable bombast?
Truly we have intentions both mild and meek
For such articulated words are surely not that of dereliction
Thus we discover a divine afflatus from edifying writings of the past
How scenic is phrenetic fantasy
Which fulminates within the manic mind
Yet hides inside synaptic revelry,
Articulated, yes, but hard to find?
The minor absolution one demands
From higher born authority than self
Is often found in foreign sounding lands
Or back of boxes hiding on the shelf.
The madness of the mad though sad is not
Without a nod transcendent, in a way;
Which forces Joyce to ponder over plot
And not which punctuation to display.
Now take your time and read Ulysses first,
Before the Wake of Finnegan is shown;
For Finnegan becomes eternal thirst
Where cognitive resolve remains unknown.
Now bitter battles still are fought with fire
In hallowed halls of higher learning fame
Where academic's fight against desire
To elevate James Joyce's brilliant name.
Finnegan's Wake can make a man go mad;
Incomprehensible at best, some say.
Such genius has a way of causing sad
Reverberations all along the way.
So read a Portrait of the Artist first
Then add Ulysses if you have the need;
But Finnegan's Wake - unquenchable thirst
A book to blow your brain and make it bleed.