Best Culpability Poems
Many a year so far
a sweet sensation would within surge
as back to school season
has just begun..
The feelings of a child
eager and joyful
to pile notebooks, pencils and pens
excited to have them all in a schoolbag..
Even as a teacher
that sweet habit, that unique joy
got wild much more!
a deep conception
that a smile, a word
could change a world
a strong conviction
that teaching is a vocation
a mind trained to train
a heart able to see and comprehend
confused faces
gazing at you
seeking the secret of success!
day dreamers, untamed teens
aspiring to reach and own
the treasure within..
Many a year by this time
soul and whole
I would wonder
what would I utter
of words
willing to sow the seeds of passion
in virgin lands
to instill a love of learning
a deep sensitivity
to guide to goals
to cultivate creativity..
What would I teach of lessons
use of methods
to inspire young souls
and their imagination kindle!
Now I’m back to school
with a load on the heart
a sense of culpability
torn about what I should
and must do..
The world of teaching
a hallmark of my identity
leaving that part of me
a possibility
even a necessity..
My heart aches for the realm of poetry
the power of words
that translate my innermost emotions and reflections
their magic
that transcends what is ordinary..
I have a longing for
a sense of belonging to
the world of words
I am an avid reader and learner
with a passion for creative writing
and leaving a world
would not mean
ceasing to be..
I know I have been on repeat for 15 years
I lost all my originality when I was sick and stolen from
My guess is it poured out along with my soul and fears
chasing after my sanity as it flowed away in tears
Its hard to come up with inspiration when your on pause
trying to justify the actions of those who love you
or at the very least come up with a justified cause
one they could of chases based on misinterpreting something they saw you say
or do
But best laid plans and lost causes your once dream life was taken from you
with nothing but a barely believable story that I can only take accountability
for not being strong enough to stay in the right when they made moves to take
my light and say it wasn't true
confused in the dark is not a reasonable place to figure out culpability.
The only thing I have left in me because I shed my soul daily I dont save up
because I cant promise all good every day so let it go good or bad send it
home
and start fresh the next day but I can't shed the memory of the darkness and
the way out it stays in me like a circuit loop in a conduit.
So I can travel in the darkness to shed light on those who stay there and
hope they find hope to search for light because follow me or you when its
their fight is not the best way.
all this said and I am still not right I no I may be meant for darkness to help
others overcome.
if thats true what all the pain to keep me here
so much inner strength it takes to just find a smile and a way to help others.
heal
when all I could been is gone why is that the deal
unloved and alone for 15 years fighting a war that free others.
but dooms me to something that I cannot hate or regret only dred
Hope that i did bot deserve it that I volunteered otherwise I may die in
clovers
But surely it is hell that waits for me.
I feel so unheard I pour out words that are not great
but they would carry meaning spoken to anyone strong and meek
from ear to ear of peasants and kings
and these words will carry a truth for all who truth seek
Written: December 07, 2023
_______________________________________
Awful rumors arose on a rainy day at twilight.
Dwelling in darkness, guilty of stealing light.
Drops in rhyme, color-and-time lyrics draw me.
Through vibrant strokes, a love riot sings poetry
Fearful and flawed, my soul whispered at dusk.
Bear me pain with no strain, as a rainy husk.
Shivering fingertips detect a rainy night's pulse.
Insecure, culpability, has been shown by impulse.
The moon shines on my soul-fitted trekker heart.
Spend the afternoon with cuteness and art.
My spirit delights in a giddy ache to free fall.
I persist on a wet day at dusk when claims call.
I am a hunter with heart prints, striving for a role.
Traveling through memories, I seek a lasting goal.
I left the norm and went on a strange voyage.
I reach a vivid world without a care or buoyage.
On wet days around dusk, I desire to sway.
Sky freedom frees me from claim and display
I fly with courage, leaving darkness for light.
Not misled, I checked my heart before a flight.
Memories play akin to sweet tunes in my mind.
As I leave the ordinary world behind,
Leaving footprints, I dance, and I roam.
Leaving behind the familiar, I find my home.
It was in eighteen eighty-six in the streets of Chicago,
where the greatest miscarriage of justice people would know
transpired in an infamous labor-police rendezvous.
Albert Parsons led eighty thousand people on revue.
The strikers marched down Chicago’s Michigan Avenue.
The Knights of Labor were sponsors for the work stoppage venue.
Demands for shorter work hours and no child labor were made.
This would be regarded as the world’s first May Day parade.
Thousands nationwide would join in with the activities
In the next few days, the striking workers stopped whole industries.
