Best Cogitation Poems
AND YET?
If one short word could describe Betty, it’s fun
Gregarious, though seemingly loaded, falls short
You’d have to hear her laugh,
Have to see that lovely face blaze in every upward
grace
The voice is brown sugar, with hope of loving hugs
In return
Betty can, on a cold, cloudy day, lift the face of any
sunflower
Can inspire the weary to play
She is incredible, and yet?
I’ve caught her in a pensive mood
In solitude she is even more lovely, and yet?
This is not the Betty we know, flock to
She’s by the window, but gazes into space,
Hand on cheek, arm supporting a downward frozen
stare
Same auburn hair tied in a bun at back
Same petite, protruding ear, delicate nose and mouth
Same all alluring, adult woman dressed in
mid morning attire, and yet?
As though lost in a moment, or bygone moments,
she is absent from the flash and hilarity of her
other world
No getting into that descending, unbending tunnel of
inner cogitation
Our playmate has gone wandering through fields of
joy, want, and regret, and yet?
There is no doubt Betty will come out from the
hiding wings to a loving life, to play another
day on stage
Dave Austin
My mistress muse
With the simple daily routine there mingles some fire,
a sensuous voluptuous sort of a desire.
A temptress of untouchable allure is in my mind,
a voluptuous sensuous sort of kind.
She teases me with smiling allure and gives me that look,
I feel mostly very gobbledygook.
I should find some comparable understanding,
but she is in a pleasing way very commanding.
Compelling my imagination very much,
with this promising dreaming touch.
Never losing her gesture and pose,
especially when the moon is in full repose.
My cogitation about her is an endless amaze,
she seem to take this as loving appraise.
Often she seduces me just before sleep,
taken those frantic motion deep into my dream to reap.
the voice of my muse is very critical,
take whatever she says biblical.
Sometimes I cannot take my troubled mind, here or there,
finding the only refuge with her, I swear.
Inured sometimes by this delicate beautiful fantasy,
that I wonder about my insanity.
Some hours more deeply then other hours before,
other times, I have to socialize to see her no more.
The shrink told me it’s a schizophrenic marriage,
and the psychic said it is a divine message.
But I give my intuition some gratitude,
then it gives my writing far more altitude.
Yes, I miss the healing touch of a female caressing,
it comes with more, then just that blessing.
O loving muse existence, you loosing eye lure,
the love in the dream maker maze is another wondering shore.
Your castle has a moat
to mark for the unawares
the point of danger,
the change of rule.
My fort has a juice box
Your castle has a drawbridge
to allow in only those
who pass the "Hark! Who goes"
test and cause the chains
to move.
My fort has peak roof
for peeking out
and, on occasion
for peeking in.
But only for the Lucky Few
and only in the Lucky Few
moments when all is well,
for a spell.
Your castle has
both balustrade and colonnade,
meurtrière 'n its parapets
for staving off the storms
and againststanding and
withstanding arméd swarms.
My fort has a
pair a pets:
this fluffster at my calf,
snoring and this stuffster
in crook of arm;
well-worn, with eye
missing but stuffed
animals see with squishy bits
inside, not these button eyes.
Your castle has barbican and portcullis.
My fort has a wittle wiccan. Jealous?
Your castle has both crenellation and machicolation.
My fort has an introvert's narration and ceaseless cogitation.
Your castle has walls of
stone, long-charred by dragon
breath. With dents by dint
of Minotaur and Harpy.
My fort is cotton batting,
linen for winnin'
battles with monsters
greater than your gods.
The larval stage that insinuates
a protective agony made of silk
Interlaces incipience quilted diametrically
Which twitches against cogitation and reasoning closing in...
The same as guilt
Or what guilt started as.
Unforeseen contingency's photo flash
An illusion based on disappointment.
Crime.
Each searching for a way to Each searching for a way to multiply
Or the beauty to escape life's cocoon
without wings.
Moving without strings guided towards confusion.
The maze made of milk.
So I tell myself, "Everything will be OK."
But why do I feel worthless...
When what I'm getting is good for me?
Surprise! Feelings don't change until you do
Society fakes the facade as usual
And crime stays...
