Best Machinations Poems
Elysian ellipses of poetry's pride...
a literary litany that draws from
sunlit and moonlit
eloquent emanations ensuing
silent shadows that follow
mystical movement,
integrating intrigue.
Passion and beauty
fuel fecund imaginations
expressed from a Bard's bucolic
and loquacious,
luscious machinations,
sharing a gem of their soul.
Wrap me in your
timeless treasures and
leave me to bask breathless
in poetry's pride!
4-26-20
Cornucopia Poetry Contest ~Second Place~Premiere contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
April is Poetry Month. Celebrate Poetry!
If you could relive one day of your life..
time lost, now retrieved for just a short while.
To thrust old scheming machinations knife,
or return healing to a lover's smile.
Such a fretted frittering those lost days,
though ones you and I will remember most.
Passions reared high in servile dewy haze..
soft breathe warm against skin from dearest host.
Moment waits untended a dreamer's call,
something I can never give you again.
Bodice caught on nail of new lover's wall,
though we may choose to return now and then.
Tarried too long look'g to horizon's edge..
promised heart unharmed, now pulled from a ledge.
Death and Forlorn Time in the Shadows of True Evil
Death and Time holdeth onto eerie and most frightening shadows
Whilst pervading deeply within that infernal region where the dark
Evil and uncanny mists occlude the terrifying presence of a great
Dark Doomsday cult of vicious and horrifying beasts that are now
Perpetuated from a putrid Hellspawn by Lucifer’s own command!
Corrupted with the presence of sacrilegious beasts of true violence
Who hate all aspects of humankind with their spirit of maleficence,
And wince not whilst decapitating the heads of those who disagree
With them, and creating a mindless havoc of unparalleled tragedy
That’s become an expected, sad occurrence of Mankind writ large!
Brandishing a razor-sharp, coal-black-blade is their evil incarnation,
Of a time, that’s totally indicative of their chaotic rampage of bloody
Burning attacks as battlegrounds are drawn into an eternal darkness,
From whence there may be no return since there’s a dark, blood-red
Poison, from the dark afterlife, in which every drop of blood is toxic!
Every drop of this spilt blood-red poison has a deadly demonic aroma,
That produces nasty swarms of ravenous locusts to torment all innocent
Victims caught between the machinations of Almighty God and Lucifer.
In this reality, these evil spirits cast their malevolent spells without any
Scruple, wishing for Mankind’s swift destruction by Lucifer himself!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – November 24, 2017
(Quintain)
As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.
As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.
As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.
As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.
As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?
As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.
the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.
For 15 years I have tolerated,
calculated, anticipated, sublimated workplace degradations, derisions,
subversions towards my character,
not today, no more,
yes, my pride has become livid, swollen like a bad bruise on the heart
and I apologize not for my self defense & righteous roil,
I will address you as the mean spirited scoundrels that you are,
no more 'boss - employee' boundry, just one human to another,
No fascade & title to prance behind, no longer above reproach from the lesser,
you are now entering the shock of the 'dead-fall' ,
buck you and your low wages, buck you and your perfect policies,
buck you and your work ethic 'mumbo jumbo',
buck you and the lame insults and false criticisms perpetrated
against my innocence and motivation,
buck you with your attempts to undermine my positive leadership,
buck you and your inconsistent hours
making a God damn yoyo out of me, buck you and your bonuses,
buck you and your preposterous training videos and ridiculous high school uniforms,
buck you and the belittling psychological questionniares connected to your applications,
buck you and your little managerial conclaves
which produce absurd machinations targeting the hourly employees
that make the place profitable,
wipe your cracks with your silly 'write ups' and legal circumspection bull-slit,
I am not your 'bro.' or 'buddy' , and I sure as shout am not your 'honey' ,
not today, not anymore
I will not allow you to treat me as a tool for your benefit,
I will no longer work faster so that you can save money & leave earlier,
you will no longer be permitted to laugh at me without redress,
you are now dealing with a Man, not just another employee number,
don't worry 'boss', I'll continue to work, I'm not gonna 'quit' ,
but I will not work for you, I am going to work with you,
today is a New Day -
J.A.B. Dedicated to all hard working Men and Women -
"Colours in a Cloud Speak"
The colours
of a world
speak
no one
has time
to listen
The spectrums
speak like
music, lucid
like clouds
that pulse ultraviolet
in front of you
through wide open
windows, unavoidable,
some strange dream
your eyes see,
but do not
speak
the unbelieved
reels in the
unbelievable
we live
in these odd times
we observe meanings subliminal
that no one else
other than we
in our own moment
believe,
could see
on the peripheral
of even
like odd
evening clouds
in the small hours
that pulse curious
purple, then ultraviolet,
points of calculus
invading our
small space, try reasoning
watching us
as we move in
some strange elusive dream
a beacon
calling us
home,
some strange home
calls us crazy, we are
cats cradles cartwheeling
unreachable
we think, it exists
somewhere else,
other than this,
in the
in between
unseen
we exist
we dream
we try to live
what we see,
is not real,
it’s spun
like fairy floss
in the machinations
of the others' schemes
sugar tastes sweet
addictive, we are lost
in the after taste
wanting more
of what we
know is their drug
what we are taught
from birth to see,
is not the real of reality
our minds are locked
from time of rebirth,
re-entry
into
well-rehearsed territory
birth pains burning
the inevitability,
truth hits us
the gravity glitching
karma circles
Ferris wheels
that stop occasionally
to let us
get on
get off
it could be
realer
than real
the mysterious colour
hidden in clouds
we touch
in our dreams
we are like
comets falling
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
cat's cradle
noun
a child's game in which a loop of string is put around and between the fingers and complex patterns are formed.