On the third, some strikers and police engaged in melees.
These actions resulted in two ill-fated fatalities.
The struggles also caused some severe hideous injuries.
The fights took place at the McCormick Harvester Company.
Many held the police for murderous culpability.
Organizers from the Knights of Labor held a mass rally
at the Haymarket in Chicago’s West Loop vicinity.
They would assemble there in the early part of May.
Thousands crowded there peacefully on the month’s fourth day.
Leaflets were passed noting the police for murder to the crowd
as anarchists urged the mobs to join forces and shout aloud.
A bomb thrown at the police catalyzed an altercation.
One officer was killed and others hurt in the explosion.
Matthias Degan was the officer fallen in duty.
Seven other policemen died later from an injury.
The police opened fire on the people immediately.
At least eleven of the strikers were shot at fatally.
Eight men stood trial for the death of police officer Degan.
They were Parsons, August Spies, George Engel, Samuel Fielden,
Adolf Fischer, Louis Lingg, Michael Schwab, and Oscar Neebe.
All eight were tried and found guilty by a judge and jury.
Neebe got fifteen years; the others got the death penalty.
Schwab and Fielden were commuted to life; then got clemency.
Lingg took his own life before his scheduled execution.
The remaining four men were hanged in public exhibition.
Since then, there have been enacted many labor reform laws
The men who died are considered martyrs to a noble cause.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for the information I obtained to write this
poem.
( El Faro means the lighthouse)
El Faro #1
salt is in my tears
for the grace of god go I
Fiddlers Green awaits
El Faro #2
brothers and sisters
Joaquin cries tears of sadness
forever leeward
El Faro #3
El Faro now rest
sleep deep on your mothers floor
she has called for you
El Faro #4
no wave for granted
my heart is heavy today
listen to bells ring
El Faro #5
list fifteen to port
Edmund look for your cousin
hold fast the mid-watch
El Faro #6
no lighthouse to watch
irony not lost at sea
I long to hear you
El Faro #7
you believe in god
it pounds you like a hammer
green water swallows
El Faro #8
with culpability
I think of the storms survived
when resolve is breached
A great and noble idea to improve many ways of life,
Fiasco from the start, too big was the beginning strife.
Fairness for all was never set up within the many lines.
Only the government can create, without seeing the signs.
Republicans and Democrats, lost in a world of decline.
Democrats, Republicans, live beyond, yours and mine.
Americans need to be aware of the growing control.
Before we lose everything, including our living soul,
Listen to their arguing and noncompliance to law.
Each of them has nothing, to lose after all.
Care for them is guaranteed, after they leave.
A continuance of pay, benefits with no reprieve.
Retirement is not less in their pockets, you see.
Eternal pay received, unlike you and me.
Accountability has no meaning any more.
Culpability and more they just ignore.
Take heed Americans, or be forever poor.
Enchanted with the precarious recital, the silent sacrament
Aging hastily, ignoring the cadaverous skin for imminent immaculateness
Tempted to escape a few more, she refuses to be subjugated
Impressed with her capacity to swindle the dim-witted, dense humanity
Never staring back, only gazing onward to the day she will attain flawlessness
Glorious will be that day, the idyllic rendezvous she perpetually craves
Distorted perceptions nourish the wicked ploy
Inside craving solace while shrieking a impassioned, clandestine plea
Swirling thoughts of culpability and delight, waltzing collectively
Ohh how her narcissistic scheme empowers her
Ritualistic and merciless is her crime, a vain diversion
Deceiving the masses, misleading her very own flesh
Eating away is her soul, her essence, the pompous hunt for perfection
Relinquishing tranquility to be the mastermind of an unattainable quest
One fine day, maybe,
light will shine again.
For life is dying,
All life nourishment
is cut off, all air
toxic sodomized,
plants suffocated,
Harmony halted,
an overloaded
of emotional
culpability.
We pave our way to
hell, our evil with
insincere designs.
Gracious mysticism
is a dirty word,
peace a bygone dream.
Trees are felled, or burned,
rills chemically
polluted. Deprived
are fish of their seas.
The polar regions
are slowly melting.
Yet one day, maybe,
the light will shine once
more and maybe I'll
find a deep baggage
full of bright rose quartz.
