Best Full Scale Poems
In Sumer land, you first appeared.
A potent god, both loved and feared.
Queen of Heaven, joined to its lights.
Moon your father, Sun your brother.
Venus was your symbolic star.
You were too, a goddess of war.
Fierce, fiery, passionate, and proud,
violent storms raged in your breast.
Goddess of sexuality,
and patron of the prostitutes
Your worship involved sexual acts,
Your temple housed your prostitutes.
Enchantress you, and sorceress,
goddess of magic and of spells.
You spur desire and alter forms,
despising all societal norms.
You changed your face to suit your space,
And you are known by many names.
Ashtoreth, Astarte, Inanna,
Aphrodite, Venus are you.
You are a female and a male,
with power to transform and mar.
You turn a woman into a man
and a man into a woman.
You ruled the cultures of the past,
and held sway over regions vast.
But when the Christian message came,
men’s hearts were changed, and you lost fame.
Your temples famed relics became,
as worshippers no longer came.
Your cult faded as all cults do,
when men discover what is true.
You lost your lure for centuries,
while men to God their knees did bend.
But as their faith began to wane,
your fame you did, slowly regain.
You spurred a revolt on sex norms,
then inverted natural sex forms.
You blurred lines between the sexes,
breeding in minds that which perplexes.
Today you wage a full-scale war,
designed to destroy and to mar.
You plan to squash man’s soulish bent
and from him every virtue rent.
Wake up my fellow human beings.
Consider what these grim lines mean.
Ishtar wants to destroy your soul,
But God desires to make you whole.
“A Diary of Occupation”
Vakulenko Volodymyr’s last work
(Banned in Ukraine) eastern part 20%
Diary of Volodymyr Vakulenko — painful and true records that the writer kept from the beginning of the full-scale invasion and during the occupation of Izyum and his native village of Kapitolivka in Kharkiv Oblast.
Dangerous to the Russian occupation force
A bright and cheery children’s book writer’s remorse
He said on the tenth day of occupation FSB
“It’s who you remain during all of this”
Then, buried his manuscript underneath a cherry tree
My heart sinks when I think of Vakulenko and Victoria
A Poet, a journalist in this bloody war
This is about a writer who’d know what was in store
His hand-written manuscript's underground in his backyard
Russian troops surround his village put him on guard
His life stolen they would pillage, his books
found and burned and captured him
O Vakulenko, we’ll carry your script in our bosom
Following his death and the liberation of Kharkiv
Victoria the one his journal of the war would retrieve
Her book of Ukrainians who wrote on the war, her mission
Was killed in an air strike
Her books by Russia deemed sedition
Worried he would be tortured or killed,
in the black Ukrainian soil
Her life was also taken in turmoil
Ukrainian man in a war-torn country
Today I honor thee
Your words shall be read
Around the world spread
America like Russia may do the same
Banning such books unconscionable shame
Art must mount a full-scale attack on language itself,
by means of language and its surrogates, on behalf of the standard of silence.
Susan Sontag.
I talk too much.
The Things are:
a flower
a grain of sand
a spark.
And all together.
Mere mortal body has to die, but what of mind?
Brain transplants are defeated by mortal neurons, that will all eventually age and fail.
Uploading minds to robot super computer brains, is immortality's holy grail.
For conscious mindful robot bodies can become the new mankind.
Abandoning frail mortal flesh to dust in grave, or ash in smoke, consigned.
You can replace your robot host with the latest model each year, for an image refresh and tech upscale.
Your mind downloaded from brain to computer can be uploaded, again and again, full-scale.
The mind-file then can then live forever, immortal mind to replaceable robot body, uploaded and maligned.
But what would it be like to live inside a metal box forever?
With metal arms and legs covered in fake skin, denied the thrill of flesh,
Without the sensual joys of touch and feel, of imbibing food and drink, and all other such pleasure.
Would a life immortal in a tin can be worthwhile, even with regular robot refresh?
Despite all the simulations, gadgets, fake this and that, would this really be the answer?
