Best Discernable Poems
The poet Marshall Mathers
whilst "Cleaning Out My Closet"
blasted with inquiry-
"Have you ever been hated on or discriminated against?
I have...''
Interesting enough
in these crooked times
it is impossible to make a man like you,
or your art,
especially with unbounding determination.
Nevertheless,
It sure is mighty easy to attain their hatred,
through no fault of your own.
When they protest or demonstrate against you...
finally you have arrived!
That's powerful!
Common sense says,
"Never drive in the rear view mirror!"
Though, it sure is helpful to take a quick glance back
periodically
to check out Jealousy,
back there
doubting and shouting and eating your dust!
Take a whiff...
Listen...
AHHHH....
The band begins to play ferociously!
Off-key.
Off-color.
Slander Slogans pasted upon your face.
Furthermore,
Suddenly,
Systematically...
like roaches with lights bright,
they disappear into the night,
back to the slums;
begging for crumbs.
Once you've been Blacklisted;
Swallow.
Digest the miracle.
Pure, glowing gold
the alchemy of their anger,
visibly discernable from the glossy pyrite
appearing with fake praise.
Heed the old adage:
---------------Keep yir' friends close, and enemies closer.
Their futile harm repels from the Teflon donning your heart.
Envy
burns bold, boils,
melts and cools, then cold,
forging the sword.
Adding to your arsenal.
Stumble not
upon bone fragments,
brittle blacklist bandits...
the Catacombs of those
who aimed to defame your name,
staking claim for their
shameless sea of debris
and Rotten Forgottens
which only bolster your begotten flame.
Remain steadfast, undaunted
TROUNCE THOSE TREACHEROUS TROUBLES;
________________________ TO ________________________
MARCH THROUGH THE RIGOROUS RUBBLE!
*Heads High,
Let me see those eloquent eyes!~JsL
~Inspired by written words of Marshall Mathers, Cleaning Out My Closet,
Shady Records~
I traverse the oceans within a breeze
I light my way holding burning trees
Freeing my body, my heart, my soul
I talk and walk through miles and roads
I view the future with discernable need
Yet I succumb to my fate with noted heed
Do I lack the courage to go beyond my whole?
Do I feel the need to remain stagnant and tole?
I lack conviction in my sturdy brain
Trying to fight these excuses so lame
Solitary in my endeavours I so create
My weakness I continually berate
In my minds eye I spy this epic infused
In a twilight of colours I discover loosed
Yet I traverse the oceans within a breeze
And light my way holding burning trees . . .
The Magical Epiphany of an Old Rusted Can
whilst out hiking one day in a countryside area
that was quite desolate and remote from any nearby
city, I discovered, amazingly, an Old Rusted Can
that was at least two-liter-sized and was partially-buried
in a long dried-out river bed in the middle of nowhere
this Old Rusted Can protruded out upright at about a
twenty-degree right-slant with some jagged-edges all
along its circular lip
its striking physical presence and the way in which it
was positioned, still partially-filled with dried river
sediment, for me, bespoke some sort of an old artifact
of sorts, yet it was the only object like it right in the
middle of this long dried-out river bed
its unique silhouette was, at once, quite discernable at
a distance on the horizon as it casted a very curious and
most soulful shadow under the limitless canopy of the
late-morning sunlight
although it was very rusted, this Old Can actually
reflected radiant light rays at various times when it
was touched by the rays of the bright sunlight as it
ascended to its customary cosmic dominance in the
late-morning sky
it also had five certain hole punctures located front
and back, in its upper-area, from whence the bright
sunlight reckoned a kaleidoscopic effect of sorts as
the sunlight touched and passed through each of these
unique apertures that were arrayed on this Old Rusted
Can
inelegant as this Old Rusted Can was—this unexpected
and most unusual light-show lasted for several minutes
until the darkened clouds overhead blocked out all of
the bright sunlight for the rest of the morning
yet, I just couldn’t help but feel the true divine presence
of Almighty God Himself—as I had fervently focused on
every aspect and precise detail of this radiant and very
unusual light-show which presented a magical sense and
aura of empyrean enchantment
and whilst I continued my deep gaze at this Old Rusted
Can, I was simultaneously and singularly transfixed by
the utter majesty and true joy of the holy epiphany it had
presented to me. I thought for a moment . . . God does
indeed, relate to us, at times, in very mysterious ways!
Amen! Amen!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 21, 2018 (Imagism)
For years, the ominous signs were palpable
The deep fraternal mistrust festered and discernable
Propagated by colonial masters to divide and make Rwanda malleable
And left lingering became monstrous and uncontrollable
Snowballing in 1994 into an orgy of murderous hate
As Hutu brothers turned against their Tutsis siblings
For three cruel months respect for human life was obliterated
For three bloody months sanctity of human existence perished
As the government of the day made killing an obligation
And mobilized the population through official propaganda
To destroy all Tutsis and saboteur-Hutus
At the end of the Holocaust over one million Tutsis were sent to the great
beyond
Dreams and hopes were shattered
Loved ones massacred in the most agonizing and cruel manner
While the indifferent international community looked on unconcerned
Just like after the rain comes sunshine
The blood of the martyrs of Rwanda has irrigated and purified
The country of a thousand hills
Which has risen from the ashes of the gory tragedy
To a land flowing with peace and tranquility
To a Haven for tourists and investors
To a land of calm and forward- looking citizens
Committed to work and put their past behind
And queuing behind their charismatic Leader
They cry unceasingly and with one voice
‘’Never again shall bestiality descend in our clime’’
I wake up at 7:30 sharp, to
The static of my alarm clock
No discernable noise except for
My own voice whispering, "Today
is The Day."
