Best Mortification Poems
JUSTIFICATION
Oh, what a distressing frustrating situation,
I’ve suddenly lost all my poetic imagination,
Nothing tickles me pink, no stimulation,
I want to create a poem of deep inspiration,
Which will meet everyone’s expectation,
But my thoughts are edging towards nullification,
I want to scream out loud, a slow dilapidation,
I’m reaching an uncomfortable exasperation,
My muse, has succumbed to misinformation,
Intimidation, and deviant calculation,
Goodness gracious,
Heard word she wants my poetic elimination.
Someone is knocking at my door, to my jubilation,
There stands a muse, I welcome with elation,
She is well known for helping those
Experiencing mortification,
Such a refreshing sight, she must after
Careful deliberation,
Give one month’s notification,
Looking forward to her presence,
Such a welcome application,
She will help me with my recuperation.
Behold, a rhyme is forming, what scintillation,
Delivering both articulation and jollification,
My previous muse jumped from poet to poet,
Everyone realized, fickle her motivation,
But my new muse and I realized justification,
We Popped a bottle of champagne in celebration.
The world paid attention to this muscle inside my skull.
It became famous, it became controversial.
It says something outrageous, something unskeptical.
It speaks for what is right,
It speaks what's on our mind.
Sometimes it's like a piece of cotton candy,melts inside my mouth.
So sweet , so delicious,it tickles my throat through my heart.
Sometimes it becomes a sharp blade,
Slashing my flesh 'til I break down and die.
This little muscle seem so strong,
It can break the hardest steel,
It can create a ball of fire.
It can move someone on top,
It can sweep someone in dust.
This one can overruled you,
Has the power to control all of you.
It can separate people in different place.
It puts division, a boundaries for race.
It separates people according to its language.
It dictates freedom, it declares war.
It give some a reputation,
It delivers someone to mortification.
This little muscle inside your head,
It must be handled without ego.
'Cos we don't know where it can lead you.
** 6th place Winner in PD's Contest: Any poem # 20**
A land once lush and green,
Virile and fertile,
Fattened reserves from dignified labour,
Then the discovery,
Greed rears its grotesque head,
In its entourage,
Nepotism, marginalisation, bribery and corruption,
A deprived populace in lack of leadership,
Restive youth clamouring for direction,
Rumpus instigated by mortification,
Balls of fire rage day and night,
Illuminating the sky,
Ripping holes in the stratosphere,
Rain clouds brood in eagerness,
To drench the land with acid,
Sun blazing with vehemence,
Scorching all life,
Floating carcasses in blackened rivers,
Sullied soil rendering no harvest,
In decimation lie the herds of the field,
Mother nature drowned,
In her own bodily fluids,
Life turns to death,
Lush and green becomes dust and ash,
Peace and tranquillity evades,
In its stead,
Ruckus and chagrin,
Swollen earth,
Sated by the blood of innocents
Potholes
The joy of riding
where the small ones
have gone away
turns into nothing
at the big one
minutes away.
* This is about the joy of riding on the highway which has been recently repaired and re-laid, ridding it of its pits and potholes and the mortification of subsequently getting stopped by the traffic police or by the less-than-civil contract labor manning toll gates.
05 mar 13
Form: Grook ( A short aphoristic poem characterised by irony, paradox, brevity, sophisticated rhyme and often satiric in nature)
Contest: A Grook for all occasions
I have in my possession an object I really prize.
It belonged to two guys whom I really idolize.
'Twas a necessary device when straight razors were the fad.
'Tis the leather razor strop used by my Grandpa and Dad.
Its precise genesis is really difficult to gauge,
But it's certainly well over a century old in age.
It shows the scars as they went to all the trouble,
To hone their razors to rid their mugs of stubble!
I can picture them as young swains shaving before the mirror,
With a steady hand trying not to nick an ear.
With a brush and soap to apply lather to their face,
Later to meet their sweeties decked out in ribbons and lace!
