Best Cynics Poems
Dear sweet lover
I'm yours to the end
More than a lover
An life long friend
Morns when I wake
To your cheery hello
All's well with the world
I feel all aglow
Why am I blessed
With a love so immense
Love without boundaries
A feeling so intense
The cynics will scoff
Say I'm living a dream
It's not real life
My feelings too extreme
I say to these doubters
Trust in your heart
It's given life a meaning
Right from the start
It's really quite simple
Just trust in your soul
Let passions guide you
And go with the flow!
The passing years
through trembling fingers slip,
like worry beads
unsurely strung
along life’s fraying thread.
Sages, seers and cynics peer
and say when it will snap,
but why regard the
sing-song whine of those who
seldom glimpse their own demise?
Mysteries and magic
ventures, bold and tragic—
reason, rhyme and rhetoric—
will someday undistinguished lie
inside life’s tome, its legion seals intact.
But should some day a mighty hand
this fearsome book disturb
and turn the page that lets me fly,
on fairest wings of reborn time
I’d soar and find my way back home.
MEMORY OF NOTHING
Listen:
Drag branches comeback
Across the forest floor:
Knowledge of the rough¡
At water’s edge
I gather some things up:
“Happy Ending Story”.
We’ve the time to give the Babel Tower
A close reading.
Awful good, Tú
As Roy A. Rappaport’s
Ritual... as Communication and as State.
Our preferences might be
Toward more emphasis
On species places:
Smooth textures of dead wood
Knowledge of our hands on arms
The body-art of ********
Drinking cocoa
And tend to the faith
With a Vampire’s short stick
That smells of infinite urine
As Madonna.
History reveals itself to us
In this way:
Poetry, Tales, Essays are pamphlets
Of impossible interest
Multiplying voices-human, voices-animal
Voices-plant
Voice-life of Earth
As Dan O’Neill’s
Holiday for Cynics.
Look, little one
Courtney Love
We live this close to disaster
There is no turning back
From the tops of the trees
Which are so dense
Almost no sky is visible
Only the odor dilates the nostril
And quickens the heart
On a marijuana tortilla.
The buddhists have been tellig us
That the Self (Ego)
As we conceive of it
Is an illusion.
A good tip
Thinking about Gurney Norman’s
Jack and His Ego.
Is it?
It is that we are of a Time-Sexual
Wherein all species has been joined
To the Wo/Man
Of *****Sapiens
And Life is a single exercise of Cannibals
In constantly elevating towers
Of Bureaucracy.
Nothing in Somethingg
Something in our Nothingness.
She sees herself suddenly as a small girl
bare feet on the cold black and white tile
little toes curled
sees the white porcelain tub and
how pretty the light blue water was
so deep it almost came to her chin
as she climbed in
For hours she'd play with her dime store sailboat
loving it though it would hardly float
always taking on water
listing, never level
her wet skinny back hunched over
shoulder blades like primordial wings
every few minutes she'd have to shake the thing
Trying desperately not to break the spell
of pretend
and when
it was time to let the water out
she'd always stay to watch the water drain
weighing the emotional pain
both fascinated and horrified,
as the suction intensified,
by the force of the water
the unstoppable slaughter
waiting for the inevitable rotation
to begin
the dizzying spin
Slowly at first growing faster and faster
a miniature cyclonic water disaster
The dime store boat of course on its side
circling faster in the relentless tide
Then the drain would give a horrible belch
much satisfied with itself.
As she grew the tub got smaller
with shallower water
less and less room
for pretend to bloom.
Years later, dime store sailboat long forgotten,
life having been mostly rotten
working with the most cynical of cynics
ER nurses bitter that it's more like a clinic
runny noses and coughs that folks thought were urgent
working hard to save those who were truly emergent
Hearing from them the phrase: "circling the drain"
memories suddenly flooding the brain
almost able to feel herself as that young girl
watching the sailboat beginning to swirl
Feeling the blood drain, face going pale
she sees vividly the boat with its bright red sail
yellow hull and blue plastic deck
fine hairs rising on the back of her neck
She realizes now the fatigue of age
is from fighting the pull with defiant rage
The closer you get, the faster you spin
and soon the dark whirlpool draws you in
With a knowledge that seems to be purely primal
she now understands the downward spiral
And she knows that she will not put up a fight
she'd rather go silently in the dark of the night
And the dime store boat comes to rest on its side
so it's all come full circle at the end of the ride.
SADNESS
©Danielle White
I HATE church
And all it stands for -
Whatever that may be?
