Best Gridlocked Poems
No more new year resolutions,
no more lie on government restitution,
no republic can survive its dilution
no more pandemic blues,
no more wild-eyed cons[iracy cues
no more revenue that's due,
just a prayer for every ordinary me and you;
give me liberty, opinion and my own discretion
a say in the congressional gridlocked sessions
and give me my freedom of choice,
keep your Beemer, Lincoln, Lexus and Rolls Royce,
help me vote, let me speak my voice;
let me give my fair share
how much do you care
about health, hunger, poverty and medicare,
brother do you have a dime to spare,
is anyone with common sense there?
Where are the children too long missing
who's corporate behinds are you now kissing
what's with all the anger and the hissing,
end these shootings, hate fires the looting dissings
help the homeless and the poor, stop the dismissing
are your senate raging rants just visual political pissing?
Schumer, Pelosi, Manchin, McConnel and McCarthy
what is the point of your political party,
you play your little games of cat and mouse
while nothing is done in Senate or in House?
Get to work, do your jobs
stop the lobby dance and cut the hobnobs,
too long perhaps you hold power
all governments are now, equally soured
while the general population is deflowered.
windswept windsurfing wallabies warbling whales wailing................................................................................
A pink fish travelling with a tea towel is neither in a rush or dirty. Gridlocked gorillas getting grapes gracefully glide. Seafront mystery in windswept hair carrying a carrot, a jar of mustard, and ten grains of multicoloured rocks. A tambourine on a sponge cake can be beating but not beaten. And a lamb cawl is not a call nor a front crawl so place the gate and door at a sixty degree angle. Many custard cups play hockey with wildebeests in tutus. In a fingerless glove place nine toes, and in a pocket watch place a turning tubular pin. The frost from a llamas horn is neither stagnant or perfumed, it is merely a tidal wave of porridge. Hahaha magniloquent magnolia magnitude making monkfish moussaka. Hahaha equality equals equipment eveningwear xxxxxxx hospitalities Z z Z z Z
I used to move as fast as cars
runways built in space and mars.
I would dart as far as I could trace
the words moving off the chart
Every other sound that rhymes
Feels like argh, I paint a corner squiggle
argh, I’m bankrupt, gridlocked power struggle
argh no way out of a jigsaw puzzle
Stopped and bound, inside my head
as round as this machine could bleed
My life into moving tree -
BANG! Bark and Fire Stark!
I awake inside a maze
Forest lost to the barren dark
Mixing things that didn’t mix
Stories I couldn't fix,
I felt a apart
I couldn’t even paint an argh
no where left but something leapt
Silent meaning had effect
Movement kept me on a stretch
where rhymes were just erect -
waving signs above my head,
hard and fixed, solid bricks
I really wanted sounds and tricks,
clever tips and catchy bits
songs that keep me in a fix
Kungfu, water, flowing bliss
Then words fell off the page again
I was back it didn’t matter
rhymes could be like fish batter
but narrative was fatter!
Rabbits at junctions are often akin to moons at traffic lights. A light lunch is preferable to a whisky scone when taking a picnic to a lake. But playlists can play so font argue with a flamed fortress of fig. Tailoring a suit for a nine foot bead and dazzling s crowd with a one millimetre tiara is not a sound judgment for a counting ball. 1 2 3 then. Radio that on a one kilometre hand held microphone. Hahahahaha the skipping rope is jumping in a hula hoop today. Lovely. It is not the way of the feathered cloud to land in a field fuelled upside-down but a gridlocked four dimensional satanic bowler hat can swim many acres in a spotted swimsuit. Good. Underpasses underwater underground undertake uniquely unequal unisons. And a proxy is neither productive nor normal. Statutory static authorisational code bringing wine to a ball room. Fantastic news for the pillar. Geranium gathering giblets. And a pie. Wow. Xxxxx destitution demon demonstrated dogmatic dramas digging. Xxxxxx counter intelligence and no matter. Xxxxx miscommunication Z
what though there be a garden of flowers
the essense of the whole distilled to but a drop
the humble bee alights
frozen in time and purpose
sucking the nectar of its created heaven
in the now in the here
gridlocked
SOLITUDE SOLILOQUY
by Mark Miller © 12/22/2014
Like a suicide a funeral wake opens my bleached eyes of cobweb swirl
Fog's fear rolls through sleeps slumber nightmare torment land play
