Best Objected Poems
I took umbrage over a comment in a current blog, in part stating that poetry, "... is a battlefield..." No. There should be no gauntlets thrown, no darts hurled, and no negative words hurled as if Poetry Soup is a battlefield. I was motivated to write...
Over and over again, blogs become a wallowing hole
where ugliness brews contempt and always takes a toll
on those who are trying to make a simple observation.
Someone takes offense and that provokes confrontation
by a tadpole who'll be a frog and not Prince Charming.
Ya know... the narcissistic type who think it's alarming
that they're ideas are not accepted by others on the site.
Then, it's "Katie, bar the door" and get ready for a fight!
Pollywogs keep swimming in rippling waters of the Soup,
where they take a dump, but don't think of it as 'Poop.'
Blogs are sandboxes where nasty words become litter.
Catty remarks are made by the arrogant and the bitter.
Not surprising, the same ones cut up with their mocking.
It's the same MO they use when they come a knocking...
knocking on new blog doors and causing a ruckus inside.
That's crossing a line that no one should ever take in stride.
Some abuse blogs, as if they're churches or synagogues.
If any part of Poetry Soup should go, it should be the Blogs.
Not as some redundantly claim, should be poetry contests...
Objected to by rallying sponsors and poets in fervid protests.
Blogs serve as playgrounds but break all schoolyard rules
when some can't stop themselves from acting like fools.
There's fighting and tugs of war... never for a good cause.
Gettin' tough over trivial stuff puts a pinch in their drawers.
For gosh sake, act like adults instead of flakes and nuts.
There's never and excuse for acting like a rattlepated putz.
March is a time of transition
winter and spring commence their struggle
between moments of ice and mud
a robin appears heralding the inevitable
life stumbling from its slumber
it was in such a period of change in 1905
that the House of Physics
would see its Newtonian axioms
of an ordered universe collapse
into a new frontier
where the divisions of time and space
matter and energy
were to blend as rain and wind
in a storm that broke loose
within the mind of Albert Einstein
where Brownian motion danced
seen and unseen, a random walk
that became his papers marching through science
reshaping the very fabric of the universe
we have come to know
we all share a common ancestor
a star long lost in the eons of memory
and yet in that commonality
nature demands a permutation
a perchance genetic roll of the dice
which births a new vision
lifting us temporarily from the mystery
exposing some of the roots of our existence
only to raise a plethora of more questions
as did the papers of Einstein in 1905
SAN DIEGO 9/05 Philosophy of Science Portal
Tim Ray Poet Colleague
i was working as a "Stringer" for the above blog searching the Internet for articles on physics and philosophy and was asked to write this as part of a celebration of the 100-year mark of Einstein's papers. i do not do requests but i conceded for reasons. my claim to fame herein is a poke at Einstein's statement that God does not play with dice, however, was not he a permutation in the scheme of things? and lest we forget he objected to the Big Bang theory holding onto the Steady State with other scientists because it was too much like Genesis. and lost to Bohr over Quantum Entanglement, settled by John Stewart Bell...but who is counting? and these peccadillos stand in little shadows of those papers in 1905.
I Cooked the Book that Would Not Tap
A Doomsday, a nightmare gone wrong,
My hand shot with pain and didn’t stop,
Bandages hid the wound I wove for kong,
The silence echoed round the wheel fop.
I screamed with tears which said the news,
When sirenes had been screened for writ,
Draughts unveiled the blood for reviews,
That cared enough to dare read the fit.
Arching, the doctor stood vacant and here,
Physicalism bent metaphor until she looped,
Analogy personified emphatic nature’s fear,
When realism criticised cubisms’ truly trooped.
Critical realism still made no ontological sense,
My metaphysical slippers knew no god,
Subjectivism objected to empirical arms tense,
When constructivism departed from my odd.
I could not write to epistemology for methodology,
‘Cos clearly my relativity had got it substantive.
Moral absolutism saw humankind as pedagogy,
Still, not yet a guess, a list, a bond, gift, a plaintiff.
Rationalism was not a natural phenomenon, fair,
No predicates set my entities alight to condition,
The proposition adjunct to abstract and layer,
I imagined the mathematics that truly supposition.
This OR that, tip AND rat, not for me or negation
FOR ALL humanities THERE EXISTS a surreal,
Mere, underneath my formula, nude propagation,
Creating the sum of me that axiomed regal’s legal.