Harry Chapin - Cats in the Cradle
"Looking Into the Mirror"
Sudden realizations iced up his core
To form the frozen image of a man
He who stared in reflected embarrassment
While sobering silence takes over the room
As this was not the person he was to become
But for childish dreams that stuck with him
Fantastic machinations that warped a man's mind
So he'd remain a child who never grew up
And had to face his parents on occasions
The adult to them is just on the exterior
Because he made a living selling his voice
Though in using it to say I'm sorry
His parents would have to wait
Just like the forever he has waited
To hear them say we love you for what you are
A child never grows too old
For their parents open arms
Having loved ones is an incredibly comforting feeling, but when you enter the vast
landscape of the mind and see only depression and despair, you become aware
that you are alone in your misery. Clinging to the last threads of sanity It feels as if
you are spiraling into a bottomless black abyss.
All sense of responsibility, joy, hope, drive, ambition and any concern for life are
gone like a whisp of smoke. There is no comfort offered when looking deeply into
who you are. Everything that you once held dear seems so pointless in the eternal
perspective of time. There is no escape from the futility of it all. Will I make a
difference or at least be a descent human being. If I do, what difference will it
make. Countless times have I looked into the never ending realm of insanity and
longed to leap into its welcoming arms. I can think of no greater blessing than to
lose one's capacity for self awareness.
Would I fall for all eternity or through the destructive force of madness find
normalcy. It all seems so hopeless. Some say life passes so fast that you should
cherish every moment. But, living out the drudgery of each day seems an eternity to
me. If I focus hard enough my minds eye sees exactly who I am. I have a self
loathing, over burdened, depressingly active, mentally challenged, sarcastic, twisted
thinking process. Process usually indicates order. Not in my case. My mind plumets
into a cold unfeeling wasteland that sends me into fearful fits of confusion where I
am overwhelmed with unrelenting incomparable anger. I ponder an escape , but I
realize I am destined to wallow in the company of despair and futility for all eternity
and deservedly so. Then it finally dawns on me that through my foolish decisions
and self destructive actions I have fulfilled my mission in life to be a stench filled
mass of human waste. I grieve for those who know the loneliness I feel when
journeying into the depths of the seemingly twisted internal machinations of my
mind. It is the only place that in all respects you are truly alone. I no of no other
place where hopelessness reigns as it does in the deep recesses of who I am. It
makes me wonder if I might be God's only mistake.
There are no cogs, springs, wheels, or gears inside of me.
I'm a flawed human whose mind and heart often disagree.
I don't have parts, interior mechanisms like those inside a clock.
but if my heart makes a decision, my mind puts up a roadblock.
There's no symbiosis between them, nor a willingness to agree.
Each day is a struggle for me, from which I cannot break free.
Mechanical parts of a washing machine sometimes need repair,
but when heart and mind are at odds, it's a hardship I must bear.
It's pugilistic sparring and I'm overwhelmed with doubt and fears
because I'm the one who always gets hurt, bringing me to tears.
I can't get through to my heart, and simply cannot make it clear
to a stubborn mind that tunes out what it doesn't want to hear.
I've pleaded and tried bartering but neither one will take heed.
I've accused them both of having an ego and an attitude of greed.
The interior machinations of my mind and heart often malfunction.
My heart seeks love, while my mind is smug with selfish unction.
I can't really remember when the last time was, they ever agreed.
They're an enigma, each one having its own beliefs and creed.
Ho-hum, another war lost
We should have won
Our new partner for peace ~ the Taliban
Ho-hum, a new school year
First semester's curriculum
Learn whom to FEAR
Ho-hum, we're going all-electric
While 'Mr. Green President'
Begs Russia ~ Pump more oil! Protet us!
