Best Demeans Poems
*Based on Plato's Allegory of the Cave
Numb fists with bloody wrists
chained to crumbling walls.
Glazed eyes that never spy
a single truth or fault.
Dim light impairing sight
in spaces dark and shallow.
Stone walls where lies are scrawled
by murky phantom shadows.
One breaks free on frail knees
stiffened by disuse,
to leave behind the dumb and blind
who welcome this abuse.
He climbs in pain against the grain
toward a distant light.
With bloodied hands, he finally stands,
exhausting all his might.
Dazed at first, he's cursed by thirst
beneath the blazing sky.
The sun is bright and plunders sight
from eyes too dry to cry.
Lesions crust as eyes adjust
to find a foreign land
with greenest grass and sea like glass
caressing strips of sand.
He stands amazed before this maze
of truths he's never seen
and vows to save those in the cave
whose ignorance demeans.
When he returns, his words are spurned
by those chained to the wall.
They have no will to brave that hill
or risk the chance to fall.
He cannot go back to this show
of living shadowed lies.
Now that he knows the truth below,
he needs the open skies.
And so he climbs to search, to find
the knowledge that he craves.
No more a slave to the dark cave.
He's left that mindless grave.
I wore popular shin high white boots,
The top in rage of disco dancing queens.
The Bee Gees were the utmost in the clan
The alter of quantifying demeans.
Revolutionary, the stance we took,
The freedom of iconoclastic paths
To justify rebellious avenues
That swayed the truth in plain objective wraths.
Our music was the strength we built upon.
To satiate an inward longing for
An understanding from our wings of youth
To dwell upon that which we needed more;
Our voices to be heard above the din
Of righteous antiquated old ideals
To sway the right of multi-media
Into the light of deference that’s real.
To end the Viet Nam war was a quest
Of Yuppies and of Hippies, both agreed,
A war of no beginnings or endings
Should dissolve hate for races to succeed.
A bracelet worn to honor POW's
Those lost in war whose bodies never found,
Embraced the sorrows that remain today
Of those lost souls sore buried in the ground.
The seventies are burnt upon my mind.
In vivid dreams of nonconformist ways.
I dwell upon the heroes giving grace
To rectify the military maze.
3-1-18
I absolutely could not pare this down to the required
20 lines for the contest, so it cannot be an entry.
THE BARE INFINITIVE
Look: up above the stratosphere
Outside the earth's blanket veneer
Beyond planets stars and galaxy
Past even faintest nebulae
Far from the pull of gravity
Free of Dark Matter's hidden vector
In existential cavity
Untied to any spacial sector
All human weakness risen above
In solo freedom primitive
Beyond the bonds of hate or love
There sits the Bare Infinitive
No cares nor problems, fears nor pains
But there's one question that remains
From Liberty, took a blessed kiss?
Or to false seductive promise succumb
Is he in sublime unfettered bliss?
Or formless, endless tedium
COROLLARY - The Meaning of Life
So perforce the very asking of the question
May reveal the answer to that greater plea
Why suffer slings and arrows, pains, anguish, oppression
When we might, by NOT opposing, be set free
The gloomy prince omitted consequence unsaid
In agonising on the walls of Elsinore
Endless nothingness holds nought for us but dread
Perchance to dream preferred to void; that we abhor
Thus life’s meaning may be: to be within a life
Then if we also have a purpose vied with strife
Result: interest, time, curiosity, interaction and aim
Or the elements of what we call: A Game.
Lest you think this demeans Creation to mere caprice
Then observe to be the player, not the piece.
24 May 2019
Why
are there
stars in heaven above
annoying pinpricks in the firmament?
No need for black holes if all stars were shot on sight.
The reach for the stars is hopeless they are so far away we can never visit them.
Knowing the vastness of the universe belittles and demeans us to insignificance.
We would all feel a lot better, sleep a lot better, if stars were switched off.
Like city lights, stars glare, twinkle, flash so bright all night
that we cannot sleep, and shut shutters are so stifling.
