Best Deprives Poems
DESERVE
Deserve- that in which we use to critique our life's ways
a way to hold back our existence
to project a negative
and cease the positive intake
Deserve - the breath we don't take
as life is critical and cruel
A risk we avoid
A praise we reject
A life unlived by definition of the term
Deserve - the animosity within that deprives us of beauty
a vast cavernous region of self loathing
unfathomable entities that we must surpass to succeed
striving for more - better
Deserve - enraptures a lustful desire to withdraw and hide
shades of veils, impenetrable walls of denial
vulnerabilities and nakedness
the exposure of truth - internalised
we hide - we die
Deserve - you deserve all that you have
you deserve the power from recognition
and you deserve forgiveness
forgiveness of self, of others; which cannot be attained
but self as best it can
Deserve - Deserve - Deserve
Angered by such a dismissal I am
so wondrous in 'sup-prose'
you ...
your inner musings,
your lexical landscape
your shy confidence
self depreciating
You DESERVE more
Deserve - embrace, reclaim, rejoice
recognise the wealth my versifying friend
the promise in the scroll of a pen
the battle within let it bleed across the page
and cleanse with deliberate introspection
stand tall...
for my friend - you DESERVE it all
Everyone's purpose is as light as a floating feather.
Unfortunately, the focus on it is like stirring mud
in weather that currently coats fog on past tense
verbs and a current that doesn't flow in any particular
direction within current words.
It deprives everything involved; it is misunderstood.
In a field of dandelions that have turned into
the tooth of the lion, blow the seeds that have become
transparently lovely, the flowers we consider weeds,
with a harmonica full of soul that makes snowfall and
sunshine toast a drink and dance together in a
direction that makes adjectives jealous.
Maybe a seed will land in the sea and it will be buried
in the sand when the riptide buries the root,
and your song will become as bluesy and intense as the tides.
There is a chance that an eagle will grace your presence and
a stranded quill will land under the part of the wing you lost
to lift you up. Even with an intense mist and heavy covering,
you're willing to ruin a good stirring spoon.
Be grateful for however you get your feather floating.
I cried Why? Maybe it is because no one understands me.
Doesn't stop to listen to my thoughts. Cares less
about my presence to the naked eye. Doesn't Care.
I cried Why? Maybe it is because they are too intrusive being
happy with their lives. Because I smile a lot and I am
not provoked at all by anyone. Doesn't mind.
I cried Why? Because of my concealed past that I cannot share.
I am unsatisfied with me and who I am. Sulking
feels better to me than laughing. Hates the world.
I cried Why? No one is there for me. I do not want to be figured
out. Trying means nothing to me, I am not going to become
flawless in any way. Love is gone.
I cried Why? My questions are unanswered. Invisibility describes
me. Caring deprives me. Interest excites me. Loneliness
surrounds me. Is left alone.
I cried Because it frees my mixed emotions. Tears are the only
thing that seem to understand, comfort and help me
become stronger, wiser and much more of a secret.
I smile In the end when I fool others into believing that it is
all okay. It is the only thing that will satisfy me.. well
at least for now.
Rebecca C*
{An old, childhood piece, submitted as a curiosity}
(A shortened version of this piece was posted earlier on poetrysoup, titled
Summer Gifts. This is the full version.)
Liquid oceans of moonlight,
cooling currents of wind:
these are gifts of summer
that will not come again.
Fragrant essence of roses,
radiant beads of dew:
summer's valued treasures
that belong to me and you.
When age deprives us all
of summer's glorious time,
when death's demand is made
and we know not summer's clime,
how sad -- depleted -- we ever
then shall be!
Our eyes no more will bathe in light,
our cheeks will feel no wind --
no brightening note lost summer days
will ever, ever lend.
- The Goodbye Goose-
Winter polishes at four o'clock, shining all the rocks aglaze.
Reflection, stretching shadows.
Longer thinner men - longer thinner still.
Shadowy tall , feeling small.
Sunmangled window in a diamond quadrant.
Keyhole orifice and creeping becomes nostalgia.
Why dont you just shut up and call?
Home going geese-slipstream in a vee.
High honking traffic, trailing vapour leaves you exposing me.
Cascading spirits slipping down the walls, swirling eddies
and smoky waterfalls, draping over furniture like slimy octopi...