Logic. Logic, just pure blooded logic. Critical,
Crucial. Conscience, not questioning the cost, fact,
Never asking for terms or claim, the carer brutal,
The dame. The lame as mentioning the act.
Structural.
Rhoda Monihan
A meal is not a meal to me
Unless it has dessert.
When looking at a menu,
I kick in to high alert.
I have my favorites but at times
I’ll sample something new
And that is how a special treat
Came up for my review.
When dinner ended (Mexican),
We gave our guest the choice.
“Tres Leches cake” is what he chose;
I didn’t quite rejoice.
For it was unfamiliar
And like flan’s what I envisioned;
Since we were sharing, though, I’d bow
To what I’d not decisioned.
To my surprise, Tres Leches cake
Was heavenly delight!
With berries and meringue on top,
I savored every bite.
Had I objected, ‘twould have been
A terrible mistake
And the proof is in, not pudding,
But within Tres Leches cake!
Remembering Old-Time Telephone Service
By Elton Camp
Only a few decades ago, the wireless telephones that have become so much a part of our lives were inconceivable and remained so until the advent of Star Trek in the 1960s. Seeing the crew of the Enteprise in easy, constant contact struck a responsive cord in the public mind. Nevertheless, few of us even imagined that similar technology would become readily available to individuals in our lifetimes.
Outside of towns, telephones were not at all common in private homes. When I was a child in the 1940s, not a house in our immediate community had a telephone. We all used the one at the crossroads grocery store. It paid the phone company to run a line only because Gilley’s Store was on the main road between two fair-sized cities. The more scattered rural areas had no phone lines and thus service was unavailable.
In 1951, when I was in the sixth grade, we finally got a telephone. It was on an eight party line with all eight homes receiving the ring whenever any house in the group got a call. The rings were coded: one through four long rings and one through four short rings. All calls “rang in” at every house, even if it was midnight or early morning.
Zero privacy could be expected on calls. Distinct clicks announced pick-ups by multiple eavesdroppers. The practice was called “listening in.” Actually, nobody seemed to particularly mind as long as the listeners refrained from commenting on the conversation.
Many of our neighbors didn’t have a phone at all. They came to ask to use ours. Even worse, their incoming calls sometimes came to us. “Can I speak to Ronald,” the caller asked. Ronald lived three houses away. Yet, we were expected to go get him while the caller waited. By current standards, that sounds like an outrageous imposition, but nobody objected. People were more inclined to help each other in those days.
Older folks tend to long for the “good old days,” but I think few would want to go back to that type of telephone service.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY : LXXIV
IF ever I had a country proud of its sacred Soul Patrie
And if ever by a long shot I was nominated - not spuriously elected - Chef Ministre d'Etat
Plenipotentiary
The first thing I'd do is to give the Minister of Justice the sack in a hurry
I'll then take over his post and issue a long awaited (you'll agree) and needed decree
That henceforth any razor-sharp lawyer and his erudite team appointed by a client for a
very very high fee
To defend protect and facilitate the " escape " of any known criminal whose ill-gotten
gains burst bank-vaults to a brain-numbing degree
That the lawyer and his team be given the DOUBLE of the sentence meted out to the
criminal and be put away minus their licences to practise LAW in an Alcatraz-like
penitentiary
And this even if I never ever had no country to call my own with or without any patrimony
(The late eminent Vietnamese-French lawyer, Maître JACQUES VERGES, renowned for among other feats the defence of KLAUS BARBIE, the NAZI " chief " under the French Vichy regime, was also the Secrétaire de la Conférence des Avocats/Examiner for those wishing to practise law in France. And yet, in a case where I was concerned with revolting Master's and Doctoral students at the Sorbonne-Nouvelle University, he subtly had my case scuttled to prop up mainly Muslim and African-origin students - openly backed by JAMES BALDWIN - who objected vehemently to being taught, besides numerous other Commonwealth authors, V. S. NAIPAUL's The Guerillas, together with Eva Peron and The Killings in Trinidad, students who also took exception to any comparison, by way of structural influence, of WOLE SOYINKA's The Road, with Greek tragedies.)