So I use words as wings and fly, fly away.
2/4/2016
I contemplated self-mutilation
amongst the company of mutations
that were causing my heart starvation.
This is my mind's translation,
a proclamation, a deep introspective cogitation.
Marriage is in abrogation, it's a cancellation
that's been suffering from dehydration,
indignation, and mind-game infestation.
The hospital stay only lead to his dissipation,
my dedication desecration of him and our condemnation.
Here, here. Take this medication,
Talk to doctors about my desperation, oscillation, dissociation.
Came back to the outside and inhaled a monstrous inhalation
of fresh air and computations, correlations and speculation.
I became cursed with perturbation,
wondering why the perforation
of this operation was ripped into a malformation.
Then came the acceleration of meditation
to begin a new foundation and self-preservation.
The separation lead to a cosmic epiphanized revelation
and the pissing and purging of him out of my characterization.
Now comes my mind's decontamination,
a simplification of sterilization.
It was all a massive misinterpretation of ramifications,
but I'm learning this discontinuation
is a process of my soul's sanctification,
regeneration, and harmonization.
Congratulations...
to me on my amelioration.
MY SCORPIO CHARACTERISTICS
I don’t believe in astrology these days
But I believe in my wife, and she says
October 25 is in the middle of the stinger’s ways.
Generous with my love, money, equipment, stuff;
But possessive, and unwilling to share problem or triumph.
Jealous and self-blaming - always biting my own tail deadly and curled,
seeking a round unvarnished tale of perfection in this imperfect world.
Intelligent, with brains to burn - combustion-free cogitation.
Intense, I even relax intensively - high-speed industrial relaxation.
Secretive, my left hand knows not what’s in the right hand’s palm:
My agitated mind knows nothing about this poem’s balm,
It was written by the heart entirely calm.
. . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . .
NOTE
My birthday is October 25. No cards please . Just send US dollars in large
denominations and large quantities.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck for nette onclaud's Contest ZODIAC ZONES
As rains and the torrentialest of snows plummet,
Filling all the skies and the area interstitial to earth and sky
With a frenzy of flying flakes;
As gusty winds doth blow and toss the flakes this way and that;
As torrents true amid the most rending species of gale
Dash themselves bitterly and self-destructively
Against this crude roof,
It is of my hodiernal solitariness,
My aloneness and lonesomeness,
My singleness, and plural,
Romantic stationariness that I must needs
And peradventure speak:
Yet, firstly, permit us all to sit still and our selves
Stationary, silent and still; and silence that intruding music
So ominous yet banal, tinny and slight:
Lighthearted 'tis it, as well:
That which plainly portends our overwhelming destruction,
And that of all our cogitation, cognition, concentration
And composition, with its overmuch resonant yet tinniest
Intrusiveness.
So allow to be it thus and summarily silenced-
Now, that's better.
A man can listen to himself think again;
He can form cognitive thought and appreciation thereof.
Therefor, that music silenced and my concentrative powers
Revived: As a blade at the whetstone, resharpened:
I can keep on with the prosody and poesy of my plight,
But...
I knew after spring would come the fire
I have seen the summers where promise withers
In the toppling heat. I have seen desire
Raging in spasms like a tide that swells and shivers.
It's not the same when the climate comes
Like a cogitation. What shall we call them now? See
How the streets overflow? The old thumbs
Cannot hold back the surging masses that will be free.
The Question, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : La Cuestion
« …Oh ! God, Oh ! Centre »*
for Vicente Puchol
(* Note by the editor, Alejandro D. Amusco, attesting that the above quotation was not included in Bousono’s Antologia poética, 1976, and on the « mysterious Centre » on which the poem is a cogitation. T. Wignesan)
Yes, we know it : would you like to find the secret precinct,
the invulnerable enclosed sanctum,
to enter through any hole into the incredible spectacle,
to penetrate the labyrinth and find the powerful Centre.
