Best Conspiratorial Poems
Standing at the edge of forever
as one thought leads to hell
for I stare at the empty never
the other to a heavenly dwell
I must choose before the eyes of infinity
my soul torn between the hallucinogen hollow
passing through the vector vicinity
where dreams are created for me to swallow
Seeing visions of a hellion hive
soon thoughts fill with divinities divine
a conspiratorial conscience before I dive
where ambient angels dance and dine
Still I must choose before the end of time
a perplexing panegyrical pantomime.
Sept.16.2019
Crossroads Poetry
Sponsored by: Silent One
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
Categories:
conspiratorial, conflict, confusion, identity,
Form:
Sonnet
The senses are intended to mislead
a man in love. I know, his watchful eye
can see the angels flying in the sky
but drawbacks of his ladylove, indeed.
He's ears sharp enough to hear a bead
of water working rocks, a quiet sigh
of endless starless space and even thy
conspiratorial whisper, thinking reed.
But he is deaf to platitudes, buzzwords,
suburban accent, vulgarisms and odds
and ends because he listens to the sound
of metaphysic harmonies inside
his own heart. He keeps eyes open wide
to see love crossing its transcendent bound.
Categories:
conspiratorial, love, senses,
Form:
Italian Sonnet
Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.
Categories:
conspiratorial, muse,
Form:
Rhyme
The Carnivores Next Door
rate the worth and pleasure
of their morning
by the number of shattered lives
they return home dragging
at times there’s broad smiles
and load boasting
gathered friends
who lend to the barbarism
their congenial
conspiratorial toasting
revelling in the blood and sinews
of the fallen
avoiding non-biodegradable packing
and energy absorbing refrigeration
artificial colours
and chemical preservation
the carnivores next door
eating their conservation
Categories:
conspiratorial, food, humor,
Form:
Light Verse
Airless Man Caves
by Odin Roark
We love to beat ourselves up.
We venture out from our cavern of dread
to once again feel the frustration of looking
for that special dance partner
in an empty ballroom,
our sanity always on the verge of…
Yes, that’s what we do.
We look for a finite connection,
for the single answer
to suffering’s multiple questions.
How adolescent our bravura
as we trust the armor
fortifying our exposed heart
to always fend off
any conspiratorial emotions,
buried childhood remembrances,
parental battles with each other and you.
How real-time naive we remain,
conceptualizing happiness
without a willingness to pay a personal price,
a real experience beyond the concept of love,
where we learn full enjoyment of pleasure
is bundled expertly with experienced pain.
We wonder how our heart can be aflame,
but never open because starting fires
is the only passion we understand.
Or…
Upon losing ourselves in the excitement,
the euphoric possibility that “this is it,”
we continue avoiding the first glimpse
of our inherent and delicate vulnerability,
the tripping lever that sends us packing.
How persistent the obsession,
our battling the dread of intimacy
while remaining infatuated with possibilities,
rejecting reality that commitment
requires acceptance of an end game.
But, oh how seductive the rear-view mirror,
that ever present tool of caution,
ever ready to warn us of danger,
only to be ignored in the heat
of our high-speed commitment
to self-rage.
Our crash and burn habit
is often the only way
to chalk up another entry,
into our victimization syndrome.
For we create the same arrogant bluster
over and over,
allowing frustration to turn into anger
into self-loathing,
into sucking all the oxygen
out of our man-cave.
There is another alternative, however…
Step outside our cave of conceit.
Avoid the suffocation of false pride.
Take a deep breath of what’s beyond just us.
Epiphanies await the courageous.
Categories:
conspiratorial, truth,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The sight of this bourgeois, career politician/businessman
(A so-called liberal, no less)
Seated high on the dais at the all candidates meeting,
Looking down on his constituents.
Trying to look as human as possible,
He's wearing his best crocodile smile tonight.
And no matter how hard he tries to look harmless,
He still looks slightly inhuman, perhaps like a
Conspiratorial, world-enslaving E.T., or
Somewhat mad, Byzantine potentate.