If no stars shone, we could leave the curtains open.
Better not to know what may be out there
when aliens may be coming to get us
Celestial abstinence and solitude
is what we all cherish.
Let us hold a vote.
Raise your hands
if you want
all the stars
switched
to off;
stars
shot.
A slice of Americana
love their Mar-a-Lago cream cheese pastry
immorality a lot
They crave their leadership cake ...
spin-sugar batter laced,
full of vulgarities and obscenities
in a profanity pot
Call truth to them:
this is guaranteed to give your soul gut rot
Response be a fork crooked limb:
give us another slice please, we love it a lot!
Politically incorrect gluttonous fake bakery eaters
admire a misogynist strong, dictatorial leader
Someone who demeans women,
flush their feminine dignity down the toilet
Strip their honor bare and sewage transport it
Mar-a-Lago Café got a line out the door
that adore the pungent immorality smell of this
Let Trump blow freedom a snot rag kiss,
Mr. Booga Man do autocratic Aryan insist
Sour cream de la spoiled cheese,
oh how they love it so ...
Begging the Prez Fuhrer’s pardon, yo —
they’re neo-Nazi-ing for another slice please
Getting soul gout ...
selling their empty calories
conservative principles out
Mar-a-Lago decadent immorality
served by the hateful spoonful, no doubt
Cream cheese colored bigotry
Very Berry White crooning
on the karaoke vanilla jukebox grapevine
Take one last slice before democracy closing time
But you didn’t hear it from us black raisins,
standing in the back of a separate cafeteria line
Trumps Wall
He boasts
Walls he shall build
With his generals
More weapons for the King of the Hill
Sowing hate and creating
Fascist dreams
He divides and demeans all those
Who share not his vile power dreams
I have news and its foxy news too
He can have his walls, and his shiny shoes
Hate and fear will never triumph
Trumps wall will stumble and fall
There is a secret army
Hidden under his little hands and pudgy nose
This army will defeat any wall
No matter how big, and no matter how tall
These little soldiers come from here and there
They shall stand up, were sometimes adults stall
They shall make the wall
Something Trump hadn’t thought of at all
A place to rally, a place to dance
They shall write their messages with
Love and smiles, inked with paint
They shall embrace the world
Walls and all! No giant can stop them all
Notes: He (Trump) sounds a lot like a cave man I know. Ha ha
There is no such thing as racism; we are all ONE race the human race. Racism is simply hate guised under another name.
This poem is dedicated to Kids United and specifically to the song
“On Ecrit Sur Les Murs” which means “ we write on the walls “ Even if you don’t speak French or cant read at all for that matter, the video carries the message. On a completely separate note I found a spelling error in the New York Times. Oh my! LOL
I encourage all to listen to more of their songs.
“Dickhead”
There is a saddened kind of shame
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,
elementary obscene
a child can not reach deep enough.
It started when I read above
my third grade level reading group
and followed to my brownie troop
then fearful fighting, flight to home.
And in defense I’d use my gift
to make up names and write mean songs-
I’d teach the boys to sing along
and charge their chocolate milk money.
With my moustache a poor disguise,
with puffy, rubbing, teary eyes
I made myself apologize
though only choking squeaks were heard.
Nicoleslaw Dickhead was my name
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,
slimy side-dish dung for brains-
a child can not reach deep enough.
Beauty and the Beast
As her beauty glistens on the outside, her beast brutalizes and demeans her insides.
Belligerent engaged and in war with herself, hostile aggressiveness makes her beast comes out.
She desperately cries out, unable to discipline herself.
Her beast disassociates and separates her from forming any relationships with anyone else.
Her beast slowly takes her dignity and devitalizes her pride.
She is weaken and deprived of life.
She no longer sees her worth; her eyes tell her story of hurt.
Pain as a contributor a well-known donor, love has divorce her.
Forsaken entirely abandon since birth, to be truly loved she thirst.
Unable to see her beauty runs deep, genuinely shows her generosity that emphasizes her sincere honesty.
She garnishes her beastliness while smiling.