I could crawl back into bed and pretend
Not to have heard; I could instead pretend
To fall back into my dreams. That way,
I can at least ignore the truth for another hour
Or more.
At some point, but not now, I will have to wake and
Tell you that I don't love you anymore, and hang
Up to the sound of you hating me. And what a shame,
Because you just
Couldn't wait to see me. At last, your Little Lottie will
Prove to be the traitor you never thought she'd be.
I hear the sound of morning, it sounds like daybreak mourning
For the
Promises I made that I can't bear to keep. I regret the day I ever
Said I swore never to leave. I toss and turn until finally, there's no
Doubt that I am awake. I tiptoe through my day as if on eggshells,
Flinching
When you call. I close my bedroom door, throw my pillow on the floor
Take a seat, and learn firsthand the language of goodbye. I stumble
Through my speech, hear you begging me. You don't understand
How I could
Even go through with such a thing. At your house, it must be World War III
But for the first time all day, I feel myself breathe. The weight of you just rolls
Straight off of me, and for the first time in weeks, I can fall fast asleep. And though
Your world
Just falls apart, I become eerily whole, as if I never needed you, not once, not at all.
No offense, but I'm just so relieved, because as of today, June 18th, I find
That I'll survive completely fine
Like fire burning sturdy wood, I won't
Waste your time or mine
A Rift in Time
By Elton Camp
Henry Higgins, B.A., M.A. Ph.D., graduate in physics from the Massachusetts Institution of Technology, is missing. Born August 8, 1950, he was thought of as a genius by some, but as a crackpot by others. Revolutionary theories on the possibility of time travel that he presented at scientific gatherings received a mixture of applause and ridicule. None of his articles have seen publication in peer-reviewed journals.
How his machine works is of a technical nature, thus certain to be of insignificant interest to the readers of this account. Suffice it to say that it works very well. Henry had seen his device disappear and reappear multiple times after being programmed to slide both forward and backward in time.
Finally came the day to test it in person. Surprisingly athletic for a man of his years, Henry strapped himself into place before the control panel, adjusted his eyeglasses and pulled a protective helmet over his thick, gray hair. He set the chronometer to early August of 2040 to determine if he was still living at that advanced age and what honors had been accorded him by the scientific community.
With a barely-discernable jerk, the time machine began its slide into the future, the red cancel button prominently alongside the digital display of the date. The world outside the device became a blur and Henry heard only a low hum from the engine. All seemed to be well as the years rolled by on the chronometer. At first, that is.
Henry noted with surprise the muscle atrophy and skin changes associated with extreme age. A slight looseness of his helmet caused him to discover that he was now as bald as his father had been in his late eighties. Henry’s eyeglasses no longer allowed him to read the control panel clearly. The truth hit him--he was aging along with the passing years. The inanimate time machine had shown no such effect, but it was different with a biological organism. He desperately punched the cancel button, realizing that, if his future self was not still living, his death was impending.
To his relief, the chronometer slowed and stopped. Without input from Henry, the time device began to move backward in time, slowly at first, and then at a brisk clip. By the time the read-out showed Henry’s present, his physical deterioration had been reversed and all was as before.
Cramped in dark seclusion
A little soul in wait to be whole
Like a fish in a bowl of ocean
Adrift but can gulp a lungful
It’s the beginning of an end
Chrysalis out from the sphere
Emerging from cocoon bend
Exposed to the atmosphere
Dry, arid air touching skin
No longer blind and invisible
Can see and can be seen
Can feel, now discernable
Free from shelled captivity
The caterpillar crept in the open
Predators lurked in anonymity
Waiting for its grip to loosen
Dodging all dangers on its way
Inspired for struggling on its own
Resolute not to give itself away
Waiting till wings make it known
Mocked for how slow it moves
Ridiculed for its weird ugly shape
Maggot with nothing to prove
Fluttering is its only escape
Metamorphosis took its form
A change sudden and so swift
A butterfly transmuting the worm
Flapping its wings in the air; it lifts
People who are losing hope
Slowly inching and edging today
Like caterpillars, learn to cope
A butterfly, you will be one day!
When I'm with you,
Time stops.
The paradox: Time goes,
Like the thin web a dream becomes upon waking, barely discernable and then just a feeling it leaves a trace of emotion and then gone.
Those moments you can never get back and each moment and exchange of ideas, breath sending out sound waves to reverberate my malleolus, incus, stapes, and amplify in my cochlea, sending neurological impulse my cochlear nerve you reach me,
Some say words get in the way.
