Best Derides Poems
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Implant within me a seed monthly, though the pulverization derides me. Let it conjure hope and solace to shatter my reality as venomous weeds entwine it, sickening me as I lay still in the liquid birthed from my own fruit. Implant within me a seed; let the feral roots ensnare it, suffocating my every breath and cell until it ruptures--obliterated within my frail and aching tree. It be destined to return but stripped of the avant-garde its predecessor once possessed. Implant within me a seed; it’ll part for months, leaving my psych mangled as blood seeps through trypophobic perforations crafted solely by its hand. The seed, thriving as I decay, renders its final blow the day we die. Implant within me a seed; force it into a sanctum where it does not belong, and let fate, warped and distorted, contort my marred soul. That which I once refused to acknowledge shall now delude my senses, forcing me to reach for those who feel not love but only pity for my aberrant roots. Implant within me a seed; let me perish within its absence, yet perpetually suffer under its presence. Wound me with my own creation.
Your end creates you
It will return to rip you
Plant it, watch it die
Pain, which of my pains derides me more
The pain of love that no longer flows
The pain of suffering along life’s weaving path
Or the pain of knowing you’re no longer here
No longer here for me, yet still exists
Painful memories revolve in my hurting brain
Why can’t life be a simple act of breathing, living
Not a painful burden to be shouldered alone
Pain in the heart can be one a surgeon can help
Yet knowing deep down the knife cannot cure
The pain of knowing, of living a dream
Why not let me die……. pain no more
When I lay there pale of skin,
Creases of pain no longer line my face
Don’t cry for me as I have lived ……
No more to cry out in inhuman tones….
…….all is at peace……
Penned 12 November 2016
Contest: Shooting Blank Verse - John Lawless
Help This Sorrow Clear
I am prisoner in my room.
Dreary thoughts loom.
I want to go outside.
Or go for a ride.
Come, peace abide.
Help my thoughts subside.
Before my mind derides.
Walk by my side.
Whisper thoughts so dear.
Help this sorrow clear.
I know that Thou art near.
With Thee I feel no fear.
Come close to me, Lord, dear.
Wipe away this tear.
My heart is in your hand.
Thy will is my command.
Traverse with me this land.
Beside Thee I will stand.
Let righteous ways re-band.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
December 23, 2009
Written: November 17, 2023 For Charles Messina Contest
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In peace of mind and unwavering pride
Draw out your inner disgruntled callow
Expunge ailing masks and set them aside
Shackled and phony leaches start shallow
Untamed freedom leaves a rage of delight
Lightning strikes when volition avails reign
As the noise of fists and yells echoes fight
It implies launching rough assaults again
This momentary gladness won't last long
Dark distress derides its way to the fight
And celebrates its mocking with zest strong
Frenzied fractured fragments into full-sight
Constraintis like an itch that chafes the mind
Shields the vile impulse that we must all bind
gladness won't last long
expunge ailing masks aside~
untamed freedom roars.
Shackled leeches start shallow, rage of lightning strikes~constraint chafes the mind
Moneylender
You were rejected by your fellow man
A pound of flesh to heal your wounded pride
A just reward for squelching on a loan
Your hatred toward these men-- I understand
Burns deeply in your heart and it resides
You were rejected by your fellow man
They bully you, so now you take a stand
Measured by Scale of Justice you supplied
A just reward for squelching on a loan
You make an honest living, better than
The ones who cruelly mock; cast them aside
You were rejected by your fellow man
Losing your daughter, ducats and your land
Upon the law of God you have relied
A just reward for squelching on a loan
To write you off as evil was the plan
They persecute and fool you with derides
A pound of flesh to heal your wounded pride
A just reward for squelching on a loan
What's a sweeter gift than love?
What's the greatest wealth than hope?
What's a richer state than faith?
It behooves you to live by your faith,
And keep aflame the spirit of love,
Woe befalls him who derides hope:
Nothing is drearier than a life bereft of hope,
And he's a lost soul who's without faith,
But unfortunate is he of all who's without love.
All is lost when one loses love, hope and faith!
My flesh and blood
refused to follow me
refused the notion of the flood
fought for right, not for me
Duty served
country proud
Now we two sons confess
we have transitioned to the dress
Father hid all the witnesses
to the truth of his two creations
from the watchtower he decried
the beauty, compassion and love
all he derides
ELIJAH MCcOY
Elijah McCoy
African black Canadian American
Inventor of mechanical lubricator
For steam train engines
Catch phrase "the real McCoys" derides from him...
2/11/18
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
A man had wives four in number
Yet sweet and peaceful is his slumber
Goodness flowed from the first in number
Yet turned he deaf to her sweetest number
The fourth woman is his sweetheart
From whom he can never part
Provides her with best from mart
Yet she derides him in her thought
The third queen is a beauty to behold
He and she alone frequent parties I am told
He introduces her as “beautiful and bold”
Yet fears she’ll fly growing wings of gold
His second wife has sharp ears
His sufferings and sorrows she attentively hears
With her counsel extinguishes his fears
She’s been his staff throughout the years
In deathbed, he requested his fourth, ‘Give me company’
Bluntly she refused, “Sorry. You I can’t accompany’
His third wife told, ‘If you die I’ll marry again.”
His second wife told, “I can’t! From me you can nothing gain.”
