Best Attests Poems
The gun seems gun-shy in this space;
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
and granddad-tick-tocks beat, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun
a “trophy-bagger” in its rack,
a loud-mouth predator at rest,
this motherless, brother-less thug
perceives no pity-pangs... the gun
now quiet, buckshot empty, cold.
Above the stove’s phoenix soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.
A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize.
Indeed, like litterfall they fell,
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun
a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot!
that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!
Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king!
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun
felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.
Timely sifting, sets slowly drifting
lofty apart, aloof of sort
as lost ships, in tidal dips
as ocean attests, perils at best
sortie Est, sortie Quest
Through a remembered gate, serpent’s dream abates
love’s reasoning renewed, ego’s reasoning eschew
the garden that parts, by two reasonings sorts
the soul of flesh, from sacred heart in stash
begin again, O man of sin
stored wisdom is cash, of heaven’s stash
wisdom of counterfeit, as though a serpent’s ego spit
unleavened reasoning vs the reasoning with seasoning,
the cost not less than all, the serpent’s gall...
the ego spit, that caused the split
A soul becomes gold, by his protocol bold
a soul is made bold, of the sacred mold
timely sifting, ends all drifting
through remembered gate, love’s will abates
ego’s oblations, of satanic orientations
Selah
Inspired by TS Eliot poem “The Remembered Gate”
Cuba…Mamma Mia…like most of the Caribbean; part of the 1492 slam…
Slavery, sugar plantations… invasions, upheaval, independence…
Then the American kisses; with a slight twist…who initiated the ’disses’…?
Was it Blaine…is he insane…?
Was it Marti…the heart of the party…?
Or Teller…many say he was the real speller…
Or Estrada Palma…could he have been the calmer…?
Was it San Martin…any questions of his parting…?
Or was it Batista…is he the real twister…?
With his interwove of expansion…then stagnation and dissatisfaction…
Coupled with his increased economic regulation plan…
Was this the spike for the revolution…?
Enter Castro; was he the real maestro…his thoughts, his plans; communize the land…?
Centralize, non-democratize…ostracize, reorganize…
The politics…were they laden in tricks…?
The CIA; not here to stay… but what role did they play…?
When they realize the RAF size…what will they emphasize…?
With great plans to defeat…did they end in retreat…?
Now with Eisenhower…speculations of a great shower…
But after only months…fixation shift to ouster hunts…
Severed diplomatic relations…the new sensation…
Impositions of trade embargo…the ‘Fargo’ in my cargo…?
The ‘Bay of Pigs’…will you understand the gigs…?
The ‘Cuban Missile Crisis’…what was this Tri-fit…?
The military games…were these substances in flames…?
For a superpower war…or the everlasting scars…?
Of suppression, political persecution…migration, and interventions…
In Angola, and Ethiopia…from Nicaragua to North Africa…
To the Congo…to some say; ‘Jah Mek Yah’…?
Cooperation with Russia…was this the real crusher…?
The mid-eighties…the beginning of their ending gaiety’s…?
The dissolving of the Soviet Union…continuation of the country’s isolations…
Reduced rations…the new fashion…
Unpainted buildings…now the in-thing…
Old vehicles with limited repairs…any scares…?
Lack of electricity…did it colour the ethnicity…?
A country on the verge…is there a new urge…?
Tourist attraction…one logical concoction…
Amidst the flow…of system many Cubans know…
The US now attests…it is in the country’s interest…
Cuba has withstood the test…put the embargo to rest…?