Or is mind so tied to mortal body that a senseless mind, immortal in computer chip, could never really mesh?
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with pot, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Right when I thought I had figured things out,
FEAR sauntered in and introduced DOUBT.
The twins came over, DISMAY and DESPAIR.
Then APATHY appeared. Does anyone care?
DISGUST and DISDAIN knocked on my door.
DISILLUSIONMENT laughed at what was in store.
ENVY and PRIDE cried unanimous cheers.
DOOM and DESPERATION were invoking my fears.
DEFIANCE brought a sign reading, “Come watch him fall.”
A gruesome and grotesque masquerade ball.
A party complete full of Demons and Ghouls.
This chaotic nightmare was void of all rules.
I ventured outside away from the noise,
despondent by actions that EVIL employs.
I sat on the porch with my hands on my face.
The stench of DESTRUCTION dispensing DISGRACE.
I cried out, “Dear Lord, what more can I do?”
I jumped when a voice said, “It’s all up to you.”
I gathered my senses and offered a seat
to an elderly woman, who lived down the street.
“That’s quite a party you seem to be throwing.”
I nodded my head, “It just keeps on growing.”
She leaned in and whispered, “They run in packs,
carefully planning these full-scale attacks.”
I asked her the reason they all showed up here?
She said, “You empowered the illusion of FEAR.
Without you to help them, their power is weak.
They gather up strength from words that you speak.
What you don’t understand, regardless it’s true,
GOD gave authority over Demons to YOU.”
Something made sense in what she had said.
She changed the perceptions I had in my head.
So, I stormed in the house with COURAGE and PEACE,
screaming, “It’s over! This party must cease!”
CONVICTION paraded as FAITH filled my heart.
In the name of JESUS, I demanded they part!
Their revelry turned into howling and shrieks.
A bellowing ANGST echoed out from the peaks.
They whined and moaned but followed command.
HOPE cleansed the room and TRUTH took a stand.
My new found friend was no longer there.
I shouted out “Thank You!” into the night air.
Hearing my commotion, “For what?” asked my wife.
“Your church-lady friend may have just saved my life.”
“You mean GRACE?” she questioned, “Didn’t you know?”
“GRACE went to heaven almost two weeks ago.”
I took her hand and we knelt down to pray,
thanking GOD for the POWER in WORDS that we say.
Daydreams By Night…
It’s half past ten and I’m wondering when
The big picture will include me
It’s on my mind nearly all the time
This full-scale dream of me with you
And yes, I want to change the world
Make a mark and still be free
To walk with you, talk with you
For eternity share this dream…
I’m off again in another frame of mind
Strange illusions in the sun
Before my eyes, overshadowed by my cries
Is the need for understanding
It comes and goes, it swells and grows
My desire for universal acceptance
At a reception so memorable
Be that it is fit for a king…
It’s coming at me in full color
It’s toned down in black and white
I’ve had daydreams in the evening
Now I’m having daydreams by night
Under the starlight, having daydreams by night
Nero fiddled while Rome burning
A poet dead at home while singing
There lived a poet,a fisherman
In pain of cancer the hangman
No cure, beyond medication
A radio recorder,his last requisition
His spouse acquired it in no time to wait
Disposing a wardrobe,the only home mate
Lying his head on her laptop
Recording voice hurried up
Born a poem in pain of labour disturbing peace
"My heart is beating today in a rapid pace
Don't know it's calling bell for my demise
You took care of me all the time,my wife,in wise
River is flooded,sudden like a broken pipe
When the crop is still in ripe
The lives of you three on the point of knife
The lives of you three on the point of knife
My dreams crashed to pieces like a broken wind screen
Waving death near the bed is red not green
My last breath to cease before dusk
Darling,announce my demise to the village, in no luck
God bless you! in battle and the two little in kick
God bless you! In battle and the two little in kick
Nothing is left to consume at home
Without bothering others dome
Darling,carry our children in the path all went bright
Wipe out your grief in this belief at least to slight
No belongings saved for the death to grab along
No kith and kin with kind belong
No harm,hurry,
Remarry!
