Best Complexes Poems
Once I had harbored complexes many.
I thought I wasn’t beautiful or wise.
With my spluttering tone and broken speech,
I feared, my words fell flat,
Never leaving an impact or impression
Now when I have learnt to accept myself as I am,
I find, there is more strength in me than I know,
And I really do have worth.
I know, even sunshine can burn,
If we bask too much in its warmth.
When our ego is shorn and our craving
For acceptance is lifted off like a piece of lead
It is then we feel lighter at heart.
Do you think this wisdom descended on me,
All too sudden? Never, it came slowly,
When passed through bitter trials, the ups and downs of life.
As grapes are crushed to make red wine,
As sunflower seeds are pressed to extract oil,
One is passed through the tests of life,
And my insights, I got through hard lessons.
Now I know I am not just a traveler in this wild terrain,
And my sojourn here is not accidental but has a purpose.
I realize I am not alone, but walk among people,
Who share a commonality of experience.
When corn withers on the stalk,
And when life gets torn from its moorings,
It signals that change must come.
When I wished to get a new ignition
And when I tried it with all my might
My leaden nights got transformed into golden days.
So, don’t fret when life confronts you like a Sumo wrestler.
Just know you are in the process of a transmutation!
I have been in utter darkness,
But burning myself in the blazing fire,
I have acquired the sheen and glitter of gold,
And how thankful I am, for I am re-forged!
It is funny!
Very funny how
A masked preacher can preach honesty;
And even points at the wrongs with his
Fingers of hypocritical righteousness…
We stare with grim satisfaction
Because the black winged Angel
Ridding a flaming chariot tells a tale;
And proclaims that God is love,
Yet he, himself is an Angel of death.
Day after wretched day Humanity walks!
He walks down the dark alley of freedom;
Freedom which shouts fairness;
Fairness that begets confusion—
And he tries to bottle the spittle of birds…
Every night he lies in bed and tries to hear
The voice of fishes shouting gender and Sexualty in a world where the scale of
Equality is unevenly proportional and
Equal rights mean the oppression of men.
Apartheid, the history of Mzanzi is
The present for the African world and
That has caused his inferiority complexes
To suffice and personalize racism and
One after another, generations play along.
Lest we forget,
The victims are just as guilty
As the perpetrators but at some point.
Humanity weeps as he inspects
His isle of hopelessness!
But just like the majority, men;
They cry in hiding.
Where no-one sees,
No-one hears and
No-one dares speak for the black sheep!
Deep down this egocentric radicalism,
He orders rotten eggs to make an omelette
With which he feeds pirate justice,
And he goes all year long
On a running stomach.
Although the words never sink,
Humanity hearkens to
The rumbling stomach of justice but
When the rainbow of life turns
Grey!
Humanity's children cry day and night
While the Angel of death entrusted
Their protection feasts on their tears
And dances to the beautiful sound
Of their troubled voices.
And when the wolf comes for their
Brazen souls we hail at the smiling lady
Who says 'I am virgin Mary'
With fangs behind her white vail
And poison under her tongue—death!
The rich are poor but morally,
Yet no-one sees
And no-one cares;
They say 'each one for himself'
Come shall the final hour do.
It is funny!
Very funny how
A masked preacher can preach honesty;
And even points at the wrongs with his
Fingers of hypocritical righteousness…
Humanity looks on
And passes his judgement.
The masked preacher scoffs:
“No-one is perfect.
No, not one!”
There has always been an inter-outer over-under tender balance of loveless socio-equations as they super fit the psychosocial sexe-endices in this modern garner of pluses/minuses/bytes and scribbles mostly incommunicado inexperience and parental impreciseness as to, "anything planned", which in tomb leaves us doth a deranged desperate captive of that all inbibed prisoner **** of nun conformist adventurerers and that really, that there are just too many organic integers making for really bad math.intuitations/attributes and all of the familio do's and don'ts that creep bastardy across the years to inculcate, interfere, incase all of the hoped, promised integrity of just 2 people in love? with all that makes it their potential, not all of the hopeless, ne'r do wells, dead driven dud marriages that hoped to promulgate their failures onto the newbies totally unprepared, but willfully negative implicit on that new, and should be uninterrupted, all naked, seeing alter intense emoexplosive journeys to that wait waits, some supposes, everybody entices, everyone enthralls, quired questions, problem perplexes, initiates initiated, complexes complete, duty deforms, eerily exacts a viscous value, on properties promised a forever coexistance, but not at the expense of selfish selfness; can it be to an us award of a faceoff fervent fever, that WE, can coincide an opposite internal presence that allows us to be a universal component undeluded, underived, unpolluted by the natural wonders that are our genetic cohesions, so they can further their total promise to lead a connected life of copious love, desire and plentitudes of us-ness, disavowing all else in a socioinvasive parental wake of them vs us in all things blood/emo crass cursive? Leave them, the future lovers of us alone, let it flow and keep your, non orgasmic, loveless failures to yourself, old/tainted people of relations, lovers of social inhibitions it plays to an ill-at-ease, stubborn Igor-ignocompliance. Yes, we had Summer Love/Woodstock, but then we grew to be livestock, waiting for the senior-socioseniorslaughter pill mill. You must have some small, tinder, macromolecule of what it was to be standing in the bliss of universal underware; a long time ago in a universe far, far, away. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! the neighbors.