As her beast is hiding deeply behind her eyes, her glazy stare intensify her happy appearance as a glassy finish.
As her beast is frantic, her beauty becomes fraudulent.
Her smiles more deceitful her heart grows fragile emotions so gullible.
The meaning of love gravels.
Beauty and the beast she will forever be, for the love she crave the beast will forever eat.
Leaving her dying a unloved sleeping beauty.
In the human equation,
life's reduced to statistics.
It's the patterns that matter,
zero or one, on or off.
Confronting indifference,
fear festers into anger.
And gnawing pangs of hunger
force the soul to question sin.
As lechery deals in flesh,
hypocrisy sets the price.
And a substitute for love,
lust is an expensive dish.
Reality demeans dreams
while embracing fantasy.
And buries encrypted truths
waiting to be deciphered.
Genetically linked, we're
individually cast.
Yet our programmable lives
are governed by statistics.
Kiss of Judas, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Le Baiser de Judas by T. Wignesan
In our century where one sells father and mother
Husband his wife and wife her husband
And who doesn’t with ease dispose the only brother
Gives up yet two scorched by blade and fire
Of course breath comes hard to him who thus
Horribly heartless sacrifices his friend
But efforts turn to Nought before man comes of age
Who without remorse at first is forced to vomit
Disembowelled in one’s own mummified body
No one’s spared by the multitude
Which draws us into it all like an epidemic
Each is smothered in the crowd as in the prison cell
All become lambs : who’s to be betrayed first
Under constant surveillance yet others to victimise
Each spies within the circle surrounding him
His soul lives stuck to the peephole
And if while in their midst they catch him in the act
To punish him they give him up to the Law
Thus every man in the steps of an apostle
Seeking to be approved worships the Law
The great one-eyed lady
The arrogant goddess
Whoever stands for such justice demeans his spirit
And creates in us a vile and villainous heart
In the name of the men of law and the public force
All functionaries like you and I
In this Darkness where Emptiness reigns supreme
I mete justice out to Judas
What he did he did for me
So that I might in turn do the same
Kissing the forehead in good faith
To such as he all over the earth
Every day umpteen times I vow
The mecanical anger
Of the labourers of the Law
(from Pierre Emmanuel’s Les Jours de la Passion)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 11, 2014
My cocoon tightens –colors tease
I am feeling for the air
A dim capacity for wings
Demeans the dress I wear
1099 - Emily Dickinson
Butterfly- A Glosa
My potential, held in a chrysalis,
I hide within a shadowed niche,
safe from mischief and the curious,
time stands still for my strange seed.
Buds of my wings, flimsy as flowers,
grow from leaf nectar with ease.
In grub miasma I am geometry concealed;
a rainbow of speckles
secretly forming in tiny degrees.
My cocoon tightens- colors tease.
Outside a gentle, scented atmosphere,
stirs memories of my once, segmented self,
sucked to wind tossed leaves, green
of their green, protected by dapple;
a puzzle of leafy camouflage.
I gorged there, naked and bare,
then wove around me a fine cocoon,
I was the spinner, and the loom,
quietly suspended now I must dare.
I am feeling for the air.
I am feeling for the sun,
cell by cell, a squeezing permutation
diligently shedding grub matter.
A framework, a pattern, a nectar tongue
coiled for long throats of flowers to come,
poised for pastoral whisperings
I struggle to unfold.
A magic, a beauty stunningly brief,
I hold, like all mystical things,
a dim capacity for wings.
My feelers, living dopplers’ vibrate
I shimmer, transparent gossamer.
I gather energy, I tremble for flight,
I tumble with garden blest wings.
A brief portrayal of immortal life,
is part of the nature I bear.
I flitter, I flutter I seem to be aimless,
a symbol of ever-returning things.
Only the fragile and delicate flower,
demeans the dress I wear.
For Line’s “ A Stunner 2017 Contest
The Glosa is a Spanish form based on taking 4 lines by another poet and expanding the theme.