As if a thief could rob the totality of light
to find, as I say, the powerful Centre, the absolute Centre,
the immobile Centre of the tempest which moves by itself,
a Centre where nothing is found to budge,
where everything is absorbed into itself, like love, containing
itself in itself,
not on its periphery, but fully wrapped in its contents,
overflowing like the apparition of a card in the suit of Spanish cards,
like an enormous cup of manifestation which augments,
like a wave which continues to mount higher and higher and beyond
its highest limits,
farther yet than possibility’s horizons ;
and keeps growing afterwards, going on for days, and the spectacle of its extermination – the hideous knowledge and the joy of recognising its loss ;
and which continues growing for an immemorial duration in the
direction of its own centre : terrible,
like a persistent cascade pouring down its interior, a flooding within
the experience of feeling well in one’s being,
an existential waterfall without end which retracts - having stopped
flowing – inwards into its own Centre.
Ai ! The crucial question is therefore to enter the labyrinth,
The big question comes down to making the move.
Be warned that it is only an act of penetration,
a simple act of transfer ; it would suffice to make a gesture with an
idea that brings joy,
perchance it might suffice just to find water in the barn
or a path in the woods, or in the woods
to fall upon an exit
through the hole (where we came in), to proffer with the key to the
enigma
the solution of the charade,
and discover the other side of the abysm, the reversal of the plot,
before the roof deteriorates
under probing fingers…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
THE INNER VOICE OF MARK BIRROS II
From world war two in the Atlantic
I hear the drowning cries of men,
climbing out as in spirit from waters
that lap the steps of the harbour wall ;
time erodes as the sea -
washing up these thoughts that linger
here and on many beaches,
thoughts that stick and have the stench
of used oil around them,
the name on a memorial
does not reflect the horror ;
the surf rejects such cogitation ;
for a moment, ' try again '
the gulls seemed to say,
' let go ' said the movement of the ocean,
but I cannot, I simply cannot
for what transcends these waves
and breathes out the universe
is love, the love of a father.... ... ...
The old clock ticks away the day
that haemorrhages the evening,
and like a night- nurse at the bed
as growing lesions slowly spread,
the crescent moon would nothing say
to see the patient pass away ;
the stars call out but they are late -
what metaphysics spring from that
while in my soul eternity
is smiling like the Cheshire cat !...
A presence haunts me as that touch -
that hugs the heels in failing light,
with eyes that peer through space and time
and follow me into the night.... ...
The pine wood has its secrets -
I am one of them now,
like the columns of an ancient temple,
straight and upright
where no priest intercedes -
I trust it with my life,
I am theirs and they are mine,
growing inside me, sturdily and strong,
transcending their roots with my secrets
to their archetypal heaven... ... ...
As if a change of consciousness was meant,
against the pull of ego, the body
inwardly swept up in spiral ascent,
spirited away from me
from all the world below,
from all that I would ever be
that anyone might know ;
raised the cloaked arm
of my archetype
to draw the void across my eyes,
and I did rise to heights of bliss
to see the world from this -
dancing in vortices, tiptoeing on pools
as through a mesh, devoid of flesh ;
our world is an illusion -
a carousel to light,
as in the midst of heaven
we ghost on through the night... ...
Most everything written
(and learned ya in school)
Yukon coon sitter, (and bet
your bottom dollar) tibia bunch
of contrived information
all details bu...bu...bull...low knee
within this poetic missive
after spending a lifetime crunch
ching numbers, the following
singularly just my hunch,
but despite minuscule
approximate i.e. kid size lunch
meal, (sans two clenched fists,
and weighing about 1.5 kilograms),
not much to munch,
yet if smacked in the kisser
by a pugilist visited
square in the jaw deadly (Judy hush
hiss) sucker punch
whereby the unlucky
recipient may see "unlucky stars"
after brows severely scrunched,
thee above poppycock, and potentially
"FAKE" though (Ripley deed lee)
believe able to ye,
nonetheless behooves me
to segue-way (by Segway) to pre
sent a "TRUE" revelation see
(gnome hatter, aye
cheese silly contradict
mice elf alias Stuart Little) prithee
please just accept what I write
with a grain of salt
(from the Sultan Sea),
cuz yawl do yarself grave
injury and lodge a gree
vance against this harmless
right ham handed cree
chore from the outer limits
of the twilight zone, thus
I STRONGLY ADVISE thee,
NOT to stake eh knee
un mensch chin hubble cogitation,
and figuratively swallow,
hook, conga line
and sinker thine highly suspect re
dunk yule us gobbledygook mee
cully (meekly) reed this
more so asthma
childish entertainment, hence oak key
jist put aside any urgent task
to revel as sigh bee
devil logical syntax
with sum man tricks
playfully wasting yar
precious time free
cully (freakily) inventing outlandish nee
incoherent yawping, towering,
and brutally butchering,
Brooklyn speak (homer over
mayor later mother), she
nearly always... er added
letters "er" at'er the ender
her sentences - er stain?