11 April 2021
Anacreontic Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
30 lines
5 syllables per line
Checked on www.howmanysyllables.com
Avast emotional gulf manifested; courtesy
series of unfortunate events; sundered
biologically accorded, cherished, enshrined
paternal bond; resultant dereliction defies,
justifies, ratifies...dissonance; unbearable
hindsight excoriates impropriety reviewing
dirty deeds done dirt cheap; impossible mission
to excise indelibly etched psychological
impacted repercussions upon mine fountainhead;
weighing excruciating deserved self loathing;
permanently deplorable depravity yoked;
unyielding choke hold, no longer asking
forgiveness, but airing errant culpability;
dada's guilt indefensible impropriety; begetting
permanent fallout; exacting just desserts; bitter
regret beast of burden (oxe see moron) housed
within self made villain; unjust to impinge your
providential opportunities, whose blessed smarts
plus unfettered, unencumbered, undaunted...
daring do promise productive existence par
excellence, versus anxiety riddled torturous
legacy writ large across countenance this papa;
analogously das scribe bing mortal epitaph, while
dark shadows haunt this edgy rusty knight, who
once pawn time shrugged off mischievous
lascivious actions as payback; recognizably erred;
misperceptions (mine); deduced ex post facto,
when the missus doled out unpleasantries;
exploding anger; vented regarding significant
roiling perturbations harkening to her own
unrepentant poisonous stinging toxicity;
delivered courtesy birth parents; hands lack
king awareness to rock cradle with tender
loving care, hence burdened with childhood
tsoris prior to accepting yours truly as life
contra dance partner these preceding xxii+
years avoiding unseemly behavior; aware
that the mother of our two darling daughters
doth love and forgive me, though recouping
similar results with first offspring may remain
tense, and many years past not a happy camper.
I've heard that the water here will run dry around 2017
I wrote an essay back in 87 about fresh water
I was quite young to have any inclinations about the importance
Water would have in the near future
I saw a man pouring out his liter bottle onto the ground
He had this look of disgust as though it had gone bad
I couldn't help but to wonder why not pour it onto something living
Rather than the sidewalk
We have been operating in automaton mode for too long
Too comfortable to question one's personal culpability
As people in countries not far away
Drink contaminated spill-off from our thoughtlessness
What good is a house made of gold if there is no water to be had
In a quixotic fashion
Many trust that our scientists will find a solution
Such as desalinizing the ocean or filtering polluted rivers
Which are possible with one exception
The ridiculous platform of how expensive it will be
To bring these ideas into fruition
Meanwhile landfills are overflowing with empty spring water bottles
And people living in the desert water their plush grass in the middle of the day
My deep concern lies with the children
I hope that our recklessness won't create an atmosphere
Of pure survival mode for them
An arena of mayhem based on the two element molecule we forget to nuture
Love Might as Well be a Million Miles Away
Demented silence
Thuds dreams to nothing
In empty hands
And desperate lips kiss
Air
Tears beguile emotion to feeling
Something
Anything
Squawking
All of it a lies distraction
From the yank and burn
Don’t look to deep
Into it
A whole life brought to the reckless tip
Says “ Believe in it ”
And the games of a sexual reconnoiter
Appease deliberately
With a numb ball point
That scars wishes on a skin
Which has no other meaning
No other action
Or recompense
But to lay sweating in its own self inflicted
Torment
But would beg for pity
Beg with a berated dog on its belly
To feel something other than this cold empty
Starving
Beguiled by desperation and easy excuses
Never, not, ever, not, to be “a break free”
Of the chains
Sluggishly wrapped
Upon that future
Has no dream but reality
And today has devoured me
Yet again
Conceived in its erudite misuse
And accepting weakness as its only course
The day ad-libs
These fleeting life second-hand moments
Nothing but punishment
For being in love
The bitter doors of its prisons
Bleed
When my hands touch them
Guilty those palms they pronounce me
And culpability continues to deny me
A life
Though through every strip of imagination
I could tune this heart another way
If still my lover refuses
To give in
Then
Love might as Well be a Million Miles Away
total fiction
I heard the words repeated on the news
so sick of them that my mind rebelled...
"Doge's plan and Trump commands
the Constitution should be banned.
Hell to that Chief! There's no relief
Breaking news only heightened the blues.
I don't want to hear anymore.
By seven P.M. I lost count of the trips
I'd made, walking fast, past my kitchen,
refusing to turn on the light to see
a day's worth of dirty dishes
that wish I'd make them sparkling clean.
They're staring with a look of contempt at me.
I knew what I'd find...
coffee grinds stuck to the filter
Raisin bran flakes
caked along the edge of a bowl
a saucer with a bunch of crusts
cut off of a sandwich from lunch.
I'll get to them later....