© T. Wignesan - Paris, March 8, 2019
Staking Claims: For Yucatec Maya & Native Peoples
The stones of the desert cry with me
They are brothers and sisters, but no bloody kin
New hearts see just cold rocks … no warmth or charity …
Might you see how we worship gods in them?
The gods themselves are dead, buried in hopeless holes
They died when we could not stop the excesses of each Columbus
Who brought a brutal hunger for gold and souls
Then bone and marrow fell within Columbus’ compass
The trees and tree stumps of the Yucatan
Hold deep scars and memories in their bosoms
The limestone cries quietly for the sons of Chillam Balam
Their tears yielding tomorrow’s blossoms
For even grasses, herbs, insects … know
That they too will be sucked, one after another
Away from the withering, wrinkled body of our Mother
Through a gaping hole in the atmosphere
All earth cries with the sun and stone worshippers
The blackened peasant clasps his callused hands
With those last calories from a breakfast of peppers
Unaware that his gods died hopelessly condemned
The desert explodes into those oases
Where infatuated faith still yields cool, delicious flesh
And forgiving flowers among the spikes in the cactus:
The desert and stones are gentler than Columbus
©Dr. A. S. Deo, 500 Years after Columbus, circa 1996.
BACKGROUND NOTE OF HORRORS:
(Written in the 1990s. Blood and tears are part of the story, not only for Native Peoples like the Maya of the Yucatan, but for my wife and daughters, too. A Sri Lankan professor allied with my Promoter/Chairman of my doctoral committee, objected to my politics outside of the classroom. They used the clout of the legal department at my campus, The Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, to shut me up and deny my degree. They failed, thanks to my “cold stone gods” and Jesus. I defended my thesis, successfully, on 1 May 1995 and was back working in my native South Africa in June 1995! Soon I was hired by the Department of Foreign Affairs in Pretoria, when Nelson Mandela was President. He retired in 1998. Sadly, little changed in the then DFA at the Union Buildings, and poor of South Africa … and across the globe, continue to get false hope & promises from Liberals, Conservatives, Blacks & Whites. Jesus alone will speak truth to you, about EVERYTHING. Check a Bible near you, start with John's Book)
They thought i was disabled by choice, not by veracious right,
They thought, ‘cos i objected to medicine’s lady,
But my parents were both a malady,
To medicine’s elegance and height.
My parents were faith healers, into prayer,
For coughs, colds and constipation,
And so I did object to faith consummation,
Rather than medicine’s beautiful lair.
I was desperate to become independent by a male OT,
But I hid my yearning, covered by my face,
My sociology became bad and with a poisoned lace,
Until I had to escape the worlds of religion and disability.
My blue bird lifted upon my sight,
And then i confounded the solid door,
Manoeuvred into the computing floor,
In the stillness of the night.
A very small thought passed my mind,
Right or wrong? There’s morality in existence,
But i did just continue on without much persistence,
The keyguard from the cupboard to find.
After half an hour or so, there it was,
My name on top of the high score board,
RIM, never to be belittled or to have water poured,
On this gamer of much dexterity, cause.
So i was functional, that would just say everything,
But i knew and felt I’d turned the tide against me,
Hot with sweat, i did not have nature on my side umbilically,
And the law would also condemn my aiming.
However, i did think i could still complain legally,
Against no named person for living and loving,
And because i was also disabled and aggravated, in the ring,
I thought I’d not be charged necessarily.
Life under threat, but there are boats,
Sea water may not be right for an isolated disabled child,
And paddles can avenge the tide to forward gild,
That child from the darkness of no votes.
Nature comes back and people burn,
To help you up your ladder of reason,
And sea water is by no means treason,
So i did change from that day on to upturn.
they hid lies behind complicated moons,
'til constellations turned to dust
& the sun vehemently objected,
interceding on truth's behalf
the earth did not split apart,
merely splintered every
tiny fragment of trust
When I walked on the street my known knew that who am I?
When I commit something wrong they note and complain my try,
when I travelled into a different area where I am known a stranger,
I like to exaggerate my personality to gain extra and never feel danger,
My gossip is humorous, conversation is welcoming others not cry.
Who am I, where I come from, what do I do they love to know?
I created climax to find a place for growth to walk faster or slow,
Nobody objected me until, I didn't ignore or criticise someone,
or someone suspects me when he found that I'm speaking a lie.
people ignored me they were willing to know my position is how high?