Drunken weekend metaphors , Monday morning remorse.
Up and down the ladders of my memory, tinkly piano playing on my spiny vertebrae.
Permeating lies of my story told not of voice or tongue or lips-no.
But of crafty bits that left unsaid, untold encyclopaedia of me.
T'would be so simple to top you up, yet dark forces warn me ,
to pimp me out to you is to forfeit martyrdom and victory crown,
deprives the joy of shooting you down, shifting the blame.
Denies the stature as abuser , distracts my winner into loser.
Never be a frontal goose .
unsated
she deprives
wild flowers
of their freedom...
the wind picks on her greed
----------------------------------
The Crossroads of Life
The crossroads of life—fate!
And there you wait
For the sign that presents forth the goals—
That will guide your destiny.
The phrase is synonymous with challenge,
Bold adventure, and decision-making
In achieving greatness,
Or to be the best that you are.
And yet, you hesitate.
What will people think?
How will you get ahead?
This response, you believe
To be both rational and precise,
Is cowardly.
When opportunity knocks, you procrastinate!
This action deprives your soul of fuel
By exaggerating fear with excuses,
Thereby avoiding the truth of consequences.
Case law has established precedents.
The name will stand
In the books unembellished,
Based on facts of articulate arguments
Waged in the courtroom in the presence of peers.
***
Note:
“Knight at the Crossroads” is an 1882 painting by Viktor Vasnetsov (1848–1926) that is based on the traditional Russian legend of The Three Journeys of Ilya Muromets. The artist depicts the hero in a moment of reflection before a menhir:
“If you go to the right, you will lose your horse; if you go to the left, you will lose your life; if you go forward, you will lose both!”
9/23/1989 - 1/20/2009
Grief dropped like a huge guillotine
on the world of me, my daughter and wife.
My son Caleb was only nineteen,
when too soon he left our life.
He was a marine off on holiday,
with two friends from the base.
They drove to one's family to stay,
and on the way back tragedy took place.
My son's roommate asleep at the wheel,
crossed the median and into traffic.
The driver lived, the others were killed,
the scene surreal and tragic.
He was buried in his uniform of blue,
at the graveside my wife was given a flag.
Shots were fired and Taps were blew,
we felt proud but too hurt to brag.
Grief stayed and filled our home,
condolences were sent, but none were found.
We hid in our house not far to roam,
only to a grave on the edge of town.
Dreams of Caleb soon filled my sleep,
visions of him in heaven the theme.
This is where his memory I keep,
locked away in a pleasant dream.
It's true in time wounds will heal,
but they leave a nasty scar.
When from time to time grief I feel,
I visit Caleb for a dream is not that far.
God saw fit to bless our lives,
with a gift of another precious son.
Grief is weakened as joy deprives
and puts sorrow on the run.
Nine years have passed since that day,
that took Caleb from our life.
I sit and watch my daughter's daughter play,
with young uncle and my wife.
So tonight before I fall asleep,
on knees I'll bow and pray.
I'll ask the Lord my soul to keep
and thank him for the sons he gave
and the one he took away.
"Give it to me,or else I will die"
This is the repeating sound
Of a body governed by addiction.
It stirs up one's mind
With an itching desire to be satisfied
With the drug; therapeutic or luxurious;
The eyes and heart get to a point,
When they crave to watch those erotic videos and pictures,
And the person feels entrapped in his addiction.
The relaxation and calmness
That come with consumption are amazing,
And one can readily go to bed,
Or perform that seemingly hard task.
Or be ready to take on the world.
The body can lie to itself,
And one may live to satisfy that deceitful desire,
That the body will breakdown without it.
Physiology does its role
To maintain a living human alive
Without necessarily depending on addiction
Which deprives one of peace and imagery
And sometimes claims that life.
It is hard to let go
But just like Paul let go
Of persecuting the church,
By the grace of God,
One can desist from the evil
It is then that he will live freely.
Through rehabilitation,
It is very possible to heal
And return to the normal being
It is a matter of trusting the process
With commitment to recover fully.
If all fails,
Never let addiction be your master
When we are here for you.
If you’re older and somehow not dying,
Yet live with dementia or worse,
Prepare to be hit with some lying
Before your last ride in a hearse.
This strategy’s gaining approval
As nursing homes struggle to cope
With patients whose memory removal
Deprives them of reasons to hope.