Born in Cincinnati that buckeye state
January 13th 1959 – 57+ years to date
A tangle of arms & legs testing lungs, which sounded great
He kind of resembled a misshapen octopus with oval pate
Glowering inxs of deep purple from blue mood being irate
Thrust out the womb of Harriet Harris whom Boyce did date
After courting this youngest Kuritsky kin whose ill-fate
Whisked by grim reaper, which demise she did hate
For her being imbued with vim and vinegar til illness ate
Away her je nais sais quois personable maternal trait
Evident during my boyhood reflected by her son of late
As he too inches closer to his mortality and Hades gate
Aware that each day ought to be cherished as the rate
Of time courses down that zip line where grim reaper does wait
Attired in brand name hoodie swinging scythe across oblate
Spheroid i.e. terrestrial firmament – though many years some great
Yet to be lived – trying to recapture childhood bliss before freight
Train on a collision course toward self-destruction ala tete a tete
With Anorexia Nervosa as thy then coveted deadly mate
A brutal hellish spiral down into abysmal depths of despair did create
Indelible psychological affects undermined existence I now equate
writ horrendous emotional, physical and social upon head of mate
Pledged his troth (almost 2 decades ago), which spouse doth berate
For lack of expressed concern and attests schizoid psychic slate
irrevocably seared and stunted natural development where I rate
prepubescent, early adulthood mental illness did grate
Against once boisterously playful innocent boy crushed potentate
Only male heir from me deceased mother who tried to extirpate
Mailer daemons who forged suicide pact and via voice did dictate
Albeit without success, yet decry forsaken innate
Experiences with female relationships lured my own poisoned bait!
THEIR MAJESTIES
The appearance of lions attests to their majesty
A creature by Man infused with all sorts of fantasy
There are humans whose brains are afflicted with zoanthropy
They think by killing to absorb a lion's vitality
So they pursue and steal his life with alacrity
Lions have none whom they fear
Except when the monomaniacal predator called man is near
Heavy the head who wears a king's crown
For the lowly will steal it to call it their own
Not understanding kingship resides never in claws and fur
It's in your spirit which the thieves cannot incur
I lean into the fridge to get a bite to eat.
And as my nose attests to,it doesn't smell too sweet!
I'm trying to decipher what that is in that dish.
And much to my dismay,it's month-old tuna fish!
There's odd assorted bowls of only God knows what.
They've been pushed to the back and hidden there by glut.
I'm so mad at myself for letting it go this far.
I even found I'm cleaning out an empty pickle jar!
Potatoes growing fur and other nasty things.
Moldy bread,soured milk,and dried up chicken wings.
The nose knows that I should learn to fix just what I need.
Cos' leftovers land in the ozone,of this I must take heed!
for contest"Offensive Odors or Noise Pollution"
sponsored by Susan Burch
Although yours truly modest,
the only personal issue
I will lightly boast about
constitutes lingering
self worthlessness bred
if not prior to first grade,
than most definitely incipient,
academic deadlines
loomed large with dread
and exacerbated by procrastination
quickly adopted as linchpin
damned obsessive compulsive
currents (i.e. thoughts) fed
modus operandi, which intricate
schema writ over lifetime invisible
within this talking head
who ironically enough
never uttered a beep
engendered from lack
of confidence, esteem,
somehow worthlessness,
insignificance,
emasculation, et cetera
took root, and didst leap
(axon to neuron)
and said mindset did seep
percolating into every nook,
and cranny comprising
aging shades, transformed
gray matter, sans this
beatle browed bummer, a deep
purple, though easily mistaken
for minuscule Uriah Heap,
or perhaps, ewe might notice,
(albeit while in a sheep
push disposition) similarities
between mine fist
sized thinker, and another creep
pee totally tubular Charles Dickens
character, or maybe
even a commercial
for nano bot sized jeep
grand Cherokee keep
up a moderate clip despite,
and/or because I
oft times feel a light
buzz sensation within me quite
average gummed up noggin
jammed numb skull,
(essentially barren aged
teenage wasteland recently
undergoing gentrification),
(yeah how really) excite
ting, a no brainer fright
fully glommed with peevish
gobbledygook plus worthless,
obsolete, and crammed academic right
hand busily twiddling, scribbling,
and sloppily drafting
error riddled assignments
deliberately failing heavily
marked with bright
colors adding oomph
to mental blight
punctuated by
attaining puny height
(...oh, about seventy inches),
nonetheless, my slight
physique and mute quiet
as a mouse, I might
as well hove been a stand in
for Charlie Brown right
down to the tree eating kite
good grief - never an ending fight
with Lucy, hence now this knight
in rusty armor forever
disparaged his might
and attests to
20/20 hind sight!
