Best Disavow Poems
O beguiling crimson Moon
Fiercely blazing for want of thee;
Descending beneath faltering clouds;
Leering wantonly;
And She:
Her coy distractions and brazen
Enchantments
Laid bare and stripped rude...
Like the naked lightening tree.
Stealing forth his confoundments
Dealt by bloody, craven fingers
Which do betray and disavow
The sacred pledges
Made unto the black veils
Of night-time down...
When, drifting carnally upwards
Against your sleeping form -
Stooping to kiss upon that fiery brow...
Thus forged an incestuous alliance
Beneath the distant stars
Of a broken plough.
The desired Anti-Christ will have disciples
followers who carry guns and rifles
It's not known if they believe the lies
though evidence is before their ears and eye's
No matter who says it's not right
they want their way or else they'll fight
Their minions cower beneath in fright
counting votes beneath the light
Fearing not the Lord above
But paying homage to what they love
Truth and honor cannot exist
as long as their will we must resist
sence when is lyng an art
sence when did judges set not apart
sence when are laws set aside
or our Oath no longer a matter of pride
When the call is made to call a spade a spade
Dispight concerns of parties praise
And true Justice we find delayed
By lame dicisions a court has made
History eventually show hero's and villians
Heaven judges the wills of those forgiven
They seldom repent and reguard "not now"
They will not relent or disavow
They follow their lord with supplies of lies
Even though Providence and truth are near by
Don't they know it's just a matter of time
And Hell will not wipe one tear from their eye's
...They proclaimed that we ‘oppressed women,’
it’s the refrain of loud femenists,
forgetting that before birth control
nature gave us little choice in this.
That before we had technology,
when life meant brutal, physical work,
that there just weren’t all that many jobs
physically weaker women could work.
They forget that the woman’s franchise
arose on America’s frontier,
that we blazed the path for suffrage,
their equality started right here.
Now why would a nation do all that
if they cared so little for females?
If we sought to be patriarchal
then I dare say the strategy failed.
And yet the left keeps raging about
rights which women have been long endowed,
Why should we buy all their self-hatred
when there’s so much for which to be proud?
And worst of all these fools like to claim,
that we’ve learned nothing, it’s all the same,
which I think is a sure sign that they
have something dreadful wrong in their brains.
We look at our mistakes all the time,
we brood endless on our sins and scars,
America lacks no self-reflection,
if anything we take it too far!
We get so obsessed with all our wrongs
that we think they drown out all the right,
we selfishly think it’s all our fault,
then of the truth we sadly lose sight.
Many cultures can’t ask such questions,
ask the Turks about past genocides,
or see if Communist China will
own up to all the Uighurs that died.
You don’t see many Japanese kids
who know about the rape of Nanking,
yet every American does know
that Wounded Knee was a horrible thing.
Why should we regret a culture that
tries to learn rather than disavow?
Our growing should not bring self-hatred,
to be honest, it should make us proud.
In the end, these issues are smokescreens,
thrown up to keep good people off track,
the left wants us all to hate ourselves
because self-hating folk rarely fight back.
There’s no logic behind what they hate,
hell, it changes hour-to-hour,
what unifies all these self-hatreds
is whether it will bring them power.
That’s really what’s behind all of this,
like some grand Machiavellian scheme,
to make free people into peasants
they first must be cut down and demeaned.
In truth, they don’t like Americans,
they don’t like people who stand unbowed,
so reject their vile self-hatred,
embrace all the things that make us proud.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I find it boring all the time.
It wasn't good in Shakespeare's hands,
No rhyming poet understands,
No Keats or Shelly, Byron, Pope,
Could find the poetry to cope
With wonders of the universe,
For that they should have tried Free Verse!
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
It seems so foolish all the time.
From Petrach through to here and now,
All rhyming works I'll disavow.
I want to drown inside the sound
of ee cummings, Ezra Pound,
Please keep me from those dreadful swines
Who choose to worship Gilbert's lines.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
It's bell like ring should be a crime.
It's bad in English, German, French,
It leaves a horrid musty stench
And as for meter I'll just say,
That all blank verse is SO passé.
Unless your work's unrhymed and free
Your soul contains no poetry.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I will not hear it any time.