There is no envy
of where we live:
rundown apartment complexes,
dangerous housing projects.
Poorly zoned business districts
whose warehouses cut through our landscape
like the tombstone's of giants,
sitting tagged and vacant
from a boom that never happened.
We are a single community
divided amongst ourselves;
a dozen or so quarter mile barrios.
Each fiercely guarded
by angry, misguided youth.
They bleed to protect something
that’s worth absolutely nothing
for reasons hardly above reproach.
This is the land of concrete and graffiti;
broken knuckles and broken hearts;
the place where flashes of light
break the night and sometimes,
we die.
This is the crazy west side,
the youth wrecker,
the damager of all who dwell.
This is home, where the guns go off.
The Coming…
(Mood Variations…)
The long hot summer yields to the arrival
of the cooling fall.
Despite the coming treat to survival
towering trees proudly stand firm and tall.
Sticky, sweaty, steamy nights
have now all gone;
giving way to the cool ebony breeze.
Horny frogs and crickets
no longer sing their eerie song;
squirrels organize
their cupboards in the trees;
and ivory towers grow on
graves of fall’s fallen leaves.
In the early evenings’ misty wine
sun of change set the close of day,
leaving hued shadows to sway
on the footprints of changing time.
The angels of the sky have flown far away;
leaving a strange peace to seek out another day
to find sanctuary in caverns of hope.
Seasoned lives prepare for what winter nature will send their way;
as echoes of rain mock the variations like a cruel joke.
Strange how nature’s circadian rhythms
bring about change: yet the more things change,
the more they stay in the same range.
No one saw the ambiguity of the coming strange schis
Dawn seemed to have struggled this morning---
Returning from her nocturnal journey,
She slowly stretched, yawned, and arose
To the appointed occasion
Sending dim, golden rays piercing through
Shades of lazy grey clouds
The whistling wind wails, whooshing through the trees
And winding around corners
Bring awakening alarms that hands cannot stop
Nor ears can ignore
The weight of sleep lifted; the window shades of dark orbs
Open to the set time
Oblivious to the exact moment of designed closure, only
Aware of the here and now;
Thanksgiving is offered for one more day of struggle:
To be free of the shackling mind games they play,
We prepare to fight another day.
Only God could have made this chosen day
We cherish
To teach the children the liberating way
That they not perish
In the ongoing struggle to be totally free
Culturally, politically---
And economically be.
Closing in on an all-time high, wars remain in vogue:
Peace has been vetoed
Military-industrial complexes are the nation’s money lode
There is no other road.
At the conference table, negotiations continue
To collect dust
And the compromise remains us.
Villanelle: Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown
Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown
How many would give their lives young to be acclaimed
Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown
Burn Rome to the tune of fires surging from a lyre lone
How many Caesars seek Cleopatra’s arms to be proclaimed
Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown
Remember Kennedys risk turns with a beauty home-grown
To recall a king forfeit his throne for a woman twice-maimed
Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown
Yearn for a name to keep from gnawing marrow-less bone
Seek solace striving to escape the stifling that’s ordained
Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown
While others don thick-skinned masks in search of renown
Contort their insecure senses in complexes unrestrained
Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown
Who among the living can claim to have produced the clone
Genji Monogatari Monkey Quijote among authors maimed
Is there shame worse than that to be caught dead unknown
Sell their souls deceive connive plagiarize unbeknown
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Around the world—evil, raging wars continue to be steadfastly
Fought in the name
Of lasting peace;
The military industrial complexes have found the puppets
They’ve sought
In the ruling
West and East;
Mislead cannon fodders on each side are being sent as heroic
Anti-terrorist
To theirs and others’ death;
While the war mongers play pass-time war games of the mighty
Military strategist—claiming what
Of Earth’s resources are left.