Reptilian, his soulless, lifeless eyes momentarily
Slide back and forth in their sockets,
Back and forth across the crowd before him,
As he scrutinizes, with a cold, calculating, alien look,
His sheep-like electoral victims-to-be.
Or maybe what's most disturbing, even truly
Frightening, is that the strange look in his eyes
Actually seems like the look in the eyes of, God forbid,
The 12-year-old sociopath whose photo was in the newspapers:
The unfortunate, little monster who tragically, heartbreakingly,
Willfully murdered a child half his age.
In a truly gentler, kinder world,
Work would not make a person merely enslaved;
Family would not be used as a weapon against one;
And the struggle for liberty would not, in
Effect, make real freedom the domain of only the few.
Categories:
conspiratorial, political, rights,
Form:
Prose Poetry
My mind was once tranquil lavender...
an equal blend of blue and red.
Sometimes a tone darker or lighter
depending upon the issue at hand-
Recently its blooming only one color.
Because I've been told over and over.
To shut up-to not think independently.
To follow in lockstep the smoke and the bleating.
Think only like the riotous others...
and to this, the louder I'll speak.
I've being scolded and told I was born a racist.
Because my plumage is snow white.
But I've never painted a black person a thug.
I only judge by how one leads their life...
My hearts always has been with the underdog.
Until they revived Jim crow law
until they ran their mouths
shouted me down
kicked my heart about
like a rusted tin can-
I've been muzzled for endless months.
via a masked campaign of corruption and deception.
Been quarantined -jabbed again and again.
With marginal medicine and shady remedies.
They've threatened both livelihood and liberties.
My free range and right just to be...
They've treated me as an animal.
Branded by their political blade.
Across the nape of freedom
for the sake of power and
the God all mighty dollar-
My second amendment is always under fire.
From the rose colored, self-righteous rioting crowd.
Now I wear a perpetual-conspiratorial frown.
My tongue inflamed with higher caliber rounds-
You've poked the eagle-ruffled its nest.
Now it's been fully awakened by the blowtorch.
You've rammed inside its once peaceful head,,
Its long dormant talons slowly unfurling.
Honing its beak on the starry stone of liberty...
Because for decades you've force fed it.
A concoction of plastic-philosophical blues.
Now its crowned in a shade of blood red.
It flies even higher and calls ever louder.
Because you've poked it -prodded and mocked it.
Until its patience completely bled out-
Categories:
conspiratorial, america,
Form:
Free verse
After all the love
the fear and hate
the final condemnation
religious exhortation
separation, division
inspiration and defamation
the truth the lies
and conspiratorial denials
the didn’t know but should know
the informational overload
a terror strike
who was right
false flag war in another nation
Recipes for disaster
and human annihilation
the falling price
the rising cost
stories of the children in hopeless lost
burning questions of who’s at fault
scientific twaddle
and revelation
the stars, the moon
raising populous of depopulation
agenda and mind bender
cognitive dissonance
dissonant response
begging responsibility
The billion faces
of you and me
in political chaos
and social agony
flying communications of anarchy
upon despot papers in printed secret societies
viral themes
shocking schemes
of never really happenings
buried expose of more important things
scratching the itch of human
desperation
the echo of ages
filed upon the grail of deception
awaits
The poor, the rich
the space between
the dark age of the human soul
and its ending
so far into the madness
we’re all participating
and behind it all this everlasting scream
clings with talons of steal
wrapped around the idiocy of money
And then
sudden
suddenly
the pages stopped
comment
like
love, laugh, angry
all the controversy
profiles disappeared to digital ash
the wealth of humanity
signing off
and closed the account
And there alone in electronic ether
all the voices ricochet into it didn’t matter
the last person on face book
sent one final emoji smile
Categories:
conspiratorial, social,
Form:
Free verse
Its uncertainty takes us into year three
Must mask up, still not quite free
A randomness science can’t comprehend
Mandate not, don’t get the shot—the latest trend
Surrendered to what’s taken longer
The jabs make immune systems stronger
To misleading rumors, we fall quarry
Thousands more we’ll surely bury
This spiky protein called Covid Nineteen
Ages five and up, now get your vaccine
A conspiratorial depopulation
Manufactured in another nation
The masses, it’s here for all races
Children seen with shrouded faces
Is this it, is Covid here to stay
What do doctors tell us to say
The virus evolves, it doesn’t go away
What lessons can be learned
Another life sickened and spurned
The Pope, another epistle
To what tune do we whistle
What will they say all over the world
Every man for himself, every boy and girl
All grown up—they’ll be heard and seen
As the — Generation Covid Nineteen!
