Best Ire Poems
Dust hapless had settled rough
On vacuous land, tanned in taupe
Lonely and distressed
As it simmered for life
Its flowers had died
Only a few left in time
To settle calm and blossom elsewhere
Bearing remnants of an era gone by.
Trees cried until they died
Their seeds lay morose
Unable to steal
Elixir for their life
Their branches lay fallen
Gathering a fire
Their ache in crimson
Stalking deliriously in vain
As their embers crackling
Reveal their pain
Unto heavens mocking above
Unaware they had turned surdomute
More than a long while ago.
It burns deep on the inside,
this fire has engulfed my heart
Downtrodden beat beat beat
of oppression
Feeds the flame
of my
righteous indignation
A hot ire,
whose flames
keep ascending higher
and higher
Toxic by-products of hate
brings me so much ash disgust:
Refugee rejection ...
Nuclear fear proliferation
Hard coin slavery ...
Skin separation burns
of third-degree severity
So much crematoria greed
on the rise,
as the glow of compassion
slowly dies
It sparks a righteous indignation ire,
an anger justifiably judgmental worthy
Oh, how it burns ...
to see poor souls, crying
to the heavens,
innocently bleed!
The flames in the pit
peter out compared with
true distaff disdain
Sitting high atop a dining chair,
A feast of words tonight,
And crawling in the window sill,
A gnat breaks through the fight,
Giving in or giving out,
Seeking all but praise,
The end is near,
So don’t you fear,
This is the end of days.
Sitting slouched low below the dining chair,
The victor grovels now,
Wishing pleading,
Biting bleeding,
Sweat dangling from his brow.
Closing in or drawing near,
Whichever seems more dire dear,
The judgement rushes in,
And with the hammer,
Swiftly stammer,
Let the game begin.
Sitting high atop a dining chair,
A feast of tears tonight,
And quenching thirst,
Seeking rest or light,
Dreaming now or dreaming less,
Bleeding from your ear,
So don’t look down,
Your broken crown,
Never truly quite clever or clear.
destiny like a scarlet ire nestles in a windy eternity.
Her fingers trace the stab-wound,
Like water circles the drain. Though she may
Clean the rind and grime from under her nails,
She will never wash the bloodstains from her dress.
Her hair drapes her face like a black tapestry,
An opaque shade, like midnight
That conceals her auburn eyes.
But the shame she claimed in preceding days
Has left her as quickly as the blood flows
Now from his newly carved cavity.
His fingers lay cold, silent, and curled;
He will never again feel the pleasure
Of that nymphalid elegance he craved so
Cruelly. Tonight his skin spun toward the pale,
His horror, confusion, frozen in his expression
Flaccid, limp, unsatisfied.
With his belt unbuckled, jeans crumpled,
His bloated face unshaven, and his gaze
Fixated on the ceiling, she cannot help but notice
He makes for quite an ugly corpse.
Her eyes are widened in languor,
With no tears to waste upon this husk.
Sitting barefoot on the white kitchen tile,
As if waiting for the daisies to sprout.
What does it take to pinpoint
The emotion of love and get
It past you?
How is it that you uncongenialy
Antiquate us with malevolent,
And still live with no worries?
You've created such antipathy in
The human eyes
Now it's so much more opaque
Than it used to be
The lack of emotion is
Inestimable and sequestered
There here is very incredulous
Am I the only one that sees this?