Walking into unseen voice mummer disguised by genie's lantern light wish
Nagging cont-recoup whether today's a present distant or future present Pharmaceutical parasites filler view rooms by persona crony classless
Haunting hallways reveal remote paintings scream scatter the multi appearance complexion
Fleeing “I”'s and “Me's” we settle wonders why there are no “I”'s in Who-vile despotism
Who's a why as “I” interrupt this fantastical delusion into a childminder composition
Demode this insane query finding Charlotte's spinner theory on Russel's logical hypnotism
Contemplating my eight legged friend's discourse of paradox failing to find favorable opinion
Momentary illusion's hallucination into analog nod hints reality's quiet absurdness
House clocks gridlocked since March 1984 to continue their resonance defiance
Windows speak weak shatter suspense of deconstructionism into society's inanimate destruction of submission
Transient request transmits electrical contact computer's disturbed unknown highway
Another eccentric explores little things between emotion's deranged control over futures feelings
The Harley Davidson and me
Hover bikes of the future
Really not for me
Give me wheels upon the ground
I want my Harley D
My veins all feel the power
When the engine starts to yell
Cos now I am an Angel
An Angel here from hell
Gridlocked on the highway
But that don’t bother me
I just rev the mighty engine
And ride my Harley D
The humdrum life is not my way
Nor the semi-detached abode
I’ll stop a day in a little town
Then I’ll hit the road
I was born to be a badass
My life so wild and free
I can catch the very wind
When I ride my Harley D
I’m an independent spirit
As I ride my motorbike
The sun’s the days companion
The stars my roof at night
A cat attempting a headstand is akin to a gridlocked caterpillar visiting an air show of duck aero gliders. Aero gliders are neither glimpsing nor glimmering but glimmering could often be mistaken for a cider walking mildew headed bullock whose field antics were superfluous in the season of dun dun dun. But a dun dun dun is neither a worry nor a weasel waiting. Weasels wisely waiting wanting winning ways. And a dish of cloud is served on a rock to a cup of salt water lake spray. Lovely. And how very kind. It is to be assumed that there are a significant amount of ever increasing formations of swamps and strips of sunlit streams. Uninvited are the dwellers of infrastructure whose intelligence only works in a money bag with five golden balls. Interesting that isn't it? Now count to 48395839682058209589285938569025893 96038591958506969695958692058406830 594069305839583069305830583959 and then climb up and up and up the side of a cup using a sturdy ladder that extends beyond the houses. Ok then. Eat a spoon of rice and sit down. Oh look a carriage is catching a chubby carthorse today! Oh no a wardrobe has collapsed after attempting to juggle socks while jumping on a pogo stick. Xxxx meteorologist z z z z z z at forty five sprouts with ten foot wings soaring over eggplant and avocado bake with nine purple goldfish in a six inch tank. Z
chromed attics
patrolled by magnified dragonfly schematics
quivering silvers, rippled submarines
enlightened black magic
black dawn hawk borne of ashes
manifested in tragedy then smashes
smithereens flit to unison
babe on the nipple fades blue, leaves an only son
falls on the roots, sap his tipple
overboard on the beech seeking tetragrammaton.
instant pan-global sepia scope
your skull is an hourglass
and sand teems down the slopes
visions of Egypt are gridlocked
so you sneeze just to cope
but the issues weep at you, your emotions elope
with tryptaminical spellboundancy
immediate hope.
Twenty-six stories high,
I look down to illuminated veins, blinking red and then white;
The city is alive, breathing through concrete lungs.
Up to the ninth floor.
Two glass bottles on the ledge sit empty;
The painted walls hold my secrets.
On the fifth flat.
People flowing in and out,
Yet a place for rest.
Down to two.
Long halls lined with lockers,
Laughter, lectures, and languages.
The city.
Packed gridlocked lanes with blaring horns.
The heart of the city, both human and machine, beats constantly.
From cold concrete floor to plaster ceiling
in cardboard boxes, damp and peeling;
beneath migraine fluorescence,
humming, blinking incessance.
They languish spectrally bound and gagged,
indexed, filed, stamped and tagged:
a desert vista of yellowing paper.
They say nothing,
travel nowhere.
Confetti never thrown on a wedding day,
left in the box to waste and decay;
paintings in fathomless caves,
snapshots in bottomless graves.