Last Name, First Name (Nom Prénom)
To address a person by their surname,
Rather than their given shows disrespect,
Attests, this is vulgar and profane
To the individual referenced.
If the intent is to use the latter,
Say Mr., Mrs., Miss or Ms. prior,
Be courteous and display good manners;
Refined behaviours will take you further.
Given names are chosen and assigned at birth,
To human beings for distinction with class,
It’s polite to address people by their first,
With a salutation before their last.
Though the use of surnames is prevalent,
It’s an unpolished cultural etiquette.
Trade tired trust
Ripe remains rust
Aim apt align
Pure pleasure pines
Troubles toss treat
Reach random rest
Asking attests
Pause plunders pit
Teach treatment tales
Rest rowdy rail
Ask approves ale
Paint placards pale
Thrill tales telling
Ride rich rankings
Apply apt aid
Playthings ply paid
Tribe teachings test
Ripe ramblings rest
Amend artwork
Plenty prompts perks
Trip takes true times
Rouse remote rhymes
After aids abstract
Ploy provides pact
Trouble times trap
Rich readings rap
Amuse attend
Play plus pretend
Leon Enriquez
15 May 2014
Singapore
So discouraged by my failures that surely displease;
the harder I try, the more they seem to increase.
I lay break on break, dripping with sweat;
some days I restart with another mindset.
I can't give up and despite the daily hardships;
I've faith that this dream won't turn into ashes.
Others win by undisputed defiance claiming worth;
failing at something attests to the revealed truth.
I won't ever tire of trying, the feeling is too big;
it may take a lifetime before I'll be able to sing.
The sculptor's sharp chisel scatters clouds of dust;
it will reveal image after image an innovative bust.
I would feel guilty if the hard work weren't rewarded;
no dream wanes if persistence is a harmonious chord.
just moments ago, a dawning realization
arose within this sol son begat
from ma late mother
and octogenarian widower father,
oh..no nothing cat
tuss strophic, boot merely the revelation,
how fist bumping dee clocks hour hand ahead
remembered by dat
dog gone refrain spring ahead, and fall back,
this unemployed chap doth down play eclat
attests that his quotidian schedule minimally effected
holed up here in Highland Manor named flat
roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,
and buzzfeed ding fruit flies
each approximately the size of a gnat
a minor nuisance, though tolerable
within this appealing habitat
where minor inconvenience experienced
by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident
cuz as a recipient of social security disability
(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent
which fixed (unearned) income budgeted
and predominantly costs of living money spent
hence no need to arise bright tailed and bushy eyed,
a freedom akin to folks camped out in a tent,
which exemption immunizes
this doodle ling middle aged
muddle brained chap subject ranting
early morning drivers,
who angrily, frenetically,
and splenetically rant and vent
thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy
to twitter (for the Yardbirds),
and keep company with night owls, who went
a hooting for all the world wide web
to hear, whence dawgs Bach
the exact number of hours, yer oblivious
to the tight rigorous mortised schedule
manned by Mister Clock,
essentially foisting on Bread Winners,
an abstract artificial construct spurring
madcap commuters to scurry in the rat race,
lest tardiness could cost
more than paycheck
(to ap pier with permanent dock
hue ment aye shun),
an unwonted blot add hoc
king worry about getting canned -
i.e. on permanent furlough,
perhaps forced into a life of crime,
yet if caught...
wasting away in a jail cell
as warden turns the lock
one redeeming factor,
would offer opportunity to mock
management, and more pertinently
mandate to rock
and roll to the incessant muted,
yet devastatingly loud tick tock.
Strolling down the streets of ancient Pompei,
I discovered the tomb of a freed noble man;
unearthed from the volcanic black ashes,
now it blooms surrounded by fragrant lilies
as it appeared in its imperial, glorious days!