If I feel sick in an area or my progress is blocked I can move for change,
If I fail to learn one thing I can move to learn other for a different arrange,
actually I failed when I stop to learn or walk into a different direction,
I failed when verbally I talk much and don't believe to take an action.
VI
Deeds
Patrick traveled lightly,
He carried but his needed load
And made himself as useful
As he could along the road.
He aided all who asked him,
Offering a hand where'er he went
And they, pagan or not, knew in his form
A blessing had been sent.
He made it, at last, to Ireland
And saw that he was needed there,
For, by the tribal rulers,
Hope in life had been made bare;
In his Creator's will for him,
Patrick was most sure--
That in his steadfast faith in God
Would lay any problem's cure.
Patrick was a foreigner,
He had no wordly protection
As he wandered through the Counties,
Which were then tribal sections.
Gifts and money, Patrick refused,
For conversion God did send
Him among the tribes and chieftains,
this rarely made a friend.
(Patrick never knew
That by the Druids long before
A vision had been prophesied,
A piece of their fathers' lore
About a harsh reformer,
From whose table would fly impiety
And those, who chose to follow him,
In blindness would agree.)
Patrick preached the gospel,
Forgiveness and mercy
And taught the Irish people
Of the soul lasting eternity,
Though some would not hear or objected,
Some could not resist-
There were so many converts
With no need to insist.
The people told that Patrick
Truly loved to teach
And time flew from his awareness
When he started to preach,
(He carried a gnarled staff of Ash
Where ever he went)
One night he preached so long,
The stick, roots into the ground, had sent!
Once Patrick lit a fire
Upon Slane hill in County Meath.
Billows of smoke filled the air
And rose above the heath,
He did this in defiance
Of Leoghary, who was king
And through Patricks brave resistance,
Christ's teachings, through, did ring:
Many pagans hauled up buckets,
The whole hillside they drenched,
But Patrick's Paschal fire
But by him could be quenched.
It was upon this hillside
Patrick dispelled pagan divinity
By plucking the trefoil shamrock
To illustrate the Trinity.
Fool, you borrowed time from fate
Obeisance was wrong indeed
Objected nothing and moved on
Lotus was your favorite fruit
Irrationality was a kind of madness
Sarah warned, " Be careful, son! "
Harry, your pal, spoke like her
None seemed unreachable or vain
Enthralled by many false visions
Surges of panic and anger abounded
Sultry thoughts brought death
The young French maid pours tea
for the heartless Queen Marie-Antoinette
whose image Dunlop objected to paint...
because he must have hated royalty!
The young French maid dreams of liberty,
although she eats bread and her family
eats brioche': her oppressed heart must be free...
while walking in the eerie shadow of hostility!
Pour tea, pretty maid with servant humility,
never let thoughts daunt you and scream into obscurity...
your mean Queen will meet her fate at their hungry hands,
and her decapitated head will roll onto the streets of France!
On the Easter weekend after WW I began,
When the religious Irish had their mind on god,
They concluded that life and death, the ban,
Was not the British’s, but theirs to span or fraud.
It was an armed insurrection against the gov,
Of the Irish Republican Brotherhood Military Council,
Made of the Irish Volunteers intending to shove,
The Ulster Volunteers who objected to home rule.
The Brotherhood won in 1922 when South Ireland,
Became independent from Britain very completely,
With 26 counties becoming ruled by their own hand,
And not Westminster of London city very distantly.
When tears came out of my dour eyes,
In depth of faint soul and sobbing sighs,
All the cosmos here felt inutile,
Of rich hearted folk, but introversively futile,
Birds passed by me to revive a new hope,
Not to think of tieing new knots, a new rope,
I was lost, lost my reins, went insane,
Trees shed leaves commemorated my pain,
And all my endeavors, hopes, got objected,
Contused soul, detested, and twicely rejected,
Where could I find a beacon of salvation,
Undernaeth there might I find the warmth of consolation,
There I found hundred of stars directing and suggesting,
Solacement is the only way of living not sobbing,
We live solo, scattering in the immense sky,
You are not alone, see through this peak high,
Embrace all suffering and the pain with open eyes,
And be a man of concrete and wise,
No matter how massive is your pain in depth and size,
The angst will perish, and you will rise.
Written By
Shahid Hussain
27 oct, 2015