Now I never thought of a razor strop in relation to education,
But Mom found a novel use for it much to my mortification.
When I became rowdy and tended not to mind,
That cold, hard strop was generously applied to my behind!
I will pass the old strop along to a subsequent generation,
With vivid tales of Mom's expertise in its application!
This only to add to family knowledge and lore,
But to use on tender behinds never, never more!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I made up my mind to live or die by faith,
Not through faith, nor justice, nor second hope
My hope is that justice and happiness comes,
Not through fear or through blood aspirations
I hope Makelele will stay milky, not bloody
African cross, the wood of my ebony tears
African cross, the limitation of my ideas
African cross, the mortification of my past
African cross, the slaughter of my generation
Africa cross, I decided to carry it to the forest
I made up my mind to lead twelve disciples,
To knowledge than through ignorance,
My son said, Master, focus in sowing your seed
I said, as long as there will be rain and water,
Seed shall be planted and Lukunga will water me
African cross, the riot of the poor angry
African cross, the revolver of the weak
African cross, the massacre of the no name
African cross, the policies of the lost winner
African cross, the darkness of wisdom
I made up my mind to love and speak life,
Not lies, no, truth, no minutes, no report
Where most of our lonely desk, teach us to run
I believe in seeking and walking the lonely Calvary
Carry my wood heavy, black African cross
African cross, the helper that reached out to my king
African cross, the nurse that was near on my birthday
African cross, the editor of my prophetical papyrus
African cross, the politics of emotion motionless
African cross: football of goalkeeping not reaching
Can you comprehend the surveillance?
Recognize the Cyclopean that is manipulation
Suffer as fingertips osculate the doll
Your existence in cadence with its animation
Answers painted upon the walls of elucidation
Yet enveloped within a sadistic façade
If only mortification was your apparatus
Feasible would be your liberation
To fracture your damnation of kismet
Your oblivious disposition maintains insurance
Of my authentic ipseity concealment
Penetration of veracity remains abeyant
You confine my chassis to a line
An unhindered, forward faced, entity
Blasphemy, impudence, and your curse
Liquescent, manumitted, and your marquis
Flashbacks of lifetimes past, occurred moments ago
Destiny of a soul, iota of my jest
Your obstinate and averse species
Enslaved to stigmas of my amusement
My merited eponyms you endow to others
Fate, karma, spirit, soul mate, life and death
All components, all puppets in my phenomenon
For I am the Master Puppeteer, I am Time
it took me six months to understand that the songs you sing me late at night
are not unsent love notes.
not unconfessed lust.
just cliche and plagiarized
just songs that you like
that you want me to like too
because that's a friendly thing to do.
it took me three years to convince myself
not to carve your name across my chest
give myself as an offer
sacrificial sweetheart
spread on the table
warm and melting
crisp and cut open
it took me three years to discover you,
smirking like the devil,
the boy behind the camera,
the boy behind the arsony.
it took me three years to discover that you,
pinning me up like a world map on your eggshell walls,
did not mean that you loved me.
it just meant humiliation, rebirth of mortification,
it just spoke of your need to dangle me kindly,
and you know i will always hold on too tightly when i'm scared.
it took me three years to understand that you might never kiss me again,
that when you touch me it's not catnip, just collateral damage,
and i know how much you love to watch the girl burn.
you may just be a nomad pacing,
and i,
just something to keep your feet arched,
just someone to touch when you've forgotten how quickly skin can char,
just someone who will always chew the scraps she is given.
it took me three years to understand that you are the wreckage,
seeing mirrors in the faces of everyone you didn't try hard enough to love.
you are the wreckage,
you are coming undone
i am the love letters,
you are just the paper cuts.
i am three years worth of scar tissue and trust issues and all the birthday cards you waited too long to send.
it took me 13 days to discover that maybe you are just as empty.
maybe we are both too empty,
to fill each other up.
