Best Desists Poems
Outside, there is a small trail
and six steps
separating me from those that pass on by,
Impossible, to hide, behind my ruby house coat
and synthetic flavoured...
bitterly savoured, morning coffee
An old man walks by,
paced, in slow - rhythmic strides
in order to balance three bags
his aluminum collection
Toes, emerging from the tips of his tattered shoes,
As he spies me
we engage in observations
He is courteous, as he desists,
lowers, his head in his travels,
continues to descend down the hill
around the corner of my house,
heat scorching
This morning,
all I can hope for
Is that he does not rip my garbage apart.
Nascent dawn's pale omen loomed
and eased me from my pensive trance.
But I am stirred
beyond expression’s means—
my face suffused with tears.
Mercifully, stolid memory
desists in part,
dread recall’s threat
impounded by advancing age.
My conscience then begs destiny,
pressing to undo.
But heaven spares not its majesty,
and history,
ever breathing in,
refuses to exhale,
a broken heart to salve.
Grimly, I stand and take a single step,
and one more after that.
3rd Place, Giorgio's Impress me II ! ( Old/New )
Love burns deep in this ember where jewels are a mere reflection upon the stars
Mere mortals as we live but with this love we divide even the infinite
Options are of dull few words
For who can will or wield such power that no being can comprehend
This deed is foreign to our analogy and inconspicuous to the logical
Defying even the strongest will of man such as that of survival
What is this that consumes me,
Infuses in me the traits of a stranger
Who is this stranger deep within my members
How does one rid this atomical abomination to my design
If words fail me and logic desists within me how can i mold this clay into a pot
The days are still, peace is wraught
Certainty has becomne an illusion of permanance, a dimension not found but seen
These days to try and live wreaks hardship at the gate
Will i rid myself this burden, even in death?
Can this load be no more?
We are all God’s children
How dare anyone pick on or push around another person
This takes place with kids and grown-ups
It results in death in many cases and needs to cease and desists
We need to ask ourselves
How would we feel
If someone picked on us
Because we had less, were not as smart as others, were much smarter than others
Because we have special needs because we are somehow different
This needs to end
Ending it begins at home
With parents showing love
And teaching respect for everyone
God makes everyone beautiful
And no one has the divine right
To pick on another person
Because he or she stands out
It shows insecurity in the person
Who is picking on other people
God loves us all
This behavior needs to stop
The suicides due to bullying need to stop
The homicides due to bullying need to stop
The cyberbullying need to stop
And we need to respect one another
The way we want to be respected
Because we are equals
The poetical books are nearly, by me, complete;
Next follows those once-furled, parchmentlike
Scribal tablets on which were calligraphically
Indited the books classified as
Naught but "prophetical"-
After the major and minor scribes,
The authors of which, and those of the first grouping of the
Newer set of scriptural books:
Those of the evangelical order;
The momentum engendered by the narrative flow:
The alacritous, celeritous, positively propulsive flow:
Of the Bible then stalls out,
Mired in and run aground
Amid the impenetrably deep
Bedrock of the various epistolary, predominantly Pauline books
(Paul, being Mosaic in his inditing of just as many and more books than
Those writ by Moses' own hand, for one has the tally of a mere five or six to his
Luminous credit, whereas the other has something on the order of ten, at least, to his).
Not that those, the Pauline books, are of a very poor quality,
But to segue from the narrative and story, poetry, law,
Prophecy and history and the narrative flow thereof:
To turn from these to abstruse missives
Of a yet abstruser philosophical
Bent, then one finds that one yearns anew for the levitical, mosaical books,
When their perusal of books biblical desists before the gates of the
Sadly boring New Testament-save naturally for the gospels,
Which are themselves poetic and narrative and fast-moving.
Such, at least, is my appraisal of the matter.
Imagine true love exists
Virtue that on fealty insists
Extinguishing meaningless trysts
Patrimony, chauvinism resists
Tokenism, infatuation desists
Lingering romance that heart uplifts
Unbrokered love with mutual benefits
Pure motives that bridge all rifts
Honor that countenances no grifts
Steadfastness which mollifies truant shifts
Passionate embraces, carnal gifts
Amorous kiss that inwardly drifts
Synchronistic minds that all good fortune sifts
Harmonious spirits soaring life's rugged cliffs
I choose no religion,
Unlike you the legion,
I do not know which is right,
That is why I have to write,
God is not a Muslim,
Neither does he subscribe to Judaism,
I do not know much about desists,
But I know something good about jainists,
I will never be an atheist,
I'll rather be an agnotist,
I do not pledge to any of these,
I'm certain God is not concerned with this,
The day of reckoning is about to come,
Call me to yours and I will come,
I do not know hows it's going to be,
Something will happen to the human being
I have heard much in Christianity,
They advocate spirituality and purity,
Some of them do not drink in the open,
But they sing and dance to the gospel,
@Tha Formidable Cheru.
#themonk.
it is imperative that we do not circumscribe to being thorny
Veritably all will acceed to rising in the morning.