So little white lies are suggested
Like, “Your husband will visit real soon”
Since the truth often can’t be digested
And no time will be quite opportune.
Or, “Let’s visit the nursery; maybe
You’ll help rock your child to sleep,”
Where a doll substitutes for the baby
Which remains where the memories keep.
If deception brings comfort, I wonder
Why, to me, it just doesn’t feel right
Reaching into one’s psyche to plunder
What the mind has kept tucked out of sight.
Door arrives door disappears
Door deprives door shares
Had doors been toward one way only
Life would have lost its lustre
With one hand life provides
With the other life robs us
Life sometimes brutally divides
Some other time it is Mother Teresa
When my doors closed several times
I wept but didn’t stop reading poems
My chromosomes of hope kept me supporting
Till a shaft of sunlight brought new doors
The deep green Neem tree in my dream garden
Went into a dizzyingly birdless gloom
Leaves and flowers brutally plundered
Roots torn asunder in my room
But again one day the spring sun stopped by
Clouds called at its door with shower
In the windswept branches came contentment
Now I hug it in a happy deep breath
____________________________________________________
March 26, 2016
Neem is a tree in the mahogany family Meliaceae. It is native to India, Myanmar, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Malaysia and Pakistan. It grows in tropical and semi-tropical regions. Products made from neem have been used in India for over two millennia for their medicinal properties. They are said to be antifungal, antidiabetic, antibacterial, antiviral, contraceptive andsedative. Neem products are also used in selectively controlling pestsin plants. Neem is considered a part of Ayurvedic medicine. – Simple English Wikipedia
Racism kills
Outlaw racism
Racism deprives
Outlaw racism
Racism deceives
Outlaw racism
Racism steals
Outlaw racism
Racism manipulates
Outlaw racism
Racism distorts
Outlaw racism
Racism ultimately denies someone else's rights and entire existence
Outlaw racism
The deadliest hang man
Pierces like a knife
Into the deepest chord of ones soul
It burns one up like a molten magma
In preparation for eruption
Oh I fear the consequences
of falling into into your entrapment
That deprives man the sanity
Of making sane decisions
Its controlling power is blinding
It makes its victim snap without
Recollection of ones action
What an existentialist concept
That ruins a man without recollection
In the Madness of my Mind, I : Chatted with God
The Music of HIS voice reverberates through the canyon of a dead Soul
Questions, so many questions : “Speak my son“, He Said
Is reality Heaven, Is Life upon this Earth only a Dream
Insanity; touches me, as I roam through the hours of the Past
You may ask : WHY does the sickness of the mind affect the SOUL?
“ If YOU do not know MY “SON” : YOU do not Know “ ME “
“Empty , a Soul that only Once new LOVE , until “ BARBARA “
WHY?, WHY?, do I get the privilege of “ LOVING BARBARA “
‘ YOUR Blessing is Received “ as my mind, disputes “ REALITY”
“ May I see my LOVE : Lenore; before I run to the arms of “BARBARA”
I want to be LOVED, not necessarily; Physical or Sexual , “Just LOVED”
In a Heavenly Voice GOD sings to ME, whispers in my ear “ BELOVED “
“ If You do not LOVE MY, “SON” : YOU do not LOVE “ ME “
Love ; decayed, rotted away in a rancid pool of lost Emotions
Feelings : Dead and buried long ago; Scratch the surface of the Earth
Screaming in painful agony, crying the tears of the past “Set me Free”
The Earth is cold, damp, dirty ; I find Peace in the emptiness of Life
Death is a pleasure ; I can only Dream of in a nightmare of Forever
Madness deprives the Soul of consciousness , of reality, of ETERNITY
“If you do not seek MY “SON” : You do not SEEK “ ME “
Her steps echoes down the hall,
As she takes my breadth away into the mall,
Entering,she deprives me of the air of fall,
As her body responds to beauty's call,
Breaking my senses of reason,
My defenses,she shatters into season,
As her smile lights my face's treason,
Leaving it with sweet seasoning,
I am left holding on to my heart,
As her eyes tears its meekness apart,
Cushioning its fall,my strength starts,
As I ride on shyness's cart,
My heart seeks her affection,
But my words fail for her attention,
As I hope to win her love's election,
I would sit in my corner of no detection,