I couldn't avert my gaze off the sublime sunset,
I was utterly dazzled by the magnanimous deed,
I could follow the artist's pastel-colored hands bet,
And mother's deep love, after she has relaid seed.
I was utterly dazzled by the magnanimous deed,
I dimly bar my eyes as I could feel tears stacking,
And mother's deep love, after she has relaid seed,
What has led people to be so prone to cracking?
I dimly bar my eyes as I could feel tears stacking,
We need to quit providing pretexts and chafe outside,
What has led people to be so prone to cracking?
Why don't we just cusp the call so no again sighed?
We need to quit providing pretexts and chafe outside,
Why are we so concerned around being alone?
Why don't we just cusp the call so no again sighed?
As we have forgotten our mother's beating tone.
Why are we so concerned around being alone?
She drew the sky each night as cogitation of you,
As we have forgotten our mother's beating tone,
May we always cherish Mother Nature's hues?
She drew the sky each night as cogitation of you,
I could follow the artist's pastel-colored hands bet,
May we always cherish Mother Nature's hues?
I Couldn't avert my gaze off the sublime sunset.
Written: July 08, 2022
Petition
We animals and after mature cogitation
Enunciate bury the hatchet and in peace abide
To the law of the jungle oppose our deprivation
Terminate the masquerade and nature commodities equally divide
Confide to pathetic humans the charge
To their lust grotesque for power leverage
Revamp hostility to supremacy attain
Ignoramus jackasses seeking to hold the reins
Pharaohs,stars and emperors long proclaimed
The commanded the skies and earth germane
Their bones under earth's scum alighted
Unhurriedly putrefied and fetid smell did remain
It though takes all kinds to make a world
With disparate feathers flock like a bird.
Abdelwaheb Dhaou.
When did you start hearing voices,
when did they start making choices
to determine your world
and crack that first bottle
or did the first pipe full smash on the throttle
sending you racing
downhill into the unescapable maze,
driving deeper into the dense purple haze
of paranoia?
I don't see the people you say are watching,
or the man living under the floorboards
and the plan he is notching
to murder you while you sleep,
if the drones "they" keep sending
don't sweep in and reap
your forma mentis for metanalysis,
or psychoscopic phenomenographic cogitation,
or steal your cannabis first,
and I can barely comprehend;
your unreal reality is a fine damned
mess for the rest of us!
I TURN MY HEADPHONES UP AND LOSE MYSELF IN THE BASS.
NO STRESS, NO PROBLEMS, JUST ME AND MY COMPANY OF CHOICE, COLTRANE,
MILES, MAYBE A LITTLE JIGGA MAN.
DROWN OUT THE SOUNDS OF LIFE IN THE CITY, AS I SING ALONG TO THE STORIES
OF MY PEOPLE A TRIBE CALLED QUEST, RUN DMC, MARY J BLIGE, PAC AND B.I.G.
IN AN EFFORT TO MAXIMIZE MY SPIRITUALITY I MIGHT POP IN A LITTLE ERYKAH OR
GO CHILL WITH THE GENIUS LAUREN.
IN MY HEADPHONES I FIND CONCENTRATION, COGITATION, INTROSPECTION,
PONDERING, QUIET TIME, REFLECTION, RUMINATION, SELF EXAMINATION, AS I
EXCERCEISE MY MIND, TAKE IT TO A HIGHER LEVEL OF CEREBRATION,
CONSIDERATION, CONTEMPLATION AND DELIBERATION.
ONCE AGAIN, I TURN MY HEADPHONES UP.