If the road is remote for you to drive and carry
If the road is remote for you to drive and carry
What to do at this late?
No gates found to get out of fate
Time has come nigh for my journey from this earth
You be my spouse also in my next of birth
Children..............,............!
Neighbors in vigilance of the pin drop silence proceeded
To witness the poet and his wife lying dead before the poem concluded
They found the radio still tuning in full scale
A poem in Sinhala in it told an untold tale
The whole village cried like rain with gale
The purpose of Nobel prize is in total fail!
Another war, another truce
Israel leaves so many ends loose, and yet
Dozens die, so Thousands may live
The horrific result full-scale war might give
The Jewish State pulled out of Gaza in 2006
As thanks, it's had aught but terror attacks since
Yet, retaking Gaza with a punishing all-out assault
Of that, Israel is not (at all) convinced ...
What's the best way to handle this stubborn impasse
Time has a way of coming to the rescue --
Look! Egyptian and Israeli soldiers ~ friends at long last*
________________________________________________
*Nearly fifty years after the deadly Yom Kippur War of 1973,
Egyptian and Israeli soldiers, once the bitterest of enemies,
embraced publicly, openly weeping in each other's arms, at
a 'joint ceremony' at Ben Gurion Airport in 2022.
As the morning sun rose, it did say
“Who’s there, on earth, so trustworthy
To follow my movements throughout the day?”
Out spoke the sunflower
“It’s me, my Lord, in that bower.
Through the day though come what may
I’ll follow you foot-steps in sun and shower.”
It kept its words and the sun gasped
Fidelity as this had never before shaped.
The mid-day sun did eloquently sail
“On earth is there anyone so brave
To face my wrath at full scale?”
The leaves rustled and the old banyan grunted
“I’ll and though you burn me with all your might
Won’t let a ray pass by my sight
Shade under me will be intact, all right.”
The sun increased its wrath and waned
The tree remained firm, sacrifice left the sun shamed.
The setting sun spoke before it did flip
“Who’s there, on earth
To carry out my duty when I am asleep?”
The little fire-fly woke up and flew
“Though I do not burn as bright as bright as you
Yet I’ll shine through all the night
To make a small difference I’ll fight.”
The sun was done, it hath failed
Commitment as this had him nailed.
These small differences kept the earth going that day
The moon did shine, everything was fine
The sun rested assured
“Fire of character is stronger than mine.”
In towns where Basic fantasy makes a frown
Nature has turned Completely upside down.
And day tours emigrate to the Cambrian shore
Onboard, the rivers boats from Windermere
moving between hills and trees, miles from home
where the boughs of orchard greens are overgrown.
From distance views are the dreams first caught,
But by wagon roads are the scenic marvels wrought.
Steep is the pass across from Eskdale to Hardknott.
The architect must create when the odds are Great.
And stand resolute by luck, for success, failure, or fate
Keep the faith Lyvennet flows alone to catch the bait.
In Crake valley the vision of dreams is made known
On Penrith curb they drove all the way back home.
from the distillation realm, everything looks foreign,
Solemn and determined, invoke quiet a snarling spell
Being the adventurer rage driving furiously out of hell,
With Lakeland Muse, ambush by cars on top of a hill.
Framed flaws lay beneath the religious camouflage
Shadows meandering when winding lanes diverge,
An envious world moonlight enriched into a mirage.
Out from the woods, alpacas and feral cats emerge.
Pale and pickled at the grunting grumbling core.
In lush Whitehaven vale oblivious of a full-scale war
Continued tours like silhouette building dunes
In embroidery gardens, beautiful flowers bloom.
Bumblebees, wasps, and flies have wooed and won,
The old man ‘Lakeland’, seated on its penitent throne
Crocked steam from Ulverston rises on the pond.
Another day meets the Crinkle Craggs of Lakeland.
Full-scale warfare precipitates between two factions.
Many men tumble because of these actions.
What really started this thing, I do not know.
Both sides want to control the City of Chicago.