I have entered this in 3 or more contests and was NA’d EVERY time.
Applicable Not Applicable Contests
Contest Judged: 6/2/2019 2:03:00 PM
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
Placed 3rd
who can tell a person is wrong or right?
day-to-day each one is a hired soldier..
fighting in their own battlefield..
not to kill a criminal or a terrorist..
rather a person striving for better life..
who can definitely say one's reason for living?
allow me to say that each one is struggling so..
one reason maybe is to earn a living..
one reason maybe is to gain power..
or this maybe one reason to share God's love...
who can tell hundred percent that such person can do harm?
isn't it, only by giving into chances that you can know one person..?
isn't it, through God's eyes we are all equal despite who we are here on earth..?
isn't it , through genuine acceptance that divisions and differences are broken?
isn't it reaching out is fine but alright?
sad to say that persons judge without knowing..
sad to say persons can conclude without even investigating..
sad to say, persons who are educated will look at others just by their race..
sad to say, persons outcast and demeans another person because of looks..
hired soldiers we maybe everyday..
true to say, we must on guard to others..
we must be vigilant to stay protected..
we must use all resources in us to keep living..
however, must we be hired soldiers to condemn and persecute innocence?
by: olive_eloi
19/10/2013 2:12pm
To me my best friend is my wonderful husband
I have a small group of friends whom understand,
That my world is always being with my best friend
We are so close that we definitely defend,
Anyone whom judges and demeans both of us
I guess you could say we have each others backs when there is a fuss,
It doesn't matter that we have haters out there
Because in our world we don't really care.
Written By: Unique Poetry 2015
Salt of The Earth
Ordinary people
That’s who we are
Our triumphs
Our sacrifices
Loves
And torments
Go unsung
For the most part
Un-noticed by anyone
Ordinary people
Who’s lives may have suffered tradgedy
Quite sperate
From the world of celebrity
Who’s weight loss and weight gain
Who’s lives are sucked up
So avidly
Un-famous
Un-important
That’s what we are
Un-recognised heroines
And heroes
People that the world
Never knows
This celebrity culture
Demeans us
Turn our lives
To a paultry plethora
Of existence
Devoid of the glitter and pomp
Of celebrity red carpet
TV show sold money
Our faces un-immortalised
In the applause
Of the overpaid and wealthy
Of yet another publicity stunts
Awards
Our lives a mere daily
Rigmarol of mediocrity
As we dine on the scraps
Of news and gossip
Of the purile insignificance
Of celebrity
Ordinary people
That’s who we are
The un-discovered heroes
And heroines
Who’s backs and sweat
Hold up the scaffolding
Of the bright shinning
Neon distraction
Media circus
World of celebrity
Politicians
Models
Muscicians
Actors
Football players
All raking the cream
Which belongs to
Firemen
Cops
Nurses
And Doctors
Road sweepers
Trash collectors
Husbands
Fathers
Wives
Mothers
Making their lives ends meet
And staying afloat
Facing each day
Heroines and heroes
Of the common all
And for the common good
Though bemused and belittled
Misinformed
Mislead
And lied to
Still we emerge
As the salt of the Earth
Just ordinary
People
This poem was prompted by the recent death of celebrity Jade Goody, a tragedy indeed. I am
sure she will be sorely missed by her family. As will all the other ordinary people who
passed on recently, be missed by their families.
Yes I know love, I know her well
For I'm a hunter who excels
Who knows his prey by sound and smell
And signs that tell, and signs that tell.
I've hunted love so long it seems
I'd know her even in my dreams
I've seen her victims she demeans
And those she weans, and those she weans.
My trophy mounts stare tauntingly
Their cold dead eyes laugh mockingly
"Yes, you got us but where is she?"
They laugh at me, they laugh at me.
I hear them now inside my head
They're daring me to push ahead
To have her fur spread o'er my bed
Her arms widespread, her arms widespread.
Yes I know love, that is you see
I've tracked her now relentlessly
But like the unicorn that flees
She runs from me, she runs from me.
Timothy I. Brumley