Nuclear power is once again the most prized of all desired possession;
Embryo and fetus organs—
The new ticker tapes;
Bloated bellies—reflecting world hunger—remain the victims of recessions;
Freedom and justice,
Victims of world-wide
Rapes—
Meanwhile, the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness of roofs over the head,
Have become worthless
Pursuits of the game;
No matter how loud the screams of the masses of the walking dead,
The mongers only cry,
‘Ask God who’s the blame.’
Around the world, Sabbaths continue to be as segregated as peace from love;
War remains
The king pin.
The hawk remains on high—his talons clutching the neck of the defenseless dove:
Bigotry and war
Know no sin.
The dawn of the age of Aquarius has come and gone—nothing has really changed
As prophesized,
Predicted and supposed.
Behold, a new day is upon the horizon; faith and hope having long arranged a peace
Only the angles could
Have reposed;
Behold—the many rivers we’ve crossed now flow into the sea of a new found day;
None can stem the tides of the blood of peace and equity streaming our way.
I am reading
"Democracy in Black"
by Eddie S. Glaude, Jr.
but continue reconstructing this title
"Hypocrisy in Only White."
Because
when I let my memory
look back to my own self-interests in history
as archaeological digging and prying and discovery,
adventure and curiosity
of my internal ecological development,
I reweave back
through still on-going matriarchal lines
that include,
are shared with,
anyone capable of reading
and comprehending
these words of regenerating memory.
Back
to darker
denser
richer genes and memes
of cooperative to still thrive today,
saving competitions for survival moments.
Back to
better to prey together
side by side
as neanderthal brothers and sisters
than to grow predative
against each other.
This Golden Rule
of dark Afro-Eurasian
equatorial resonant depth
of historical origin
in normative play
at least until we substitute capitalism's
supremacist agendas
for rationalism's ego-ecocentric
reweaving memory
of this original Earth Mom
magical and mysterious
then worshiped and danced
ritualed and cooperative ownership co-governing,
then more modern radical eccentricities
forgetting our shared matriarchal
regenetic
memory of dualdark
hypocrisies of merely white inferiority
complexes
disease
dissonance
despair of remaining fully
who we together are,
where we have been
predating history
where we could return
each morning
with greatest polyphonic joy.
To paraphrase David Holmgren
(Permaculture, p. 113)
Containers were one essential organic innovation
necessary for this cooperative agrarian revolution.
Opportunities to refill organically produced bodies
are enormous
transitioning into recycling energy descent
for shared cooperative memory.
Reimaging full organic containers
is far better than sending us
away and down and out for recycling.
Most official ecopolitical waste reduction strategies
place little emphasis
on organic reuse refilling re-educating
deep ecologically learning containers,
or confuse WinWin refueling,
reweaving,
with capitalism's WinLose recycling,
switching productive containers
into merely consuming eventual empties,
bleached-out white-washed faded hypocrisies
of purest supremacy against nothing
deeply densely
richly resonantly valued.
I was once told that I sin, because the color of my skin.
To the world we live on, not in.
Complexes our diverted souls from within.
Hear the words of God, for they are never ending.
From the righteousness of Baby Jesus,
To his descending.
To these words once spoken, “Let my people go!”
Racism is finally ending!
Commending and spreading,
For the future color kids attending.
If it wasn’t for yesterday, there would be no today.
A gifted soul lifted to heaven,
Stopping halfway.
Looking down at his family, the change, The USA.
Who believed in equality?
We celebrate his name today.
He was a great leader, a warrior of wise words.
Change the moment he had a dream,
A dream that was heard.
Across the nation.
An inspiration.
Now we stand as one.
God’s creation.
OF WARS AND PEACE EVERYWHERE
Around the world—evil raging wars continue to be steadfastly fought
In the name of lasting peace;
The military industrial complexes have found the puppets they’ve sought,
Both in the ruling West and East;
Mislead cannon fodders on each side, are being sent as heroic anti terrorists—
To theirs and others death;
While the war mongers play pass time war games of might military strategist—
Claiming what of Earth’s resources are left.
Nuclear power is once again the most prized of all sought after possessions;
Embryo and fetus organs are the new ticker tapes.
Bloated bellies—reflecting world hunger—have become the victims of recessions;
Freedom and justice, victims of world-wide rapes;
Meanwhile, the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness of a roof over our head,
Have become worthless pursuits of the game;
No matter how loud the cries and screams of the masses of walking dead,
The mongers cry, ‘ask God who’s to be the blame’.