No Limericks shall pass my ears,
I've kept them out for years and years.
I've never heard a single word
Of Mother Goose, it's all absurd.
I only read free verse and prose
For all the rest, I hold my nose.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
A sort of ancient worthless slime.
You cannot write constrained by rules,
The last resort of worthless fools.
Please stand by me on hallowed soil,
Where all the greatest writers toil --
Freeversing poets to a man,
Let's issue form a formal ban!
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I can't believe it is sublime.
Now damnit! What is that you say?
Your words and meanings start to play -
I feel the meter in my bones,
Like music by the Rolling Stones!
It's not free verse it's so much more,
Your verse is like a Mozart score!
Ah YES, I LOVE your perfect rhyme!
I want to hear it all the time,
Bring Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Keats
With all their forms and special treats;
And after them I think I'll cope,
With Hilaire Belloc, Nash and Pope.
I've been so blind I did not see
That rhyme and flow are poetry!
Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavens frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.
Where were you so long ago?
All those eons before a tot.
In some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You were not.
On a shelf of surplus stock,
A soul dressed up in heavenly frock.
Perhaps a spirit not yet wrought,
No. Not there. You were not.
Then began your book of life,
It’s made in volumes three.
The past, the present,
And the yet to be.
Will you write only pleasant,
As you pen volume present?
Avoiding matters to disavow,
Parting life’s waves by your prow.
Crashing the crest before the break,
Leaving burst bubbles in your wake.
What great act earns its worth,
And a lasting mark upon the earth?
Is that mark worth the grind,
Should your labor be realigned?
The train of life rolls on rails of time,
And travel stops at the end of the line.
When that ending word is writ,
The final one that you submit.
When there is no more yet-to-be,
You close the cover on volume three.
The tome is closed. Where do you go?
To the place you were taught?
To some distant god’s château?
No. Not there. You are not.
Your Book of Life, a mere spark,
Bounded by bookends of eternal dark.
How I'd like to make it last
Instead of a memory of the past
I cannot disavow
That im happy in the now
The flesh begins to manipulate
Sadly knowing of an expiration date
The more I'm here the more I wizen
With you heartbreak is on the horizon
There's nothing we can do, the doctor said!
It was December, nineteen-seventy.
At once, those words exploded in my head
and pierced my heart- which broke in agony.
How could this be- she's much too young to die
at fifty-four, and I, just thirty-two?
Convulsed in tears, I begged the question, why-
please, doctor, tell me, please- this is not true!
To lymph nodes, bones- the killer-cancer crept-
too late for surgery or chemo now.
The doctor's sad, dark eyes said, please accept
this news I give- which we can't disavow.
She passed away late summer, the next year;
those long nine months- such painful reveries.
Though, forty-nine years now- I still hold dear
my loved, missed Mom- in dusty memories.
July 31, 2020
Contest: Dusty Old Memories
Sponsor: Constance La France
He Loves Her? He Loves Her Not? – An Echo Poem
By Darren White and Brian Johnston
Darren White’s Original Poem – WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE
PoetrySoup.com - Reprinted with permission
“If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.”
- Rumi
***
Darren:
I lift my face to you, my anyone
my only one, my love,
And see your question
unspoken but screamed
all over you
This is what love looks like
What it looks like with
only that one person
I see you read you
every line of you
words without any
meaning full of meaning
I read you I see your face
I taste the sun and the moon
and all the stars in all the
fireworks.
Darren White
***
Brian Johnston’s Echo - I Do Not Doubt That Love Is Real
PoetrySoup.com and PoemHunter.com
I do not doubt that love is real,
Just shy to offer up myself
As shining gem that you might steal
Or place in glass case on a shelf,
Holding to the selfish view
That somehow I am just for you.
I know I cannot love like that
There is not ONE that I desire
My temperament is more like cat,
But, looking still, I don’t conspire
To say that I cannot be yours…
Just “Love” is not that which secures.
I doubt that Rumi showed his face,
To only one and kept this vow,
For “sexual wanting” has no place,
No love it may not disavow
“Like this” is just a moment’s urge
And untoward thoughts may quickly purge.