Such ignominy has filled me
This world, these people
It is all just opprobrium
Written November 1, 2005
Form:
Sputtered words meant to bruise
Passive aggressive
Crowded and confused
Deadened ambivalence toward the seen
Wishing to allude
Collapsing the dream
Your questions
No suggestions
When personalities crash
In a flash
Alone,
I wash away the sting
Of my broken wing
I’m reminded of your other trait
No I don’t
Want to debate
On a timeless ride
Into the unrest night
I shield my heart from anymore
Discredit or smite
Closing the door
In silence
Circling and spying over aching heads
Vultures swoon and pick the flesh
Spotted from sunken skies on beds
Where distended bellies in a crèche
Bellies moan and groan
Under attack by bevies of vultures
Mourn
Lost sanity cultures
Hitherto quiet
Tranquil
On a diet
Administered with gusto on a quill
That strafing vultures who snatch a widow’s
Car, house, kitchen utensils
Cash at the bank, a photograph on her bedroom’s door
Pencils and stencils
Asking the widow why English dominated discourse
In her home when they visited from the village
Where three-course
Meals knew a siege
That vultures accused the widow
Of instigating by remote control
In every clean window
In their deceased brother’s bedroom played a role
In his demise
Vultures accused the widow of engineering
In the prize
The widow extracted from the sneering
The widow’s nose in her attitude
Reflected
In the ingratitude
Deflected
From their generosity
Which in the vultures’ considered view
Existed not in their brother’s home in the city
Vultures dreaded to visit because they knew
Not how the widow cruel
In demeanour
Filled with in her fuel
Of misdemeanor
Would deny vultures morsels of beef
Tea with rancid bread
Served with a stiff
Attitude ahead
Of a plethora of scorn
Heaped on vultures with a haughty gait
As the widow with her penchant for ****
An ingrained trait
In her faulty figure
Would inflict
On vultures with snigger
In every ounce of contempt the widow inserted in her relish for conflict.
Quench your desire, to quelch the ire.
Squish your wish, quell and welch on greed's glut
Be satisfied with a belch of gut.
-------------
21 April 2017
*"Whispering Hope" was music to my ears
Today's fare sounds like children clashing gears
When Eire becomes Ire
Extinguish the fire
Lest hope never soothes your grandchildren's fears!
*1949 "Whispering Hope" Jo Stafford, Gordon MacRae duet
Inside a bar in my town
I drown brown sorrows, swilling beer after beer
Feeling tall in my gaunt gown as I play the clown
Wishing I could wipe away her memory into a low gear
Which in my Corolla I engage
Thoughts tumbling, feelings grumbling
As mind and conscience I enrage
Fumbling, crumbling, gambling
Until eyes get bloodshot
Mind goes bleary
Brain overheats so hot
I get weary and teary
But what the heck! What to me’s a little peck
To shout consciousness back into business
No hard feelings at all for the neck
That cranes and deigns to break
The cycle of reveries I indulge
Imagining I’d washed away the wreck
Thriving on the madness I encourage
Drinking my life silly
Driving my happiness away
Praying I’d longer remain the hillbilly
Held in a straitjacket bay
Which in my saner moments can’t countenance
Unless up around the bend I conspire to expire
Condoning and contemplating selfies without substance
As in my throat roar and soar eddies of mounting ire.
It was if they were begging for destruction when
they tried to cage immortal souls
Silently stoking his internal fire only brought to the
surface his bitter cold
They were unaware of the binding of their own hands
to something that was never meant to break
They added links to the chain with every action that
ultimately lead to the sealing of their fate
Though his darkness was overwhelming they couldn't
stop themselves from seeking his light
His mesmerizing words just drew them deeper into an
abyss darker than night
They were drunk on the power of their illusions &
deluded by lies they surely cast
Intoxicated by the stories of who he was & the mirage
of things of the past
Full of regret they tried to retreat after observing
their miscalculations
It was too late to turn around for they had sparked
his ire & tried his patience
In the end it was their souls that had been lost as they
stood surrounded by bitter angels
The hidden dread of their private moments had them
wishing they had taken a different angle
Are we man or machine
Who knows what I mean?
You show on the scene
As if it’s routine
We raise our ire
Don’t learn from our priors
So you leave me in dire
When you see me on fire
On this looming tight wire
I hang from the spire
Deflecting piles and piles
Of obtrusive gunfire
Then when I fall
Will that be all
Will you pick me up?
Or say that's dumb luck
As I see it stands now
You’re wearing a crown
You think you’re higher
If not by stature than attire
So the answer is no
It already shows
Written- 06/04/17 and 01/05/21
I feel the ire grow
It fuels my revulsion
Needing a repose