The sparsity of congregants
reminds me of the absence
of jestful boys schooled
in the faux arts
of throwing hymnbooks
across the nave.
The smelters ran two shifts,
fed us beattitudes
of paid mortgages
and Sunday roast beef
as the school teemed every year
with five-year-olds.
Sidewalks buckle
atop the roots of oak canopies,
as the breath of traffic
grows sparer;
the psalms of our minister grow fainter.
In the tart air of early Spring
those sly boys
would cup a book in a palm
and pretend to launch it,
to the mortification of their mothers.
Daily we face different kinds of aggravation,
but there is one type which by man has its causation,
and it merits an immediate termination.
But because of modern “civilization”
and the greed of many a corporation,
it’s doubtful we shall have the consolation
of ending modern man’s contamination.
I’m not talking parasites or the visitation
of bacteria from eating a crustateon.
I mean the one of worsening gradation.
It’s environmental, and in my evaluation,
is the worst of all, for it has manifestation
in things consumed by us or by our inhalation
of air of course! It’s an abberation
for which we need to have more constertnation!
Society should have mortification
for what is being done. There’s no good explanation
to offer our descendents. The concentration
of chemicals and also of radiation
along with nitrates in our soil’s fertilzation
is cancer-causing, and now inflammation
is affecting nearly all the population.
Politicians do not act. Procrastination
may very well end in our obliteration!
It’s like murder through premeditation.
And this murder uses no discrimination.
What do you think? Is it this country’s destination
to leave our kids with total devestation?
Surely in this mortal realm there can be salvation!
And so I finish with this small summation:
Unless we act, we’ll remain, for the duration,
in our station of a Contamination Nation.
4/4/18 for the Contamination Contest of Kai Michael Neumann
Vehemently tagging Victims
Impassively Impartial Illnesses Partake
Reveling in Recurrence and Replication
Unbarring any Understanding.....except Universal
Septum’s Of Organism’s Seeking Sinister Salvations
A VIRUS…….is no mortification
Rather simply
......an unforeseen deceptive disguise
Fervently Floating through our thick .....polluted skies~
I wish I knew how to be wise
And have that knowing look in my eyes
Remaining silent while you nattered
As though I knew what really mattered
I’d never chat about the weather
Or discuss TV when we’re together
Always wearing a benign smile
Eternal bliss would be my style
I’d radiate endless compassion
Forgiving all, as is the fashion
A fathomless well of generosity
In love, unbounded precocity
I really think I’d have a flair
For worry beads and matted hair
I’d hover inches above the ground
Odour of sanctity all around
My aura would light the darkest place
While mortals worshipped my radiant face
Transfixed by supernatural beams
Flowing like Himalayan streams
Now and then I’d emit a platitude
While those around would melt in gratitude
Dumbstruck by my ethereal emanation
The fruit of yogic bowel elimination
But if you bowed to kiss my feet
(I think that would be really neat)
You’d better not smudge my toeless sandals
Or comment on my holy love-handles
If your chakras had some obstruction
I’d offer my course in karmic reduction
Having a diploma in kundalini power
All cards accepted, pay by the hour
I’d burn incense and chant a mantra
All legitimate and based on Tantra
Tutelary deities could well preside
I’d keep a few on the side
While priests and sheikhs and rabbis slept
I’d meditate like a true Adept
Transmitting subtle healing vibes
Like the ancient Tibetan scribes
If I were wise I’d have no care
My whole life would be a prayer
No tiresome rules to bother me
I’d commune direct with divinity
I’d have no truck with full prostration
Or other forms of mortification
Knowing Maya in her other guise
New ways of binding with golden ties
Self-abnegation is for lesser beings
Fasting, bowing, cleaning latrines
Can’t you see it’s below my station?
On the path to Realization
Yes, I wish I knew how to be wise
But I might just have to compromise
I'm not in that vaunted league you see
I'll have to settle for philosophy
He drifts into town on his
faithful quarter horse called Moose
who has a three-legged gait
which gives him saddle sores
when riding miles from place to place.
