Best Disinclined Poems
In the midst of vacant hours, echoes of expressions on opposite ends
are something of the same. Ruminating on questions; questions about
thy and questions about thou intertwined
with the then and the now. Thoughts
prelude to other thoughts of
thoughts emerging to
many thoughts.
Consulting and
considering
the death
and birth
of us; is thy
disinclined
to shed the
events upon the
ground transformed
from a dream out of a
dream to this dream only of us?
A coherent argument it is, that the
memories back on yesterday brought us
here today...But, when thy and thou bodies
meet and descend upon each accreting to the singular; occupancy
quickly overcomes vacancy leading the thoughts of many thoughts effaced.
(Sigh)...Thy and Thou love bolsters all the more today than back on yesterday.
Pace, G
INK-U-SCRIPT
12-11-2012
Your agouti mix with your silver sleek shine,
Your genus “canis lupus” known throughout time.
You hunt in packs deep in the woods,
So stealthy and confident just like you should.
Carnivore mammal, tough as steel,
You ripped me apart for your last meal.
Untamed and wild beneath the the moon,
You've startled me in my pathetic cacoon.
Unraveled, strings pulled out of needles,
So high strung, and a beast who wheedles.
A savage predator from North America,
With ancestors spread through Northern Canada.
You came and left in the blink of my eye,
I heard you found a home somewhere near by.
First time I saw you I ended up on my knees,
Searched for shelter crying out for indemnity.
Last time I saw you my heart was in ruins,
It's only because of your tedious undoing.
Later than sooner when we meet again,
I'll pray for comfort and hope to suspend.
Your call of the wild screeches in my ears,
As you pass on your legacy throughout the years.
Your agouti mix with your silver sleek shine,
Next time you're near I'll be disinclined.
A solitary man was he
who shunned responsibility
and crawled back to his empty shell,
he thought himself alive and well.
He spurned an opportunity
for love in perpetuity,
instead his nervousness took hold,
he lost the yearning to be bold.
As weeks went by he grew, imbued
with loneliness and solitude,
but not with laughter or the joy
he well remembered as a boy.
He grew morose, and disinclined
to mix with others of his kind,
he shut himself away with books,
avoiding disapproving looks.
Perhaps one day he'll realize
commitment is a larger prize,
that the way to win a heart
is not to run, to be apart.
He hopes that day is dawning soon,
but, perhaps, it's like the blue moon
waiting for its time to rise
so infrequently before his eyes.
I am the frightened toddler running from the demons
that I made up in my head.
I am the dark shadow of a missing character
that is tricking the deathbed.
I turn the corner of poverty into emptiness
that a step-child feels with dread.
I am the window of a mind lost in seeking
for the answer to mankind.
I am the visions of future social missions
for the chronically disinclined.
I am the memory of passing dire ships
for cargos that malign.
I am the birth of a day without sun
and a mother’s voice of guns.
I am the tainted trunk of a winter’s tree
that the midnight shuns.
I am Frankenstein with scissors of emotions
until I love someone.
Thanks for feedback.
Dark is the soul of a man who was crazy
to let a pure love pass on by,
his fear of commitment, his immature ways
brought regret, and a tear to his eye.
She was the perfect one, destined to flavour
his days with a grace rarely seen,
they were as soul mates with nothing but sunshine
to savour, and dreams to convene.
A lifetime of fantasies, nothing was real
for this man disinclined to know love,
he postured and played, he pretended, he posed,
he was scared of this gift from above.
The lesson he thought he had mastered so well
came to nothing, it went up in smoke,
he courted her, loved it when he made her laugh,
yet this man was the butt of the joke.
Now he's lonely again and he thinks he'll be fine,
but he's stuck with the same old despair,
will he ever be worthy of this woman's love,
will he find the prescription to care?
He still remembers her beautiful voice
and the way she made light of his woes,
he hopes she'll forgive him, tell him he's a fool,
another chance? only she knows.
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved
Author Notes
...yet another autobiographical insight.
If We Try To Ask Why
It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins …
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.
E. V. Wyler
~Rules were meant to be broken~
*At least that’s what I think*
~All words were meant to be spoken~
*Just as Jack Daniels was meant to drink*
~I don’t like structure, I like to be free~
*I generally do the opposite of what I am told*
~You‘ll never meet anyone quite like me~
*After me I guarantee they broke the mold*
~I never was one to follow the rules~
*I did things on my terms most of the time*
~It got me in lots of trouble at school~
*But without it I wouldn’t be writing this rhyme*
~See I do as I’m told if it suits my mind~
*And I follows the rules to a tee*
~But if I am pushed, I’ll be disinclined~
*I have a contrary streak!*
(By: Tirzah Conway)
-Dedicated to A Rambling Poet-
When I awake to winter skies of gray
And poetry that would defy my mind,
I'm not tempted its phrases to display
In hope some gem of wisdom I might find
For such a task I'm truly disinclined.