Our churches are barely half filled with
So-called Christians!
But what are they really?
Hypocrites. Cynics.
Hateful people who don’t give a toss!
All they care about is themselves.
They don’t care about the people they hurt
With their hypocrisy and cynicism.
They don’t care about
Being two-faced - it suits them.
Perhaps the people in our churches
Should take more notice of the
Kind, sympathetic, unselfish
Real genuine people
In the outside world.
If you ask me
They are the true Christians of this world.
They know how to help others.
They know how to be unselfish.
They don’t deal in lies
And deceit wrapped up as
Religion and being a Christian.
Religion? What is that?
Going to church because you have to?
Following the same boring old routine
Because it’s expected?
Going through the motions
Of this supposedly ‘exclusive club’
For people who like to think they are genuine!
Where is God in all this mess?
(If there is such a thing!)
Why does He let people behave like this?
Why don’t people genuinely care anymore?
I do.
I’m angry and bitter at this moment in time.
Perhaps I don’t really mean what I say?
But right now, this is how I feel.
The church has nothing to offer me.
No comfort. No strength. No love.
Nothing.
There is nothing here for me –
Except emptiness.
Creatures of
spirit, poets are,
softness, invisibility,
things whose existence
extends in time.
Hard things,
of the eyes,
of the earth, of matter
are for cynics,
humorists and critics.
Poets are lovers,
engrossed in love
and memory of love,
in sad recollection,
and mourning.
Uncaged Bird
Today, I had the instinct
Of an uncaged bird
I felt what an uncaged bird feels:
The feeling that I can fly
And the freedom to fly as I wish
So I decided to fly around the world
To explore its fulness
Not leaving out its emptiness
To explore its glamour
Without bias to its squalor
In the course of my traverse
I landed in the house of the poor
I beheld their pursuit of riches
I landed in the house of the cynics
I caught a full glimpse of their pessimism
I landed in the house of the oppressed
I saw their crave for freedom
I landed in the house of the greedy
I heard their never-ending melody
of "We want some more."
another day gone by
another thirty dead
until we rue the day
"what's exactly wrong with your head?"
please just psychoanalyze
till someone else is gone again
another one in purgatory
another scream to murmur
another fifty murdered
until we can somehow figure
what kind of bliss comes from this
our lives will be spent in belligerence
to the point we're making wagers in
any other lie in this reach for utopia
when do the screams stop
when do we stop dreaming?
i walk right into reality
sit in a seat to the corner
pull up a magazine
read somewhere between the lines
just another thirty dead
what's so wrong with us
what's so wrong with life
why would you want to take it?
why would you ever want to give the cynics any more reasons?
just another day in dystopia
i guess
my soul is the shape of a bloodstain
poured there by Nadine Maraschino
my right eye sits
in the ruby voodoo goblet
that she wears upon her head
Nadine was a 3-toed egg laying harpy
from the cauldron of shame
but she used her brain cleverly
with candor and anti-obfuscatory ardor
it was the mystic East
humping the mystic West
so said the gaming industry statistics
don’t believe me then
talk to my lawyers then
Circumstance & Circumstance
writs tarts and exonerations
they’ll tell you of the settlement
coded instruction to the next generation
Nadine's heart was as big as a catcher's mitt
her white garments billowed
like clouds passing before the moon
we met in an emergency room
after I pulled my best pickup line
hi I'm a friend to the entire human race
and she countered with
want auntie Nadine to show you
how to be a big boy
a buzzard shadow passed over her face
she pulled me close and hissed
if no one wants to look foolish
why so many truth murdering fools
I weakly countered with
if thoughts are differentiated
one from the other then so are you
Nadine’s lizard tongue gave him
the secret to the garden
descending down his throat
like a black lung miner
how can you tell if it's morning noon or night
hint you'll need a sense of sequence
hers was a dangerous mission
for both covert and overt ends
the life's a ***** and then you die cynics
took us for a pack of numbskulls
well we were arrayed in a tatty splendor
consisting of zero camouflage
but there was no substitute for living deep
even in Happy Valley
the slightly assisted living community
well hell we're all assisted
aren't we supposed to get smarter
as time scurries us along
and last I'd like to thank
my non-existent financial backers
for timely script development
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
WONDER OF PHYSICS
I am traveling through the wonder of physics
There is nothing wrong with being critics
Are you understanding the meaning of off limits
Don't ever try to ignore the cynics
Tr?n Minh Hi?n Hien Tran Orlando May 26, 2016
We're in an annihilation nation,
where freedom is not free.
The cynics lurk and scoff
at the human misery.