Your words, you, you become part of me.
And when your words stop, even when you are gone
I have them with me as if
When I am with you.
The wheel of time makes
the head drag the mind
on the winding pathway
of the confused existence
amidst the rising dust
of the senile summer of discontent,
but the heart still breathes
the young spring air,
like a flower blooming
in the flushing meadow,
swaying in the sunburst colors of joy.
The threads of mind and heart,
seemingly untwinned render
the entities of dualism discernable
in the intricate lattice of
the shrouding shade and the luring light,
weaving the tapestry of life
into seamless paired wholeness,
caught in the conflict of
twin attributes seemingly unaligned,
but harmonious in dichotomy
like the sparkle of joy afloat
on the rolling drops of tear.
Let the fulfilled life see
the setting sun sink serene
through the chromatic lens
of the crystalline mind,
the ecstatic heart aligned
will absorb the last spectrum of harmony,
the gleaming bliss will then suffuse
the sanctum of soul in the twilight hour.
___________________
Written March 14, 2021
September 7, 2021
Constance La France's Contest : "H"Contest New Or Old Poems
One day
I saw
Up high
Above, a
Discernable shape
Of a Golden Eagle,
Scavenger supreme,
Gliding solitary,
Amid a sky
Of cerulean hue.
Suddenly,
It veered left,
Diminishing,
In height,
Then sight,
Finally receding,
Beyond
The Mountain
Of Bennachie.
Soul Fingerprints
By Mark Stucky
From the midst of multitudes,
elusive, unique fingerprints
identify individuals
as owners of their surface smudges.
Beyond their barely discernable
two-dimensions on smooth surfaces,
memories of casual causal touches,
ethereal fingerprints possess power
to unlock phones storing private secrets
and to solve whodunit murder mysteries.
God’s mysterious, stealthy fingerprints
invisibly mark creation and our lives,
at the core, below the surface.
No ridged whorls outwardly appear,
but those uniquely hidden codes
identify their covert Owner.
Distinguishing fingerprints
requires crime labs no longer.
My fingerprint unlocks my phone.
God’s fingerprint unlocks my heart.
(First published as “Fingerprints” in Agape Review, 6 April 2023. See also my poems "The Invention of Love" and "Gloria in Eggshellsis.")
(Photo by ar130405 on Pixabay.com.)
most days i feel parched
a longing inside
much too much to bear
a craving that only grows
the clawing at something
that's there beyond
out of my reach
barely discernable
helplessly unattainable
if only i could stretch up
extend my sweep
as i dare hope
for the caress of a sunray
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
In a world where a deep ‘voice’ over’
trailers future disasters
the top brass of a uni-party
(together with its
current four-star chorus),
gather to pump up the fear machines.
The machines are shiny,
and titanium clad.
Budget cuts
have left them empty of any
discernable function
except the line of the day.
The ‘line of the day’, today
is the same as yesterday
it is:
‘Obey and eat your soup.’
A Mickey Mouse blimp
sails over the embattled roof
of the Whitehouse
waving behind it
its glorious unquestioning symbol
of freedom.
Freedom costs less nowadays
for no one goes to the theater.
At home they make-up
their own horror movies;
future shocks confirming
hosts of endlessly bad scenarios.
The silent and compliant
pace back and forth
in their virtual lock-ups
where every cranny and nook
has its own tiny camera
that records every tick
or shudder of dissent.
Forgive me if I seem imprudent
I am not trying to be impudent
And I am not trying to be impertinent,
I am just trying find some contentment
While trying to avoid any resentment,
Caused by me seeming aloof and unpredictable
I find life more exciting and irresistible,
When caught in moments of time divisible
I have no desire to be at all miserable
And every single present second is incontrovertible
And all I see is clearly discernable
In a world that is cold but is reversible
Existence without you would be untenable
Leaving me to being susceptible
With a motivation barely detectable
I am a person who can seem invisible
In a life that very rarely seems to ever care at all.
Fantasy Library
Xanadu was embraced with philodendron,
Palace-like architecture, the plant went on,
and on, weaved its way around the corridor
Light luminated thru high ceilings of grandeur
As I entered the bookstore’s library atrium,
A quick lesson was gifted me on consortium
Books stacked in no discernable sequence,
encouraging readers, inviting intuitive, for instance
Systems Dewey and the congress classification,
outdated, I used the browse method simulation
Running my fingers across ridged book spines,
By published authors with classic story lines
Eyeballing velveteen varieties of book covers
Sneaking-peeks at blurbs for fantasy lovers
Sashayed my way to Banned and Challenged Books,
in the clutches of pop-up trendy chic-cozy nooks
Skimmed Ann Frank’s The Diary Of A Young Girl,
and turned satin gold-leaf edge pages of Rebecca,
gilded and burnished 24k, a gothic romance unfurled
Consortium—The new call # will begin with a 4-digit finder number. No more decimals, no more books on the same topic in several sections of the collection, or even the same title on two different places on the same shelf. Spine labels will use language of your choice and color coding. Browse your collection without having to search for a librarian