Nor do I bother with careless poet
Who has not pride to edit chosen word.
Neither he nor spell check seems to know it,
Same sound, another spelling is preferred.
The one he's used is just a bit absurd.
To be sure there are poets in our band,
Who turn a phrase in a peculiar way,
Well worth the time it takes to understand,
So richly clever they deserve a stay.
You'll find them in our pages here today.
I love poems with soft and easy flow,
Not writings that assault my intellect.
Spot of wisdom or bit of "in the know"
And a new metaphor just for effect,
Is enough for most readers, I suspect.
A solitary man was he
who shunned responsibility
and crawled back to his empty shell,
he thought himself alive and well.
He spurned an opportunity
for love in perpetuity,
instead his nervousness took hold,
he lost the yearning to be bold.
As weeks went by he grew, imbued
with loneliness and solitude,
but not with laughter or the joy
he well remembered as a boy.
He grew morose, and disinclined
to mix with others of his kind,
he shut himself away with books,
avoiding disapproving looks.
Perhaps one day he'll realize
commitment is a larger prize,
that the way to win a heart
is not to run, to be apart.
He hopes that day is dawning soon,
but, perhaps, it's like the blue moon
waiting for its time to rise
so infrequently before his eyes.
At night, disinclined to be awake,
Any wince of a dream turns into rage
Something once pleasant becomes deceptive;
As illusions of quietude deeply blacken
Impending the shadow to retrace its way.
Every night, at the call of twilight,
From the hint of a flickering stars;
This mysterious shadow gnaws and preys
Nailing my thoughts on cracked walls …
Reminding me , I am the shadow;
Disturbed by the past's unfinished penance.
Mystery Contest: Nayda Ivette Negron
7/6/2016
Not a blemish on your skin,
Not a mark,
Nor even a scratch,
Yet you tempt me,
Resent me,
Prevent me from Playing with my mind,
And agonizing my thoughts,
You ask me to draw,
To write,
To speak out my ideas,
To not be so disinclined to shoot.
My fair lady,
Our friendship is tough,
It is not as simple as love.
But, When we embrace
I forget
And My worries disappear
My thoughts begin to flow.
My heart begins to hear.
Then,
Then there is so much to tell you,
So many tales on my tongue,
So many memories on the run.
So My fair lady,
Why do You say you need more space?
Why do You ask me to find another?
And to continue our conversation with her.
Why do you say that you have had enough?
My fair lady,
Do you think that I bluff?
Look now,
In your presence I wonder
What I can possibly say or do.
I stare at you,
Quietly,
Admiring,
Appreciating,
Devouring,
Ruminating,
And yet silence is not your desire.
No,
Not tonight.
Tonight, You wish for words,
It is evident in your disguised beauty,
It is evident in your pale skin,
It is evident in how you shiver impatiently,
Fluttering as the wind blows,
Shining as the moonlight catches you.
You take a seat on the wooden table outside,
In the balcony,
In the icy air,
And wait for me to accompany you.
So My fair lady,
If that is what you want,
If that is what you need,
Then let me find myself
A pencil,
Or maybe a typewriter,
Let me find myself something
With which I may
tattoo your skin
With the prayers I pray.
Let me find myself something
With which I may
Engrave your side
With letters of Black, White and Grey.
Unless, I finally discard you,
Crumpled,
Wrinkled,
Used,
And yet of no use,
No longer plain,
But feigned,
Disdained
Inane.
Is that your fate?
Is that your fate
Or is it too late?
After all this thought,
After all this time
Will you simply be
A part of the heap
Into which nights have seeped?
Will you simply be
Chucked away?
Just like she was,
A writer's romance of yesterday?