Police crack down on illegal gambling.
They are also after prostitution and bootlegging.
Within the city government, there is corruption and scandal.
It appears there is an excess for them to handle.
As far as citizens like us, things are not too fine.
They are as bad as ever in February 1929.
I heard many shots ringing out downstairs this morning.
A massive bloodbath has taken place without warning.
They say there are seven men lying face down on the floor.
The culpable individuals are not around anymore.
The responsible killers absconded without being seen.
The aftermath of this action is a most horrible scene.
On this Valentine’s Day morning, we are seeing too much red.
Seven members of Bugs Moran’s gang are now dead.
WE SAIL
We Sail
No, Bail!
Shark tail
Full scale
Ocean’s calm sea, we sail. No, bail! Splash!
Cruel, cold steel eyes. Shark tail! Full scale slash!
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Tyburn Form
Therapeutic thoughts have feelings
of resonance and dissonance
as healing behaviors have internal beliefs
motivating
inspiring spirited resilience
and passions for love
surpassing anger,
compassion
conquering all dispassions,
positive attraction
reconnecting past negative distractions.
Feelings have internal colors
compassionate green health environments
and narcissistic snarky red hot interiors
and radiant blue light
and absorbing yellow warmth,
and many multiculturing other hues
and cries for resonant ultra-violet peace
with black and white and brown restoring justice
not so much grey-scaled punishments
for too liberally
compassionately coloring outside
proper eco-political WinLose lines,
social walls of propriety
against impropriety of full-scale wildly imaginative colors.
When I heard Caillou's white-speak mother
inform her son,
Red is the correct Valentine's color of love,
I knew this could not be my whole virtuous enculturing story
because red is also the color of bloody fraternity
and viciously escalating anger,
Healthy passioned red
or short-flaring diseased fear
of overpowering betrayal,
losing power to overcome
threats to green therapeutic self-portrayal,
regenerative esteem
virtuously red-blooded,
Surrounded and benignly invaded
by green nature,
yellow absorbing internal blue heedfulness,
caution,
discerning nurtured feelings
attributed by more dissonant color relationships
said and sung in virtuously harmonious major,
and viciously dissonant minor, keys,
round co-relational octaves of color
revolving rhythmic qualities fueling flow,
Morally affluent yang prescriptions
with ethically effluent yin descriptors
of exterior green sanctuary natures
with interior red-blooded
DNA ultra-violet
communicating nonultra-violent
recycling nurture wheels
of resiliently felt therapeutic thoughts.
Despite emotional, financial, grammatical...
any woe that doth assail
whereat early in the
morning until late at night tub bail
sinking craft, not possible
(essentially 24/7), I bewail,
where the fickle finger
of fate stationed me in life,
as if groping in the dark
unfamiliar with Braille
at heart though - directly predicted
on how yours truly did curtail
requisite healthy development of
body, mind, and spirit, yes analogous
to a train tragically did derail
in a near fatal
(scores of years ago) accident
(sorry no gory detail),
yet the impact still sorely felt
(argh...eek...ouch...all pains dovetail
actually more like subduction,
(way more powerful than deleting email),
sans plate tectonics geomorphism process
(a lengthy missive would entail)
full scale explanation, okay
in a figurative nutshell this, male
long (winded) fellow cannot Atlas
shrug off the belief he did fail,
and hopelessly embarked on
impossible mission to secure the Holy Grail
this state of mind linked to many pursuits
that metaphorically did fishtail
many objectives abandoned
finding me to flail
convincing myself at a
tender age incapable NOT gale
lent academically, athletically, avocationally...
thus many personal enterprises
witnessed a scared boy, hence best to hightail
further progress without testing potential,
I often ruminate, how aye did hobnail,
viz self imposed aversion to risk
on par with the most fortified jail
and one circumstance that
expunges burdensome junk mail
occurs basking under spray
as warm water doth prevail
cleansing, kickstarting, and
rejuvenating (albeit temporarily)
though some hours later...
back to choppy waves and torturous sail.