Categories:
conspiratorial, anxiety, confusion,
Form:
Rhyme
middle aged and middle class
driving way too fast
on country lanes
drop the kid at school
group yoga then the pool
prosecco and wealth envy over lunch
on to a manicure and then hair
(you won’t believe who I saw there)
send conspiratorial text or two; update facebook
get some vino, and the kid - shoot back home
knock back another glass of wine;
have a gossip on the phone
revving engine on the driveway: dinner’s bell
pour a cobra; grab a takeout menu
domestic bliss? suburban hell?
Categories:
conspiratorial, allusion, analogy, car, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
Hush and harken to the stillness,
Do not disturb the spirits
Lying in their stale graves,
Overgrown with vines,
Reading and re-reading their epitaphs
With begrudged faces
Contorted as if they were trying
With difficulty to understand
Why all those lies were
Written for them...
And then sitting on the gravestones
Or lying leisurely on their beloved vines,
They wave those who pass
Exhorting them to accept their fate,
The ultimate calling of the grave,
The ultimate pleasure of sleeping on vines...
Those green, ghostly vines,
Who converse amongst themselves
In low, conspiratorial tones...
They can hear them, almost everytime,
Gossiping about this man's ugly skull
And that man's decaying bones..
But who knows how much longer
Before the next vine is born
And she grows to be a beautiful vine-maiden
Sought after by men of substance,
Who with all the gold in the world
Pursue her...
And, if you are lucky,
She might grow on you,
And be the first to complain about
Your endless snoring, and childish sobbing,
For all of them dead do,
Alternating steadily,
Peaceful sleep peppered with rasping snores,
And near-silent sobs,
Like that of a woman
Rudely robbed of her flower..
Only in the dead of the night
Do they finally rise
To full wakefulness,
To potter about the earth
Seeking water from the living.
And when they are offered none,
They suck on sweats.
Enjoying its most fulfilling taste
And, eager to remain,
They grow new vines,
Just underneath the bed,
And lay down every night for
A salty living drink...
Written October 7th 2016 for Broken Wings' Overgrown With Vines contest
Categories:
conspiratorial, death, evil, fairy,
Form:
Free verse
...industrial machinations insyc –
dynamited, sheared, sound blasted to rob
(point blank with no criminal sentence),
especially when conglomerate
conspiratorial corporations
violated most every truce
boot at bottom, any vow to tender flora and fauna,
a dead letter steeped in violations ruse
vitiate prior drafted conservation pacts signed, sealed
and delivered with “faux” obeissance
uttering lame excuse
in an effort to squeeze and seize
(by aggressive means if necessary), the goose
that laid golden eggs intended to line deep purple pockets –
brushing aside accusations with VAMOOSE,
particularly to marginilized Native Americans
already a shadow of their former glory,
but production even at the expense of
slo-mo genocide annihilation a road block
to sought after mineral deposits juiced
waiting for opportunity to rake landscape bare
as the Moon (with a eh “No big deal attitude)”
indiscriminately sowing seeds of bleakness
via uprooting, scraping,
and pulverizing plants and animals
such as Bull Winkle the moose
and crown such egregious destruction
claimed as righteousness purportedly pinpointed
within religious texts to render unto haven
of innocent creatures, and other organic life,
the God sent email to reduce
once resplendent oblate spheroid,
now nothing but a wasteland
even a nightmare to Doctor Zeus!