Looking closer, I noticed tools itched
on its sides, the trade of a freeman
once enslaved by his wealthy master,
and to prove that he was also of a noble
spirit, he wanted to be remembered
for his achievements and his intellect!
Not all Romans were cruel as History attests,
but had a good heart helping the lower class;
had the Emperor made aware of such generosity,
they would have been killed or thrown to the beasts!
Our greedy society is similar, workers being underpaid;
its an invisible slavery and yet it gives us shivers
for their unhuman condition and horrible abuse:
Rome's mentality of slavery survives to our day!
The proud sons of immigrants will arise to avenge
their fathers rage, they will sit with the prominent ones
sharing the same ideals and status that honor freedom!
Build my marble tomb by the shade of cypresses,
plant jasmines and lilacs around it and let them bloom;
the late image of me on the top with a pen on the right
and a notebook on the left...what a lovely display
of my vocational trade! Will someone discover my grave?
The brief epithet itched in italic letters should read:
" Born a free man and died a free man in a foreign land."
My somewhat outsize ears and longish neck
(I swear exist, which contrary to popular myth
never seen by living persons) support this egg shaped
(fried or scrambled some might argue) head.
A mostly flat and hairless chest attests to a regular
regimen of light (self-concocted) chest-pounding routine.
Exercise (as well as meditation) a vital part of my
daily program to deal with the ordinary stresses
of primitive existence. Coffee happens to be the
sotto voce sole vice, which exotic brews provide
helpful jump-start. I sometimes even chump on cup
kept teeth sharp. That unproductive habit came
to a screeching halt after breaking every pearly white.
Now to that locale known as the trumpeting rump
pull stilts skin. Although the unseen forces of biology
and genetics dealt me an itsy bitsy, tiny tushy
(which serves as the but for fellow Apes to taunt
and tease) such anatomical feature offers little
value as the worthiness of sexual prowess.
This palm pilot sized gluteus Maximus offers one benefit.
Ease to squeeze into tight spaces without getting stuck.
This tiny tushy accompanied by a vestigial and
teeny-weensy Weiner schnitzel of a phallus, which
undersized cock a doodle do doth bulge into
an erectile state within shooting distance of
coveted warm, wet and wooly private world
property of each and every woman.
A pair of skinny (flamingo like) legs (covered in
adequate hair) now completes this general character sketch.
Only a thought, a simple glimmer
An attempt at honouring a creator
An artist, a soliliquy in his brushstroke
His stolid demeanour many thoughts provoke
His unusual honesty naked at best
His lot be ended yet his memory attests
Without a doubt his mastery he met
An "Indian woman with umbrella" I view
And infallibly my curiosity it drew
From her downcast eyes
To her weathered boots
The umbrella signifies a hint of modernisation
Yet her look is a contradiction in my amateur opinion
It reminds me of me in this country I live in
Where my hue has me abandoned although
It is where my grandparents did grow
Sombre looking with no trace of arrogance
Unlike so many others time has surpassed
I look in the corner at the artists scrawled initials
And plan to remember this painting incredible
T.C Cannon is this artist's name
And now I hear just his art remains . . .
The child of God, which is you, is deceived indeed.
He sees his love spat upon by mindless opinions,
only to realize he himself is the one who spits.
What do you seek so desperately from the world?
The Love of God knows you as you truly are.
Stop hiding from us, we can ALWAYS see you.
Stop hating us, we always love you.
Don't be sick anymore.
Sickness attests to who you're not, slain on the corpse of who you are.
Your monster hates you
but it isn't real.
Just cross the border, let your fear go for a few minutes.
Hear the Voice inside.
Let It dictate how you will act from now on, in love and in grace.
Relax, put your feet up.
The fun is just beginning.
You know the drill, are well trained, and have shown tremendous accomplishment.
The next step is discipline.
You are worthy only of love.
All else is folly.
You know this to be true.
Your guilt is meaningless.
The shadows are gone.
You have seen the light of day Yoni, you just don't know it yet.
Forgive yourself, the child of God still Lives.
He is much happier than you have ever been.
Forgive Yoni, this is your world.
Make of it what you will.