A desert wind storm hits them hard,
he pulls his cowboy hat down his face
so the sand won't sting his deep-set brown eyes,
he sees a faded sign in red lettering advertising
" EL ROJOS CANTINA " as it bangs against
the cracked adobe and tiled-roofed building.
A pretty senorita dressed in a ruby-red dress
greets the unshaven drifter as he stumbles
through the double-saloon doors,
the cantina is dark and dank with smells of
stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey,
hunger and thirst overwhelm him in that
he ignores the stench of the bar and eatery.
The brazen and sultry woman sits at his
table and begins to sing in a husky voice
while a man with a guitar accompanies her,
male patrons smile at her flamboyant low-cut
dress as she begins singing in a seductive mood:
Stranger you are handsome to look at
as I stare at you and purr like a cat,
let's get together and see
if something develops between you and me,
my name is Ventura, a lucky charm,
I want to be your woman and mean no harm,
please take me away from this place,
so I will not die here in disgrace.
It didn't take much convincing,
Ventura and the drifter rode off together
into the red sunset after the sand storm
on a long and bumpy ride on Moose with
his three-legged gait while the senorita
hung onto her billowing dress which
blew over her face.
Years passed and Ventura lying down and close to death,
confesses she loved a man named Hildago who left her
at the altar and filled her with humiliation before
family and friends until a drifter swept in and saved
her from mortification and disgrace,
her man of many years weeps for the woman who was
his lucky charm wearing a red dress whom he met at
El Rojos Cantina during a tumultuous desert storm.
August 8, 2016
A woman who lost everything she owns stands there
by the waterfront where the waves beat upon the shore.
The woman-transformed-***** is a prisoner of war
being carried to the foreign land of an enemy general
across the sea; she cries ceaselessly tears in her eyes
for the unbearable sorrow, she barks fiercely in intolerable anger.
In the eyes of the woman who gazes up
the top of heaven from the bottom of the deepest sea.
She sees the last images of her blood-stained husband,
her dear sons and daughters, died in agony.
For her husband, she shared everything she owned;
for her children, she cradled and lulled them in her bosom to raise—
except for one son who was abandoned in the field at the time of his infancy because of an oracular ill omen.
All these sorrows are unwanted bitter memories to recall, crueler than
the cruelest fate for a woman to undergo.
Now, she climbs higher up the mast
to appeal to her deep inner heart’s mortification;
to let others see her transmuted figure, an ugly *****,
her annoying bark reaches to the furthest point of the sea.
Is Amphitrite heard her heartrending cry?
For the ship lists by the billow Poseidon rises,
alas, but then, she loses her balance and falls
to the deck vomiting blood, she ends her pathetic life;
this *****’s resentment tossed by the raging waves,
at the end, was thrown upon the shore and became a standing rock.
The rock beckons the ships that pass the straits to tell her grudge,
but to the heedless seafarers’ ears it sounds like the mere surges
that come and hit the rock. However, at times, it sounds
in their ears, like a ***** barking feebly from her bleeding heart
because of all her puppies are taken away;
that’s why, legend says,
the sailors called this rock “the poor *****’s rock.”
yet the people rebelled against me
in the wilderness locusts and wild honey
he poured out his wrath on them
yet i did what would keep it
from profaned in the eyes
of the fighting nations
do not follow the idols of your ancestors
the sacred river flowing dirt
remnants of burnt carcass
yellow flowers merging with clotted blood
naked sanyasis dancing in the charnel ground
post mortem rituals ego transcending
tantric liturgy molding the mind and desposition
prayer beads, flower pujas ,yajna ,mortification
of the rotten flesh, summer solstice
esoteric dharmic traditions
archetypal liminality surface
chthonic dieties dragging
will you defile yourself
what are the roots that clutch
what branches grow out of serpents