In love though lives a higher plane,
Where jealousy is just fool’s gold
And even dolts like me can gain
By seeing it is just blindfold!
Integrity’s your only friend,
It might just save you in the end.
For sun and moon and stars all fade,
Like vows that promise you’re the one,
Like promises made in the shade,
The truth will out though your heart’s won,
So chose a mate beloved by folk,
Don’t let your future be a joke.
***
Brian Johnston
April 9, 2017
DACOITY
Disarm dirty bastards
Disown disparity
Disempower Wall Street
Disavow the dictate
Demi God of money
Dollars are the diners
Disparaging the poor
29th August Pleiades D
Syllables checked 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 = 42
MY FIVE SENSES
In my fifties I disavow the taste
but back in elementary school
the image would drift into daydreams —
pork kidneys with savory gravy
went well with the pucker of dills.
The fleabag oil of dog fur,
the weighted polish on nails,
and the brush of bangs on my forehead —
equally threatening.
Honeysuckle to a virgin’s pulse points,
like the aroma of heaven. Lavender seeds
sewn into a sachet. A long sniff,
the bag pressed to the tip of my nose.
My patrons walk into the library, eyes wandering,
lips gripped tight in thought, but with a proper hello
the curvature of their lips in upswing, eyes meet mine
and for a scintilla of time our hearts touch. Likewise —
the smiling eyes of children virtually untouched by experience.
Background sound unsettling, loud sounds deafening,
chomping, chewing — I run! Yet the good conversation
of friends at the table, at work, on vacation — I hug.
My five senses not always sensible, surely sensitive,
and poetic fodder — even in the negative sense.
7/25/2018
My Five Senses
Sponsor: Viv Wigley
The goal of being is a task
assigned by those who know best
from the rules put to page
bringing most to broad dismay
to be unique is not a goal
exalted above those below
to be set in boxes with four walls
much like a prison where dreams die
bars for windows lest birds fly
escape to the sky far above
still the freedom may be dreamed
from the comfort of velvet chains
embrace the freedom now denied
pass through to the other side
disavow the harsh request
be the person behind constraints.
A masquerade party
ever since 2005
The hosts floated balloons
partygoers thrived
The masks ripped off now
Jews beheaded and raped
by those who disavow
that they're half-human
~ half-ape
ENTER INTO MY MIND
Enter into my mind an existential maze – a passing phase of distortion
where illusions create beliefs and biographical misapportions.
From start to end chained to memories in cell blocks of time.
Who can know the world above; the world below; the in between
of reflective glow. From our time to no time; from our space to
no space; from living thoughts to spirits in a secret death.
Encumbrances to create meaning limited to the here and now.
What purpose; cries the hopeless mind, wild as the wind
on a snowy day.
The future portends to come from now. The past awry to disavow the illusion,
set up and cross matched to a reality of senses with no known meaning.
It seems I need the diversions from the fibrotic interplay of synapses gone astray.
Staying in the present path along a familiar highway helps when the
lights turn green and I am allowed to go.
My existential morass in poetic form plays upon insistent themes.
Emotes from an invisible person have rendered me upon the page
as having lived between two bridges one analytical, the other emotional.
Where the river meets, down stream another bridge stands as I look in wonder
The wind has fallen, out of bluster, sun ices the sky
upon the crust of frozen snow diadems arise.
Glittering crowns crest maple trees, diamond on the bough
they bring a beauty and a peace no soul can disavow.
The wind has fallen, out of bluster, sun ices the sky
twinkling like diamond remnants, snow lends the day surprise.
Glittering crowns crest maple trees, diamond on the bough
oh how I hate to hear the roar of the coming plough.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
I still can taste the Chardonnay fine wines—
The hints of oak we drank at lunch today.
The sun must brightly shine upon those vines;
Warm love in liquid gold its rays display.
Yet heavy is my heart and grief will weigh
Too soon enough for pure enjoyment now;
I know my eyes and spirit can betray
Another thought emotions must allow.
My body furrows its own empty brow.
You look upon my soul with fulgent grace,
But I cannot my love soon disavow;
I glance upon your form and see his face.
He does not care that I must love him still—
Would that my mind could break my stubborn will!