Best Doltish Poems
Tethered by life's boundless gyre;
doltish in the headlong plunge.
Swirling in its turbid mire;
mock demur feigns to expunge.
Inchoate thoughts swell pathos' rosters;
errant guides whose hack beguiles.
Pay scant regard to such impostors;
debar with glee their rueful smiles.
Then peerless grow your firm resolve;
abjure ego its tumescence.
Ascend the arc and thus evolve;
render glacial your senescence.
Else succumb as prisoner of your thought;
Fashioned into something you are not.
Behind those hidden marked wrists
Are lies, skepticism and fears
Behind those calloused, clenched fists
Is a cauldron of uncontrollable tears.
Behind those evident scars
Is a constant cycle of sorrows
An imaginary fiend that mars
A twinge that only herself knows.
Behind those unappealing blotches
Are griefs, worries and insecurities
Inflictive pain worth a million degrees
Coupled with regrets and negativities.
Behind those ugly knife marks
Is an unfathomable, aesthetic heart
Who got fed up with judgment and remarks
But was actually dauntless from the start.
Behind the so-called 'stupid cuts'
Is depression that she tried to overcome
Abaft her courage and remarkable guts
Is a doltish move for some.
Behind those wrists is the sickening dogma
On people's choices regarding suicide
Cowardice- that is society's stigma
But the truth is, they're already dead inside.
The Shepherd asked the poetess-
Who are you?
Twinkling her eyes, the poetess
said-who am I.
Am I a breath or a death;
breeze or a storm;
am I soothed or havocked?
I am blazed and ashed.
Am I a flower or a crackling leaf;
sand or a sea;
rock or a snow?
I am a droplet and a wavelet.
Am I a mystic sky or a fog;
cloud or a smoke;
hazed or dazed?
I am a dew and blue.
Am I a moon or its shadow;
real or a fake;
peace or a mayhem?
I am resting and running.
Am I desired or scraped;
slapdash or deliberate;
gem or a junk?
I am nerdish and doltish.
O! dear shepherd
who cares and
wonders who am I?
I am a treasure of pleasure,
I am a glow and a blow,
I am tender and blender,
I am your treasured flow.
**************
Unconfounded by a doltish lack
of general public adoration,
our poetry we'll offer here --
and bend each other's hungry ears
in supportive, negotiated pacts
of (mostly) mutual appreciation.
"The body, like the oak, is bent and gnarled,
The shallow-rooted mind is overthrown,
When we are near the evening of the world."
---From, 'Runes for an Old Believer", by Rolfe Humphries
Facebook post: "Respect your elders!"
My mind may not be now
as nimble as once it was,
and although I might see all
with jaundiced sight, not fresh,
not new, my mood is mostly
cool and quite calm.
--- Until, that is,
some brash provocateur
begins to essay an attack,
thinking to erase the marks
my words have made and to
overwrite them with his own.
I care not very much that he
with logic may displace my niche,
nor cleverly might mock me.
But to disparage Age in dotage,
with vile invectives, is doltish,
brutish and dumbfounding.
My sweetest comfort is
to have no doubt that he
(nor others of his ilk) will
never see how ineffectual
must be this mild complaint.
Micro-Feasting
by Odin Roark
To propagate the dung heap of ignorance,
Is to place on low simmer
A main course of illiteracy.
How festive the chefs of mental starvation
Make the tables of 140-character-feasting,
Luring the gullible
Along with the lazy,
The doltish
And the lost,
To gorge, then purge,
Then ignore the noxious vapor
Of sentience becoming residue waste.
So stirs this caldron of abbreviated ingredients,
Stifling taste buds for savoring delectable elocution,
Reducing vocabulary to bulimic shorthand
And expecting all to join this achromatic work-around.
Hopefully, the language of full syllabic enunciation
Will return with a vengeance,
Sending expression’s drive-by expediency
Into its all too deserving exile.
Consideration pauses in the distance.
One can hear the echoes of dismay,
“Does this mean we’re expected to read…
AGAIN?
You just don’t want me to talk about it
You hate it when we talk about it
You know you are a sheer hypocrite
Why do you think it is such an unmentionable affair?
All you know is how to impair, which is utterly unfair
Why can’t we talk about the menarche, unabashed?
When I talk about it blatantly, why do you stand aghast?
Value a woman’s body and this cycle, we don’t expect much
You are witless, don’t speak about it, you only have a doltish hunch
Just remember a man bleeds for death, for agony and for misery
Do you know why a woman bleeds? She bleeds for glee, for happiness and to create a new life
Our ecosystem and wildlife can no longer be ignored
The devastation caused by the Gulf oil spill must vastly be restored
As anger and frustration surges across the Coast
The depletion of our environment, indeed we fear the most
Several past months, many lives have been erased
In the midst of these disasters, we can only look to faith
Now let us pay a visit to some underlying factors
Volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and other natural disasters
It was not in their intention for a high tech failed invention
Yell still they don't take into account the consequences of their actions
Efforts to contain this oil spill is more doltish than we have known
What more massive debacles can this single Earth condone?
Many local residents are now suffering from depressions
So think about what lies ahead, our future generations
©RashanaKing2010
There's Something I always Keep With Myself ,
Wrap It Up And Place Onto My Shelf ;
My Secret's Land In These Extravagant Books,
Each Connected To One Another Through Angelic Brooks .