Though melodramatic we must abnegate and repress that static. All the pervading overcast of complicity we must abtly resolve. Hear many cry God Save the King, iconoclastic remain and God save us all.
it is our allegiance to the world we interlope, enfranchised from the phlegm that strangles hope. How heavy are these portent gestures we bare? Our struggles will engender many to care. Those who resonate vying as something glorious, do sway from that which is tantamount and decorous.
Acknowledge this morphology to unfold, brighten the efficacy from cold. Leave these words engraved posthumously in your mist and quail not though our time desists.
for Tabitha
The sun wanders westward
towards the old frontier,
dragging its heft across plateaus
of New Mexico. Along Route
66, a quick toe-dip in Tahoe sets
Reno aglow. Quicker than that,
Nevada bucks, bankrupt and
rusted. The Hindenburg above
Wyoming, the sun gasps helium
and flame, desists in the ether
and disappears, leaving the
world, simultaneously teeming
with visionaries and traffickers,
to moonlit Pacific quandaries.
And so, it makes sense, Tabitha,
your winter scarf worn in
summer, frayed by the dull
gleam of lost pioneers latched to
your lips at their corner, wearing
you down with heavy freight.
But even then, I smile to see
your sadness, the way
you stack dark onto darkness.
Because, in all the years I’ve
known this street on which you
and I are talking, no one has left
me quite as you: facing due east,
chasing a vision towards where
tomorrows emerge from
obsidian snare…and you sleep.
In every criminal there is a child -
With the face of your son,
The hands of your brother.
A mother held him once, she lulled him to sleep. When he cried she soothed him.
The weary heart that longs to forgive-
The marriage of family, it never desists.
I live in a sad state,
The anger retreats, but that is just me.
I can simple forgive but I cannot forget.
To do so would be foolish and fools are just that.
Scarlet tears running down my auburn skin
Dressed for battle, I take up my sword
Preparing for the worse
Looking for a charm to ward against the curse
War torn fields & tattered hearts lie in my wake
Reading signs, looking for wonders
Praying to a nameless God--all in the name of love
Built for comfort, I become the physician of broken dreams
A dark mist rolls in on the highway of despair
Drowning out the light, strangling the air
Holding my breath till the pain desists
I pierce the night with salty tears
Hoping for another chance to start again.
A lady who lived in Korea
Had terrible verbal diarrhea
Her hubby called Bill
Said, “Keep your tongue still,
Quit carping and bending my ear”
Bill’s desperate for a lil’ peace
But her acid tongue will not cease
From morning to night
He gets no respite
From nagging needs some release
Bill seeks advice from friend Odette
She says, “Buy a gag as a threat”
His wife takes the hint
She desists, its mint
Bill’s over the moon you can bet!
It is the solemn evening song that drifts,
into the valley cup, from the saucer of the moon,
and spreads in wings of darkness, nightshade breath;
arising as molecules of black oil, up from the pithead mouth,
following to the shower stalls, disrobing of the filth,
to hunch below the steaming spray, absolved of dirt and death.
On then, to the concrete block beside the rugby pitch,
where yellow light bleeds damply from the condensation panes,
and into atmosphere, plagued tobacco smoke and gusting beer;
sorrows drowned in pints of ale, pulled foaming from the taps,
the glasses raised and toasted to the ending of the day,
in the fog and mist of hops and fumes the hurt will disappear.
The old boys hold their tongues and smile their toothless smiles,
the cancer in their lungs as grim and fibrous as malignant roots,
unfolds a steady, lazy spread, the wings of metastasis;
until the end of Pithead days, when slaughter of the proudest land,
and plunder of the earth desists, slain by some politic,
who and in what sanity pretext dreamed such a life as this?
The Brick Sayer
Tim is painting outside since it’s raining inside
Stroke upon cuddle one step at unfolding time
One inch brush gently on 10 squares of façade
The wannabee Buddhist thing when life is no race
Brightening enlightening mud bricks with caress
Whitewashing if that may still be said in South Africa
Tom Sawyer comes to mind as he glosses the fence
Sells the privilege for an apple core and a toad but
Political correctness has long banned the Twain
Now he moves the artist bristles for fine edges
Bordering on the insane he chooses to not employ
masking tape as that could cheat mask and disclosure
The paint ceases to flow as Tim seizes his furthering day
Watching it dry is the hard part of soft meditation so he
Desists and refrains but insists that some wall has vanished
25th July 2018
The Sun dawns and the Day is born
Its light shed on the souls forlorn
The clouds part and thunder desists
As they march on, lost in the mists
Step by step to the end of time
In perfect rhythm; perfect line
The sun sets and darkness becomes them –
A dead calm smothers the bedlam
Torments of night encompass all
With burning mem’ries of the Fall
A rain of stars breaks through the skies
Reflected in their frigid eyes –
Trembling fingers, shimmering tears
Quiet whispers and haunting fears
The sun dawns and a day is born
Gazed upon by hollow eyes Forlorn