Best Dispense With Poems
Free verse Rhyme
Never fearing.. as love is nearing
Love's consciousness force... completes it’s divorce...(Jer. 3:8) Metaphorically Love divorces
From the mind of strife... that cuts as a knife mind's strife, or wickedness.
Resurrects our life... from sacrifice
As Cosmic’s love... has constant net.........................................(Malachi 3:6)(Hebrews 13:8)
Let not..the little hearts fret
Comes... as humanity’s mind sets
As the Cosmos....to humanity lets
As the mind of scarcity... the wealthy loses disparity
A new mind set...within the poor will let..
In... the life of the lamb’s net
A new logic... in earth will be set
A new diverse, of unlimited disperse
As constant Love..begins it’s gov.
The mind of Christ...from sacrifice
Will dispense with vice...with universe disperse
Meet your maker..not a soul breaker, Love's higher fate
As humanity levitates..to the higher state
Love’s consciousness brings..new responsiveness
Two thousand twelve..well..new light..flies a new kite
As the winter of flight..brings a new might
In a Godly project..`T is by a new logic
All will come into view..with a golden hue
For God is not new..He’s the love that’s in you!!!
Note: Iam not talking about the so called physical rapture,
but an enlightment of human consciousness, by love's
higher logic!
11-13-09 [email protected]
A bird in hand is worth two in the woods
Teaches us to take care not to be greedy
In the air, quite very easy to build castles
The water and the image are not a reality.
The image of sky and pool, even the wood
This material world is, philosophically, illusion.
We know the way to create imaginary world
We humans can not dispense with illusion.
Now slowly taking the hands apart or aside
The water, the image will disappear soon
It was just an illusion in one’s mind created
We live immersed in dreams and illusion.
“We are stuff as dreams are made on and
Our little life is, with a sleep, surrounded”*
============================
Dr. Ram Mehta
Contest : Pick a line any line
6th place win
This sonnet was written earlier by me (The Universe is Maya "Illusion") but
I revised and changed the title of the poem)
*A quote from William Shakespeare
* Maya means illusion in Indian languages.
============================
I don’t answer
Intensely personal questions people ask
For these shreds to pieces what is truly me
The pieces are of no use to them though.
The effort seems to stem from veiled envy
Incisive curiosity or even subtle insult.
I am forced to uncover and introspect
Ask myself why I’m under the prying lens
For my life’s energy dissipates reorganizing
The dislodged pieces in place once again.
I don’t react
When caustic comments people make
On the manner I behave seems odd to them
Or on the way I do or don’t do things
For them when they ask or even for myself
For these are innate traits I am born with
Discarding or changing which for their sake
Or walk on their footsteps they set would be
To dispense with a vital part of my psyche
And to exist as a void entity of no identity.
I don’t demonstrate
The feeling of appreciation articulately enough
If people do something good to me sometimes
For that action appears an expression overdone
Deceptively laden with fake display of gratitude
Which in essence hides the tacit expectation
That the good done is what is deserved and due.
When for this trait people criticize my insensitivity
A part of my mind inherently obliged though
Is tortured to premature and painful demise
I can’t endure for I don’t deserve the treatment
And they aim to maim part of my bruised persona
I can’t rejuvenate for it does no longer respond.
People say
I have gone or going mad.
I tell them, yes, I’m quirky
If self-preservation makes one so.
That’s why I am alive still
As a mad man at my will.
I say to me
So let it be.
February 6, 2018.
Lift your face to the sun;
Heart bells of elation,
Ring and renew the spirit.
Souls music needs no technology to play;
Angels tutor the soul,
In the compositions of ecstasy;
Such orchestras are eternal.
Mortal ears never hear what the soul’s do.
The ability exists, in the ears of belief.
The baffle of mortality;
The muffler that stifles a spirit’s songs, is a thief.
Science is the profiteer that
deludes the singing soul into silence.
Dispense with the facts;
Sit in the silence to hear the concert of your life.