I'm a very Shy Person Though ,
Not a Doltish yeller as a Crow ,
Love To Keep Everything Within ,
Walking Straight With a forthright Chin.
If You're Reading This I've Something To Confess ,
Life's More Than You're Style Or Dress,
Look Beyond And You'll See A Path ,
No The Final Aftermath.
Everybody has a Place to keep their failures called corner's,
Which works as a needless border.
Everyday When I Get Up I wonder Where I Am ,
Seems like I Landed In The Objectionable Pot Of Jam ,
My Life's More Than I Think,
I can Eclipse It with a Spot Of Blink.
I recently Discovered what we think not always Happens ,
I Often End Up staying There And Laughin'
Is There anybody Out There ,
Who feels The Same ?
My Confession Of Shyness always Conclude waiting for a Chance To Win,
Getting up and Doin it Again ,
That's all I wanted to confess ,
That I'm the one who wanna scare death , and Say Yes !!
Everybody has a Place to keep their failures called corner's,
Which works as a needless border.
in the twilight zones
of the ocean
you will find me
dimly lit from within
for camouflage, for
spotting those I fear
would steal my hazy glow
I am surrounded by
others who linger here,
half-blind, swimming aimlessly,
waiting for the brightness
that never comes
would that I could rise up
out of this doltish,
bathypelagic state,
break through the water’s skin,
glistening, luminous
with coruscated beauty
but the only hands extended
draw me deeper,
into the benthic sea,
where I lie, unmoving,
amongst the creatures
who make their own deceptive light
and fear the sun’s
clear gaze
Imagine that coffee is your soul
Dark and too bitter like the starless sky
As black as hell, as awful.
Imagine a life without coffee
Pointless, tasteless, doltish,
Tell me, how bad a day would be.
Imagine that coffee is your blood
Without it you're lifeless, stagnant
And paranoia is all you had.
Imagine a day without caffeine
Procrastinating, freaking out
For without it, I'd be totally insane.
Withered leafless trees
Clinging to old roots
Sway fearful of the wind,
Murmuring among themselves
With dull nonsense
About the rains.
The doltish deceive themselves
That winter is a prelude to the Spring.
Have they ever learned the truth
Or have they read the timeless lie
And believed it true.
Summer is its own season
Stirring the soul with its light.
The earth fragrant with decay,
Blooming as if blanched with treason.
For the buds are flowering
Now, readying for the blight.
In the beginning the end
Wasn't written, hope survived
And the brief flickering light
Held promises even in its youth
As the dead clay thickened
About the truth.
Yet so many perish,
Lost in the dimming of the light.
Even as they flower they fade,
Eunuchs to the possibilities.
Marching to the tune of
Vacant wisdom from old men
Who know nothing but
The silence of their thoughts
And the stillness of their minds.
Thus as the flames, leaping
Down the seasons and the years collide
Leave fragments that spark even the deadest eyes
I see in each face the hollow minds
And the terror behind those
Glowering facades.
The trees, in the twilight born
Among the wilderness of dead leaves
On rocky soil and outcrops of stone
Grow sickly silent as their futures, shorn
Of promises they can't beget.
And the coming years stored only with regret.
Everything is Free
and I Don’t Want it
6-4-2016
They’re targeted at any seeking cheap or free,
Offers come by email, phone, TV or printed.
Somehow all offers always seem to include me,
It’s always gimmick, gadget, or misrepresented.
But I’m not interested in things without price,
Because the price is previously fixed to another;
Instructions and pertinence are always un-precise,
While in my individual space I well nigh smother.
If it’s something I’ve won or an offer near free,
They think, my information they might gather.
With offers come things with which I won’t agree,
And I’m growing tired of their constant blather.
I’ve won multiple lotto’s which I’ve not entered,
And people in Nigeria have checks in my name.
On shearing sheep these folk’s minds are centered,
Will we ever see termination to this doltish game.
Not as long as suckers exist.
And P T Barnum said “there’s a sucker born every minute”
Tom
His thoughts a noose round the neck
That betrays progress into better ray,
Prisoner self-chained to surreal wreck
Of diamond burdens beyond their say.
His pulses another swift drift away
From lanes of wit and clear sense;
Obstinate caudal slip in weird sway
Toward gaols well inevitable hence.
His bias-bankrupted soul's whims
Far defy practicality and her gists;
Tagging kettle black as old pot dims
In his eyes its erst death-dark twists.
His lobe preened to nab things null,
Throbs to tap vocular waves vacant
As shards of a myths-neutered skull;
More void and louder than airs want.
And his appetites stirred wild like tides
Over tempestuous seas wayward spill;
Milk's cream along filthy paths guides,
Honey's decoys his glances snare still.
We need to organize, demand the right to be mindless.
Deserve we compensations,
restorations for the witless who riot.
Compassion and pardon for all moronic mobs.
The right to choose death for others, free booze.
The freedom to abuse, shut down, condemn,
and censor.
We fight for the right to chant
every meaningless slogan,
pledge allegiance to double-speak & gobbledygook,
and of course,
the unalienable sanctity of the male womb,
all gender-fluid birthing, the freedom to groom.
To boldly march on, arm in arm, in tune
toward another dumb-downed.
doltish dawn.