Where integrity is magic,
and imagination is all science.
The cynics cannot believe
humanitys' defiance.
Man has fallen deeper
into a devious disarray.
We can't turn the channel,
no, we cannot get away.
Our eyes can't be glued to paper,
the wheels within wheels cannot spin.
No matter what we choose, we're all about to lose.
They never should have never let us in.
You can see the effects of their emotion,
you can tell by fear in their eyes.
We have tasted a trace of their outer space,
we're no longer able to fly the friendly skies.
Take it from me, we are crawling.
Taking no texts as the old dial tone.
Why do you sigh because you cannot fly?
Why don't you put down your cell phone?
Let’s go climb
And move back time
To that mysterious hill
Where a boy first met his girl
Long before
The cynics arrived
Before the laughter died
And God returned the day to night
Where dazzling fireworks
Rained sparkles
On our lives
Two strange birds
Came together
And opened up their eyes
Let’s go climb
We’ll move back time
Fireworks Hill, Fireworks Hill
Far from my mind
Never forgotten
Fireworks Hill, Fireworks Hill
We became one there
So very often
And there are vivid colors
Blasting through the sky
Dancing rainbows
I really want to taste
There is weeping smoke
Painting all the stars
Burning graveyards
For the human race
Let’s go climb
And move back time
To that mysterious hill
Where a boy first met his girl
We’ll race to the edge
Fulfill our pledge
It was written in blood
The heat of our love
Oh, jump, baby, jump
We’ll fly away together
Jump, baby, jump
Our bodies joined forever
Let’s go climb
And move back time
To that mysterious hill
Where a boy first met his girl
Fireworks hill, fireworks hill
I see the sparkles in the air
Fireworks hill, fireworks hill
I smell the dazzle of your hair
Fireworks hill, Fireworks hill
We flew to Heaven over there
Let’s go climb
We’ll move back time
(Forever…with you)
Reach into my depths, I could,
pulling out pieces of fallen idols,
From contemporary to eccentric,
From cynics to realists, to romantics,
searching deeply to find my voice,
If indeed, I have acquired such a tone
as those who inspire my very thoughts,
Thoreau, Coleridge, Crane, Byron, Poe,
Frost, Hayden, Hughes, and Gibran,
Pertinent pioneers of published passion,
Experienced educators of endearment,
Do I dare follow their footsteps
imprinted in the wet cement path of time?
Or do I respectfully deny my destiny
out of fear of inferiority, for who am I?
Questions that echo in my mind,
punishing with each powerful pounding pulse,
No answer awakes within my heart,
nor does my mind mentor my vehement
in self doubt, "I am nothing, I am afraid",
Instead, in the midst of my crossroad,
coming to the rescue in the form of an apparition,
stirring in my soul are the words of Uncle Walt,
"O' Me, O' Life" he repeats with tears in his eyes,
"O' Me, O' Life" he says, wiping my fears away,
"Why do we live child?
Why do we wake and breathe
to prolong our existence on this corrupted orb?
What in your heart is the most alluring reward
for being chosen to walk amongst the grandfathers
of your expression? What is the most precious
opportunity that any man can have in the epic
piece of literature that existence has become?"
(Continued on Part 2, please post all comments on Part 2)
Some say goodness is everywhere in everyone,
but my vast travels haven't shown just one ton,
of ethics, morals or just plain fun.
Well I've been all around,
and something true from town to town,
is evil is everywhere, pound for pound.
See I've been here and I been there,
and I've been in your walking wear,
and goodness gracious ain't oft to bare.
Most folks say,
that it don't pay,
to have jaded feelings always through.
But this is the folly of the jolly cause evil done accrue.
Cynics, skeptics and thinkers know there's an unofficial ban on virtue.
But the worst is the folk who think they know lots,
and want the children to connect only good dots,
and by all means keep adult themes from tots.
If our children don't know of the cruelty,
that rises above from sea to sea,
then those kids won't ever be in reality.
Teach kids the curses, not such empty words, so they can reach maturity.
And then the kids can have some balanced quality.
But if kids can't know they'll always be victims of evils they can't see.
Some will say I'm just trying to bring them down,
but people got no skill when society throw em aroun'
like today's 13 drug deaths in my town.
6/25/16
Again from the shadows
Rises that scoundrel
Riding on envy
Armed with naked cynics
Dedicated not to betray
The Lord of hatred
For he is ordered
To scoff the adore
Yet he is unsure
About the shine that still hold
Eternal is the nature’s mystery
What comes in its way, becomes history.