Upon the first date (decades ago) with the gal,
whose troth aye did pledge allegiance to wed
we agreed to dine at an ex-mex eatery
in north Wales, Pennsylvania, where angels feared to tread
carefully scrutinizing bon appétit the menu selection,
a touch of Latin lick QED
all American version sans south of the border cuisine –
Quod Erat Demonstrand – translations spit out in rapid fire Hispanic
by a beady eyed inked kid named Ned
whose couture favored a punkish style
with spiked gelled green hair, piercings galore and
necklace with a genetically modified sizable
entombed glass encased amber ked
which beastly fully intact organism with a miniature grisly bear like head
momentarily hypnotizing me tell nudged out of trance sans this egghead
who make a selection by randomly
landing finger on an item feigning to be well bred
unbeknownst to the arbitrary choice this senior made
within an ample number of mouthfuls
of beans and rice that quelled hunger pangs
mine lower gastrointestinal tract,
felt a bubbling sensation played
though impropriety struggled with gaseous mounting perturbations,
what promised to be hot malodorous, would induce an air raid
from this “wind bag”, whose saving grace divine, when wallet of suede
discover herd visa vis tubby devoid of cash, thus and excuse to beat the tirade
of volcanic eruption found me bolting
out the restaurant door fortunately not waylaid
and madly dashing (like some comet fiery dancer)
performing a cheeky number hopping on one foot than the other –
since forceful blast triggered kidneys to be tapped, thus prancer
two step extemporaneously incorporated while await the ATM to disburse cash
legal tender coveted akin to Cupid sprinkling spell of romancer
while expulsion of noxious fumes from thine sphincter from this hob er dasher
brought relief as aye nonchalantly strolled inside
the cozy diner and slipped into me seat
disinclined to relate vents to future spouse,
the bodily aeration and stream of urine from me magic flute
which amazingly synchronized with the Maximus glute
from consuming food triggering tushy to toot.
If We Try To Ask Why
It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins …
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.
E. V. Wyler
My Katie was here for a while and then gone.
Your face brings her face to mind.
Gazing at deep pools of innocence, I see
a loveliness usually hard to find.
Yet, time, I do need, so as not to compare
two faces, two hearts, in kind.
I want love, love filled of all loves of all time.
Not dry, as becomes the rind.
Spontaneous, deliciously, warm to the taste
love, bred of the subconscious mind.
Yes, bred of the subconscious mind.
It was June when my Katie and I said hello.
I was moved, my feelings defined.
The next June, in the spring of our life we wed,
an experience, one of a kind.
We loved with a love that only lovers know,
many look for, yet never find.
And the love, for this love, continued to grow
‘til we two were only one mind.
Yes, only one subconscious mind.
She gave me a gift, in nine months to the day,
our love now, forever affined.
Instead of dissolving the closer we came,
our hearts, and bodies entwined.
But something happened on that birthing bed.
A tiny seed, exposed, unconfined,
grew, and continued to grow inside and spread,
all, part of life, as it is designed.
And I lost a gift, in nine months to the day,
one gift, for one gift, in kind.
Lost was that gift none can ever replace,
that gift come from the Divine,
a love in the subconscious mind.
Angels wept for joy, for my love and I,
for what we were and had combined.
Each from each to each other and no other,
each in that constant state of mind.
Promises lived and loved in the living.
Promises in the face of death resigned.
Made from the subconscious mind
I implore you deny me your love at this time.
It’s wrong when I am so disinclined.
But in a day, and a day, as I while time away
and become again less undermined.
The subconscious will mend, become whole again—
for surely angels are so divined.
To make room for more love, not throw out the old,
but simply fold the old in behind.
© May 23 2011 For Deb's "jack out of the box" contest
"Just take this chalk," (so went his talk,
to servants sent before):
"And do not balk. When you uncork
good liquor, mark the door."
This way, the churchman planned to pass,
when pausing for a rest,
fun nights in vino veritas,
partaking of the best.
"So, sup the wine, and if it's fine,
write on the lintel (lest
I miss the sign and fail to dine
there) 'Vinum Bonum Est!'"
Off went the servant at a trot.
Would we were in his shoes!
To earn our pay, we play the sot,
by "testing" all the booze!
From bar to bar, he wanders far,
obeying that behest:
but "Vinum Bonum" starts to jar:
He shortens it to "Est"!
He sips this wine, he guzzles that,
and if he is impressed,
he makes a holy concordat,
and marks the doorway, "Est!"
Down through the Alps the servant wends,
to tread Italian soil:
so many blends, to greet as friends!
Unto his task, stays loyal.
Both white and red, their bottles bled,
are flowing like the Arno:
by destiny, the servant's led
to Montepulciano!
Volcanic slopes (some are the Pope's!)
make wine that's heaven-blessed:
and, titillated as he topes,
he chalks up, "Est! Est! Est!"
Some days elapse -- a week, perhaps.
Beneath the tavern's eaves,
round Bishop wraps the sweetest of traps --
he arrives, but never leaves!
The wine is fine -- almost divine --
Soft, like an angel's breath;
To toe the line, he's disinclined --
and drinks himself to death!
And though this tale's beyond the pale,
a moral you may wrest --
each holy grail's adorned with nails --
go slow with Est! Est! Est!