Categories:
conspiratorial, abuse, anger, death, dedication,
Form:
Free verse
"Lord if it is you will, I will do as you ask of me. But I wonder why you ask me, the weaker gender of your servants?" Deborah said to the Lord her God. She was sitting on a large boulder which was resting upon a cliff which overlooked the valley... a valley which had always been owned by her grandparents and now by her parents. Deborah fixed her wide-eyed gaze from the valley below to the great skies above.
The gift of beauty that God bestowed upon this one was not unlike the beauty of a perfectly cut diamond with her long straight black hair and her honey glazed skin. She knew that she should protect herself from the sun's rays. Other young woman garbed themselves in heavy, long garments which were too restricting, too confining. No, instead she would make for herself and clothe herself in light, white dresses which contained no sleeves just a simple tunic of sorts. She also did not like to wear veils to shield her face as it was customary to do among the women who were either married or maiden.
"It matters not to Me whether it is man or maid wielding the gifts I have bestowed upon them, you have been chosen to exercise the gifts which I have bestowed upon you. Alas, My strength shows best through the weakness of man," said God to Deborah' spirit using His still small voice.
"What must I do? And when will I go? And where will I go? This is not yet clear to me my Lord, " asked Deborah.
"I will tell you all when the time is at hand, for now it is not the time. When the time draws near I will speak with you again," the Lord replied drawing this encounter to an end.
"So shall it be done my Lord," Deborah said as she stood up and began to make her way down the rather steep trail that led to the overhanging cliff where Deborah spent much of her spare time when she had time to spare. The path from the cliff led down into a central village, some of the other girls or young women turned to stare at her. Deborah openly glanced back at them and offered them a friendly smile. The other ladies stared and then burst into mocking, conspiratorial chuckles because after all Deborah was an oddity.
a dream vision by S.E. Clark
Categories:
conspiratorial, spiritual,
Form:
Free verse
A wandering wavering wind bleeding doubt
wraps tightly ‘round its' victim
in a masterful landscaped sketch of anger
it falters and stumbles
in its' indecisive nature
that at times sways around
the arch of a sword
determined only to find the truth of its' mark
An unsettled mind
decides only to take itself out of everything,
it finds joy in being nowhere
and in that it hides
behind a misted mask of silence
it may cry with tears of unknown sorrow
as it dances its' weak-kneed waltz
around the truth that dares
to spin out of control
A lumbering languid mindset
is preoccupied with listening
to every single word of every conversation
but never acting on anything
it search for conspiratorial theoretical indiscernible meanings
where there is nothing;
It is a foolish denial of the possibility
of easily accessible truth
An unguided emotional eddy of evasiveness
tangles around cords of hesitancy
it swirls in fearful tranquility
only broken by
strong communication
that is covered in truth and love
and in honesty and compassion
Categories:
conspiratorial, angst, fear, nature, truth,
Form:
Free verse
I am the chaos
I am the song
I am the reverberation
portentous, specious
and tiresomely overlong
I am the creation
I am the spring
Deadening quiet trees
Gardening souls through corrupted space
I am the hours
I am the chill
Forfeiting drawn, crushed evenings
To fold an encouraging breath
Around my chaos
I am the solitude
I am the urn
Into which fastidious comcerns
Are continually poured
Evolving into resurrected dreams
I am the blessed
I am the scorned
From conspiratorial valleys
Of pastures worn
that breed and give hope to all
With a dew-drop melody I prolong
I am the life
the obstacle chaos breeds
And the eternal song
I am the sin
I am the hollow
an enveloping clarion of tainted vice
Preaching an undisclosed epitaph that communion binds
For I am the truth
And I will perpetually unwind.
Categories:
conspiratorial, life, mystery, nature,
Form:
Lyric