Transistors fizz
Electrons bustle
As robots claim
The daily hustle
The hinges creak
The oil of words
Is missing from
The mindless herds
They oft parade
With heads bowed low
Quite frankly,
Nowhere else to go
As hooked in tasks
In ruts with traction
Replace the normal
Human faction
Robots make robots
Or so I'm told
They replicate
The lies they're sold
Perpetuating
All that manic
In ways that seem
Somewhat satanic
The robot wars
Are not to fear
Just realise that they
Are here
Dispense with screen
Release your mind
In un-robotic ways
You'll find
The beauty of
The world around
When eyes you lift
Will soon be found;
Through trees and rain
Bare feet on grass
A world machines
Can ne'er surpass
The pores of life
Should breathe it in
Beguiled no more
By wars of tin.
Hello Friends... I suffer from Severe Bi-Polar Disorder and this submission was inspired by
actual events that occured during one of my especially critical manic episodes. Be sure and
read Part 1 first so as to get the true gist of the poem and leave your comments here on the
Part 2 submission. Thank you for allowing me to share my pain for pain shared is pain
diminished.
Me, Myself, and I... (continued)
“Your, (Or “Our”), symptoms seem to intermit
And the fact that “You’re,” (“We’re”), a hypocrite
Tis no wonder we’re having such problems with diagnosis”
Then “I” had an idea so grand
To dispense with this at my own hand
A self-inflicted coup de grace would be my prognosis
So while the “Me” and the “Myself” squabbled
With courage newly cobbled
“I” spotted the dresser drawer and made my run
With fingers fiercely fumbling
Whilst they continued grumbling
“I” produced from the depths of the drawer a shiny gun
And now my life, though ill-fated
Was soon to be vindicated
This would affect us all equally the same
Would be no myself or me
No you, him, us, or we
But an inclusive all would be to blame
It took me a moment to figure
Out the safety on the trigger
Then “I,” (or “Us”), prepared to do the dirty deed
Then the barrel found my temple
And as it settled into the dimple
A still small voice did my “selves” choose to heed
Hence a moment of clarity
Harkened me to posterity
And I thought what a legacy to leave behind
“Can’t we all find a way
To save this miserable day
And avoid a broken body for someone to find”
And then deep within my soul
I felt and heard a simple drum roll
And the differing sides of me just subsided
And with my mind now as one
I worked to get this all undone
The whole business of this stuff I derided
And tis now true of fact
That I survived this ordeal intact
And lived to raise my face unto the sky
And here now as it ends
I find I’ve made good friends
With the “Me”, the “Myself,” and the “I”
Thank you for taking the time to share in my poetry. Please feel free to leave your thoughts
or comments here on this page.
J. Scott Burns...
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
A bird in hand is worth two in the woods
Teaches us to take care not to be greedy
In the air, quite very easy to build castles
The water and the image are not a reality.
The image of sky and pool, even the wood
This material world is, philosophically, illusion.
We know the way to create imaginary world
We humans can not dispense with illusion.
Now slowly taking the hands apart or aside
The water, the image will disappear soon
It was just an illusion in one’s mind created
We live immersed in dreams and illusion.
“We are stuff as dreams are made on and
Our little life is, with a sleep, surrounded”*
============================
*A quote from William Shakespeare
* Maya means illusion in Indian languages.
============================
First Placement
For the contest : The power in your hands by Carolyn Devonshire
Gonna improve my poetry
gonna dispense with stupid rhymes
I'll never again force it together
instead I'll write those random lines
It's suppose to be all modern
avant garde sort of thing
concentrating just on “feelings”
keeping it concise, with well, zing!
But to be perfectly honest
I'm finding it hard to do
You see, for me, rhyming
well... its really my literary glue
But I promise to do my best
be conscious of bad habits
analyse my lines so very closely
and change them where I can
Your wit is as sharp as any knife,
for it never gets dull from neglect.
And an aura surrounds you in life,
your presence has a magic effect.
You share your wisdom with one and all,
a simple truth you dispense with pride.
And lift me up from a painful fall,
confidence evident in your stride.
You cultivate what is best in me,
as I feel a smile slowly begin.
And you do your best to help me see,
sadness should never be locked within.
I feel so lucky to have found you,
you are an extraordinary blend.
And you do what no one else can do,
for you're both my lover and my friend.
Wear love like a caftan,
Less room for grief, she says.
Names entered into his notepad,
Without explanation.