When he battled with silent and secret tears
“I’ll come with you – have no fears”
His first wife’s voice voluntarily fell on his ears
He muttered, “Sorry sweetheart! I have wasted all these years”
In reality, every man or woman has four spouses
Soul, family, wealth and body you are called to espouse
Second wife - family or friends until grave will cry one with another
Third wife your wealth will immediately marry another
Your fourth wife – your body to dust she’ll return
Your soul – the first wife faithfully follows wherever you turn
Let nourishing your soul be your deepest passion
Is it profitable if a man loses his soul? – asks God of compassion.
Putin rides Russia’s pride
Cheers ring nation wide
Swept along by the tide
No matter, Putin’s stride
Putin derides all global calls
Jeering at the soft flung balls
High on the home-pep of it all
Playing pride before he falls
Before today Putin was creaking
Students raised aside his speaking
Syrian brokering coated his ceiling
Olympic grandeur won a believing
The party swings high on the pep
Unseeing past the next high step
Boozed out to the dawning inept
Recessions pill awaits there, swept
Putin cynically prides pop calls
Crimean homing serving the all
But the gain will pain, come the fall
Come the reality of Putin’s new wall
It’s swallowing will cost his people
Harpooned by his Bolshevik needle
Freedoms put-on by the Putin spiteful
And recession bites like a razer-ball
Putin’s pride, his hoodwinking call
Subterfuge designed for his win all
Knowing oppression awaits cat calls
When pride bites deep... before the fall
The air encapsulating sound
extremes, while vision gathering quites down
and carries with it stillness to surround.
Does channel imposition to dismay,
the sound, my enemy thus often in convey
sounds first ~ I hide discretely out of way!
Would escalate by choice or lessen ground,
the stance I take, my hearing so abound,
by reason decimates my hostile round!
Repeating hurt, the syndrome so applied,
as deaf to spacious loitering's retried
seek truth and justice' answer in confide!
Sound implements my virtue, or derides ~
so quiet is . . . . the instrument I chide!
A deep, dark kindred spider looms to proffer the sentiment,
That abuse just objectifies the long persistent winter:
Scouring around playfully, but embedded in the night -
Two way of seeing it but only one plight.
That black body, its piercing eyes drive acutely,
In the lengthy web that’s receptive but selfish with quirk,
With thin, spindly legs which effect to mobilise,
The creature only some befriend to glamourise.
We hold to the summer, autumn and spring as the norm,
Not winter’s harrowing chill which makes us so often ill;
The act of telling someone you've been raped, abused,
Should not be a sick kick or a jester’s a thrill.
If you don't give us our minds, stance and chirps,
You'll just be cushioning that admiring psychologist,
Who asks us about physical abuse, sexual, and rape,
But who we hate to have as we’ve no trait.
Give us our spirits, intellect and powers:
Don't glare, glance and glower at our ordinary activities;
Equality only exists when you feel it and can tower,
In the informal social networks of civil conviviality.
And of course, nasty small talk itself causes rape,
Violence and abuse which derides and can shape,
The heart that reaches out to befriend and welcome,
The fence-sitter, the open mind who quietly relates.
But if you say physical abuse just objectifies other lesser evils,
Like criticising needlessly, cutting us off, and gloating,
Then your sick in the head and unforgivable,
Because all discrimination is unnecessary and avoidable.
Hear my plea… consider truth’s earnestness
Bringing to your ear this factual soundness:
I’m Hell --- a prison of endless darkness
Where misery’s gloom prevails in blackness
Due to sufferings, despair, hopelessness
Leaving the guilty in their sins’ fierceness.
Listen to my voice from this dark juncture
Echoing warning midst urgent posture:
I’m Hell --- a place of eternal torture
With restlessness’ angst and despair-puncture
Sealing the faithless in their doomed future
Midst cruel hatred’s defiant gesture.
Acknowledge my vocal predicament
Loudly clear despite painful sentiment:
I’m Hell --- a cell of everlasting torment
Expressing death's wailing every moment
As sorrows, anguish, woe wildly lament
With constant gnashing of teeth engagement.
Consider my call from this space, unlit
Since radiance of Scriptures does not quit:
I’m Hell --- a dungeon where there’s no exit
And each one slides toward bottomless pit
Struggling to reach foot stool summit
Yet never to taste freedom’s air a bit.
Neglect not my admonition’s love-guides
Which one in his self-righteousness derides:
I’m Hell --- lake of fire* where God’s wrath abides
Unreached by His mercy, while His grace hides
There, worms die not, with pleas’ screams at all sides
Along unheard prayers … deserving chides.
I welcome you in my darkest manner
When you flee from the perfect Pardoner:
I’m Hell ---waiting each one who’s pride-winner
Bearing “You’re forever condemned” banner
Verdict to the claim, “I’m not a sinner”
Rejecting grace midst selfishness’ dinner.
Decide now… from my drowning blackness, flee
Choose life; against darkness’ grip and be free:
I’m Hell *--- with my gruesomeness you can see
Trust Christ the Saviour and you can miss me
Have faith in Him Who died at Calvary
Resurrected to bring you Heaven’s glory.
*Revelation 20:14 And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.
January 24, 2022
They say sometimes perplexed, he or she is good for nothing
but if using the word "nothing" is grammatically incorrect
in the above context as claimed by the academic interlect,
For if there is no such thing as nothing
then he or she must be good for "something"
and something is definately "no-thing",
Therefore, "no-thing" is logically "some-thing",
So there is "nothing" as "no-thing",
To conclude "everything" is "something"
and "something" the gesalt of "everything".
Is the one that "derides", the "good-thing" or the "no-thing"
is not the one that "be-littled" the other also "some-thing"