Around the world—Sabbaths continue to be segregated as peace is from love;
War remains the king pin.
The hawk remains on high—his talons clutching the neck of the defenseless dove:
Bigotry and war know no sin.
The dawn of the Age of Aquarius has come and gone—nothing has really changed
As the prophecies predicted and supposed.
Today, another new day is upon the horizon—faith and hope having long arranged
A peace only the angles could have reposed.
Behold, the many rivers we’ve crossed, now flow into the sea of a new found day;
None can stem the tides of the blood flow of peace and equity streaming our way.
Everywhere I go, industry dominates this world
Vehicles run on diesel,
Massive industrial complexes have many factories
That create a skyline of smokestacks
The heavens are filled with a gray only we have created
Man and machine have come together
Like haywire to wire,
Generating a power countries only dream of
Diesel, our main power source,
Allows massive airships with smokestacks of their own
To block out the sun
Nations around the world use machines for industry, war and everyday life
Without diesel,
It seems the planet will come to a complete standstill…
As an inhabitant of this industrialized world,
None of what I see around surprises me…
For I have lived in the midst of man’s mechanical reign
All of my days
But I often worry and question our remaining humanity
Some of us have grown prideful and cold
Nations have fought us
Merely to prove their weapons are stronger and better
At times I even wonder if we could
Possibly find other ways to go about our lives—
Like alternative fuel sources
Maybe it seems like the world is industrializing too fast
But no one seems to notice that after the Great War,
Industry spread like a weed that would not stop growing,
No matter what you did to it
One must begin to wonder
How long this kind of life can possibly last
I long to feel the sun on my back,
And to breathe in fresh air untouched by the fumes I know too well
Can we use what we have,
Can we use what we live for,
To build each other up,
Rather than destroying all in our path?
Shall we put our hearts into the cores of our unfeeling machines,
Or will we turn to Mother Earth with reverence and passion?
Taking and never giving back,
How can we expect our planet to provide and sustain us?
August 20th, 2014
Collaberation by Justin Connor and Laura Breidenthal
Two questions to ponder:
What do you think will become of this dieselpunk world?
How can this message apply to life in your own society?
how can i say this?
what are the words i can use
to tell you, without your
feelings being hurt?
people. there is a menu
just to the left.
near the bottom is a link
which will show you the things
good poetry should never have.
they're called cliche's.
though the list isn't final,
and will never be
because as times change,
so do we and our language,
poetry's a subtil thing. abstract.
to explain it is beyond my means.
But try this: let your mind
wander a bit.
don't lean so heavily
on your memorized wit.
i want to help you, i sincerely do
and i'm trying to think
while i write this to you
just what i should tell you,
what i need to say
that will help you see language
in a different way.
rhymes come about
3 lines at a time or so.
your brain should be thinking now
of 3 lines ago.
poetry is algebra
though i don't know the theorem.
here's an idea.
put down the pen.
pick up your mouse.
start clicking peoples names
til you see what poetry's about.
start with chris aechtner.
there you will see what the gift and the curse of writing poetry can be.
he writes uninhibited.
he doesn't mince words.
he sets an example from which we can learn.
you see, what creates most bad poetry is our fears and complexes
distracting us.
so, try, when you write
to sort of meditate.
separate from the world outside and create your own rules.
.
i'm a lousy poet too.
don't feel bad, because i told you.
the child inside
revealed through cascading
recollecting
regrets unspoken break free
boundlessly
the child inside
hindered responsibility weigh
heavily
elation manifestation refuted
deniability
the child inside
yearning determined to depart
dependability
exchanging impulsive playful
irrationality
the child inside
locked away penal complexes
restricting
flee to autonomy- mischievous
creativity
REMEMBERING ROSE KENNEDY
by ron wilson aka vee bdosa
A rose was plucked from many of the day
and taken to our Lord, by His request,
who keeps it so it will not wilt away
and now it shines the rose of our Lord's breast.
'Twas just a very simple rose to grow
but light complexes colors visually
and all those colors make up all we know,
to turn it into what our eyes can see.
And what a joy she was, as if a song,
until the Master called for our dear Rose,
and now we ask, how can we get along
without this joy of life that seldom grows?
Such roses do not grow just ev'rywhere
but when they do, we see a Mother there.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
in metro city
A-PART-MENTS, FLATS, COMPLEXES,
is any house "home"