The excuse I used on myself
when the sink is a refuse of clutter.
I've become a recluse
and no one will see them anyway
and the old cliché of...
Tomorrow's another day.
By eight thirty I was bored
a time when food comes to mind
Hunger would not be ignored
A frozen dinner of mac and cheese
"Geeze" said my stomach
when it saw it coming...
"Oh PLEASE, don't do this to me"
Ok, ok...
chocolate ice cream
sounds better anyway
By ten, guilt pointed accusing fingers
lingering and wagging before my face.
Stop it!" I actually said aloud
"I'll get to them later,
first thing in the morning. You'll see."
My new mantra was repeated.
I decided to go to bed. My usual stunt,
but culpability was on the hunt
haunting and taunting inside my head
Two steps over the kitchen threshold
and my conscience took control
when I smelled the leftover fish.
The thought of facing each greasy dish
would not be on my to-do list come morning.
I knew my mouth was puckered in a pout
No doubt my yawns were angry at me
and my sudden notion of conviction...
a vow of benediction, it seems I'd taken
awakened me to the need for sanitation.
Liquid was pouring from two spouts
Hot water in the sink
and a 'clink' of glass on glass
Pinot Noir flowed from a decanter
I raised my stem and toasted the dishes
"Here's to wishes that don't come true."
He wonders in silence aloud screaming
speaking to his own reflection unseen
memorized moments unfolding backward
like a rubber band unwinding
in its given way and own time
as fear brings clouds nearer
yet denial looms larger than life
a victim of someone else
escaped culpability captures him again
overtaken suddenly in shock
he looks dismayed at his own handiwork
so he calls a tempest forward
drawing on his smallest self
intentionally blinded by accident
using his own staff
stabbing his heart in pain
rather than holding onto firm ground
some angst jumps across his chest
rejected by God's unsent mercy
disallowed by his own sheer will
an unforgiving menace to himself
suffocated by his own hands
that reach from behind him like a serpent
as if someone else was his poison
stepping backward as fast as he gains
like a turtle in his shell he shies away
alone this night a meal digesting hastily
recapitulating the day ahead
even before it has begun
this kind of present haunts him today
as yesterday's unlearned lessons creep
into another day and life
swirling as if in a vortex
he refuses to breach the circle
that grips him tightly as if
in his own prison of chalk lines
by Michaelw1two
The stars of society,
great notion once did scintillate;
their glow burned too fast,
ash, cinder, sloth, agnominate;
what, gifted fate's skewers,
sole reply, a dross adumbrate;
life, guts all souls;
death's head did spirit ablaqueate.
Court not, the rule in justice,
culpability is the blame;
where evil spread, ascribe strife's Id
as quoting Boehme;
earth, is food for worm,
demands flesh to whet its loam;
mankind in greedy lust,
curst promise, to dream venomed.
If justice, is synonym for bread,
equality is its spread;
they, are symmetry to life
and health in living's thread;
fed to profiteering few,
who cause, life's morbid dread;
they, will feast to death,
for earth, leave not a shred.
Life's cauldron steams,
beneath fires we can't control;
sought, is gentry's sweet butter,
democracy's decontrol;
fed on schisms,
palates satiated by life's slop bowl;
rejecting meals context,
and savor rubric of future whole.
Survival, quenches thirst, of each
who seek life's bread;
hardship futile postulate,
hungry souls crave words said;
tasty freedom's tout,
cannot be minced by thirst misled;
each, will eat, this buttered bread,
or all, will wind up dead.
Jan 2010
she was my sagacity-
the one who eased my
troublesome culpability
yes, it was her-
(the one)
now a fragmented spirit am i
wrapping myself in her
overlay-
layers of frigid ice flows
through my veins;
no silk blanket enveloped
by lullabies can give me
warmth
~cold love remains~
a raven guards my intellect-
he sees the need my
mind craves when i get
lost in her world
for she is my brilliant star
that can never shine afar
i rest with nightmares
lingering into my obscurity-
I AWAKE LIFELESS
glass shattered underneath
my bare toes-
a punishment only an outsider
knows
she believed in me when i
had no faith in her;
i sit with her by the sill and
with a whisper softer than a whisper,
i say,
“you are not flawed, sweet friend,
just wear wounds too deep to mend”
i suffer in silence for her-
she grasps my immortality and
rages with passionate fervor
i lay down and rest my weary, weary head-
wrapped gently in a down blanket…
but this time i heard angels cry instead
we hold frail hands without guarantee-
though she's damaged,
she's my sagacity
***
January 17, 2020