The unlimited expanse in which
All objects are contained.
A flash of light,
As if a bit of electricity has escaped.
You must find out how
To empty the molten pool.
In that Basin of Prophesy the Muses sing.
In the Chalice of Fantasy the Fates weave.
How do you kill a man?
Hit him three times!
Note: "Contemporary ghazals generally dispense with thyme and emphasize the shifts between couplets." John Drury, The Poetry Dictionary, Story Press, 1995, page 120.
In a perfect world, death comes when we sleep,
And the sun always sets and rises.
The eyes of a child will never weep,
And their lives always fill with surprises.
The face of man will turn away from war,
And give a helping hand to those in need.
The sharing of harvest, the open door.
Power of humility we concede.
To gather in kindness, to welcome peace,
And walk through our days with a gracious hand.
To dispense with hate, so it won't increase,
With the years we measure to understand.
In a perfect world, everyone is free,
And righteous calls are silent, none foresee.
contest In a Perfect World
2/10/16
When
When Muslims and Jews, eschew all notions of dissenting difference, and embrace in
distinct integration.
When Christians and Buddhists fuse love of self with love of other and dispense with pride
and self effacement altogether!
When Feminist Theologians, cry the plight of black women, and Muslim Men detect the
mystified labor of unsung wives,
When Black men learn to love themselves and through that love embrace their enemies,
When America makes amends for slaves of old made street criminals of conservative imagination,
When political liberals embrace the charismatic power of holy ghost renewal,
When Europe learns to love God, and Americans learn to love each other,
When charismatic leaders fade into horizontal mutuality,
When Martins are multiplied, and Mothers encourage their daughters to be their best,
When rest becomes as important as productivity and efficiency is defined by joy instead of
EBIDTA.
When technology becomes a tool to feed the world, and innovation ceases to be the slave of
profit,
When lawyers defend the cause of the weak and fatherless, and Doctors heal for free,
Then we shall see the day of the Lord.
And Evangelicals will no longer imagine the coming of an idea,
For the living Christ will be among us!
I am the thing humans want most
Changing hands, this way and that
Dirty, stale, but this wasn't always so
I was born clean, perfect and neatly stacked
Issued from a cloning machine, brothers-in-arms
Cut from the mechanical womb, separated
Dispensed to all of you reading this
you have all known me, grasped me with
your oily skin, all of you guilty of
using me in varieties of ways, sometimes
I make you sick, so you turn as green
as my outer-self, I am as old as
the faces that are etched onto me
Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson
and Franklin all smile up, as you
dispense with you affairs. I am the
universal drug of humanity. The tool
that proceeded fire, the invention of
all doomed societies. But I am
simply the usher, showing you to
you seat. The grand-show is what
I simple lead you too, your Paper
Guide. Follow me along the river of
greed, as we all follow the Ferry-Man
along the River Styx. You think little of
ME, and yet I bring you all of your
desires. Sit down and enjoy yourself
with me, your friend, Money.
Life giving, purifying drops from heaven
Buffeted by a gusty wind, cascading droplets of rain
Moistening parched land, nourishing farmland
Replenishing lakes and ponds, absorbed by desert sand
Quenching the fabled chatak’s thirst
A bird, fabled to drink only from nature’s orgasmic burst
Endowing waterfalls with zillions of drops to dispense with
Dazzling in the sun’s rays, ethereal when moonlit
Like an avalanche of diamonds, unleashed
Thundering down with renewed vigour, on the rocks beneath
Sculpting exquisite forms and shapes
Through aeons of time, altering landscapes
Forming eddies and pools and rapids on its journey
Sustaining civilization before uniting with the sea
A tiny rivulet from a subterranean spring
Now fattened and joyously gurgling
In spate and flowing with zest
In its home, the forest
Rain brings hope of nature’s munificence
And charges Mother Earth with vim and freshness
Nurturing life in this teeming planet
Nourishing every living organism in its wake
The many hued rainbow straddling the day-lit sky
Appears with rain sometimes, caused by a play of light
Lending a divine presence and the birth of a local myth
Of matrimony of foxes with bushy tails and sharp teeth
When fishes cavort and frogs croak in glee
Rain is the reason for such unbridled ecstasy