Ho-hum, California burns
The no-win solution
Gavin Newsome returns
Ho-hum, Chicago's locked down
No, it's not Covid
It's a murderous town
Ho-hum, soaring inflation
I can still sleep ~ My paycheck's
Indexed to tax machinations
Ho-hum, another day closer
To beckoning the invading hoardes
Come over ~ Here are the keys ~ Take over
Caregiver
Caregiver,
You came into our family
As a river of hope.
Ever flowing, always there,
Providing loving care,
So we could cope.
Caregiver,
You became an uncaring taker.
With your undue influence
You spent her money
On your own selfish wants.
Under false pretenses, you dragged her along daily,
Using her vehicle for your own personal errands.
Like a foe you fought our family!
As we became wise to your machinations.
And when your goose was finally cooked,
Your last act was to vandalize in secret,
Leaving her heartbroken.
Oh, Uncaring Taker,
How unconscionable were your actions.
How hateful you became.
Why were you this way?
How I would like to make you pay,
But it's her wish to leave it this way.
***
December 9, 2019
F T I SPECIAL family
Brian Strand, sponsor
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Published 2018 in "Up In Smoke - A Collection of Poems" via wattpad.com
Cunning were her noxious machinations,
Choosing those who never stood a chance.
Masterful projecting of temptations,
Brilliant timing, her alluring glance.
Naive innocence alerted weakness.
Perfect prey, a rug beneath her feet.
Wary of her charm, he played to meekness.
Vamps are blinded by their own conceit.
Love projecting trust her highest rated,
Self assured to win this rueful game,
But his insight unappreciated,
Destined to dethrone this queen of shame.
Midnight luggage packed as she lay sleeping,
Daybreak finding him no longer there.
Not his absence roused her ardent weeping,
Rather, roles reversed and woe to bear.
All her hidden plans, new beau, new city,
Lost its "joie de vivre" without a chump.
Debit card replaced by selfish pity,
Catatonic stupor, being dumped.
She was fooled, assured the man had fallen.
Not a clue his quietly keeping score.
Retribution silently came calling,
As a sliding key beneath her door.
Gene Bourne
02-19-14.
Alternating Acateletic / Cateletic end syllables
for variable texture of flow
in this Trochaic Pentameter poem.
Looked up and down, right and left
Wondering why life suffers a theft
Subtracted beauty from my chin cleft
If I deserved and preserved the best
My love could lavish to attest
Why my love passed a preset test
Under dodgy durations of circumstances
Pummeling endeavours made in instances
That diminished and dwindled distances
Acknowledged to reveal robust character
On a bus, on a train, on foot, on a tractor
Where we determined adversity no longer a factor
In consolidating the love we feel
Grows by leaps and bounds despite the bill
Your family sprang on me to deal and kill
The foundations you and I have built
Over the years to fight to the hilt
Any machinations to pour heaps of silt
Into our love cogs
Meaning love should don cogs
Saunter under coercion in bogs and fogs
To prove its strength
Walking on hot coals at length
If truth should pervade and invade love width
To delight your parents
So worried and harried by overdue rents
We owe for domestic tents
That accommodate our nights and days
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays
Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
Shared with supreme care
Far beyond compare
Even when evil eyes stare
Willing you and I could disintegrate
To delight the flight of the ingrate
Who wishes our relationship could migrate
Into Dante's Hades
Struck by full blown Aids
Enfeebled and disabled in beds
Where to detractors we surrender
Stuck owing bucks to the vendor
Who dares to crush our love in his blender
Administering his coup the grace
As we lie panting on yellow grass
Listening to soothing sounds of brass
Whispering osculation and consolation
Amid an attempt at immolation
Our love sustains not in isolation
But in tandem
With a hustled harem
Which sings its ultimate knell anthem.
Wind, under the influence of parallel time
heeds my thoughts with more than
mere convenience
Assuming ripple-effect, machinations
in my mind travel centuries, backwards
and forward, mapping evolution, my
evolution, avoiding inevitable extinction
Sometimes gently, other times galloping
in flames, wind renews tides and
tumbles with the sun
Carries the sweet call of the Loon to my
thirsty soul and howls in madness
when I'm afraid
Beneath the day I have not seen
the wind knows why
I came this way
08/04/13
© All Rights Reserved
Puppeteers
In cavalcades of bulletproof cocoons
all aspects of our lives they can control
they own all that you have except your soul
the sharply suited pipers call the tunes.
Exchanging every privilege and boon,
in freedom's name to dominate, their goal,
unleash fierce ordinance to take it's toll
fruits of their machinations now lie strewn.
Far off, survivors of their bombs and guns
crouch , huddled in a maze of shattered walls,
tarpaulin shades family from the sun,
parents can't quiet hungry baby's call.
A world away, when all is said and done
the price of one gold watch could feed them all.
27th October 2015
Basic Italian ( I think)-
octave, abba abba
sestet- cdcdcd