Music played in a sound-proof cell,
composers marooned, no tales to tell:
a stranglehold of disconnection.
They are wired
to insulation.
Emotions, desires unwittingly fated
as dead sea scrolls never translated
into languages of any sense,
communiqués of obsolescence.
Gridlocked and ultimately stranded,
impotent and countermanded:
fervent wishes hermetically sealed.
They are stoic,
statue silent.
Structures teetering wide and tall,
towers leaning, threaten to fall;
captive informants bursting to spill
truths or lies, to redeem or kill.
They are cast adrift like accursed ships,
alphabets hanging on time frozen lips:
a dead séance switchboard.
They are ghost messengers
in stasis.
Secrets harboured and dreams incubated
for those still waiting and those who have waited
in endless, futile anticipation,
ageing and wracking with desperation.
Lovers denied the words of romance
who die bleeding hope, are given no chance:
broken upon this cinder block shore.
They render incalculable
lives destroyed.
I want to live and die at the same time,
In this asylum, I am nothing but a dime.
I pray for the grotesque fame,
None, but the Master wants to get me out of playing this game.
In this asylum, I live a lie,
The river Life is nothing but a gridlocked tie.
I want to be alive until I don't want to survive,
This phase is not my only witless dive.
Is this asylum true, or just a gruesome illusion?
I want to bring back my vision.
I don't want to live in this ponderous loneliness,
I don't want to die until I wilfully confess.
This asylum is full of savage desires,
I want to submerge myself in my obligations.
The river doesn't want to join the ocean of dark necessities,
The meander is coming closer to my pertinacity.
True wisdom lies in my shadow,
Until it stays in my favour.
For centuries, I have penned the tales of this asylum,
I am nothing but a mere equilibrium.
A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bugger." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged blackberry.
The god-damn humanity."
A gauche gaucho,
a galoot,
rawboned and grizzly,
rode into
a snoring border town.
"Google me," he said,
as he hitched his mare to
a wild hair.
The cranky cowhand
had gambled on
an internet cantina being open
but the only horse in town
had been gridlocked for hours.
Later they found him
slumped over
a frozen quesadilla.
"Poor Bastard." They cooed.
"Poor lonely gaucho
with his empty man-bag
and no mail.
Just a gadget for company,
an uncharged old ‘Blackberry’.
O the god-damn humanity."
Silicon city
That pulsates,
Both day and night,
The Tech Capital
And the sky, veiled
With urban haze
And dense, sprawling cityscape.
Grey city of its
Gridlocked roads
Surrounded by
Towering skyscrapers
Inspiring
The coder
And the entrepreneur.
Glass city
Of its
Modern offices
And its apartments
Compact and sleek,
New and bold,
A striking, sure testament
Of the presence
Of the FUTURE.
Neon and chrome city
To reinvent
The bustling rhythm
Of its progress
And yet retains
Echoes of the past.
City of early mornings
When the techie
Leaves his flat
And in the busy metro
Taps his laptop
The commuter,
Eyes on screens,
In air-conditioned cars,
Mimics and rushes
To connect
With the world
That fuels their DREAMS
As a true Bengalurean.
City of endless startups
That illuminates the path
Of the innovator
And the visionary
Who disrupts
Tradition,
Complacency,
And long
Established norms.
Green-grey city
A mixture and contrast
That modernises,
Reshapes the landscape
Of time accelerating
That unleashes
And propels,
Surges swiftly
Unstoppable
And holds in
The tech parks,
By the malls
And facing the
Global IT hub
These dreamers
With cutting-edge ideas
Sitting at the edge
Of this vast
Transforming metropolis,
Creating
The digital future
That captivates and challenges.
City of diversity
Of heaped-up talents
With global backgrounds
Who meet online,
Collaborate,
Innovate,
Connect, Expand.
Disrupt,
Complement,
Enrich,
Express themselves,
Coming just
From every corner
Of India and the world
To the heart
Of Bengaluru
And the epicentre
Of South India's
Tech revolution.
And nostalgic old-timers?
The ambitious Newcomers?
All together
They coexist
And merge
Their traditions and
Their aspirations
In progress
And innovation
But New Bengaluru
Carves out for itself, indeed,
The future's share.
A dynamic and complex present
Whose energy
Excites and overwhelms
Leaving digital footprints
In cyberspace
And experiences
Virtual,
And actual,
Fast-paced
And relentless.