Best Onslaughts Poems
For Timothy Lee
You are the one and only perfect male for this girly female.
Your body, so strong, manly and taut, is meant for my body soft.
Your hands eager, sensual assails make my senses lapse and fail.
Your manly, intimate onslaughts erase my every thought.
When your intent looms to impale, I soon forget how to inhale.
When my impassioned mouth is caught by your desirous lips as sought,
and your flesh-kisses press lust trails rendering me as velvet wails ...
oh, then ... you perfectly astound as I melt perfectly unbound.
"'He,' whom speaks into existence those things which were not as though, they are...." ~
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Fables; to dream these seemingly impossible things!?
A compiling compound upon the pages of a lifes, forever tarnishing of stories....
Drinking this mixture of both poison and cure; night after night and, day upon day
Finding but, these mostly barren tainted walls; no repreives and no relief; vacancies
This continuing onslaughts never ceasing to slay, the spirit of a living hope ~
Until one day the precious heart so finds, no more air left to breathe; condemned
Slowly, it dies....
Depicting cycles repeating themselves once more as, deeper, into the mire they fall
Beauty desperately countering within; framed moments to stem, these portraits; illusions
Painted upon the canvas of creations reasons not knowing thus, nothing to win and or, lose?!
Destinies foreclosures; deposits towards the paradigms of, signed sealed and delivereds
Reciprocating affairs, amid the not so magical mystical mystery tours; misled....
Ponderings upon the reparians reflective waters; refrains perceptions; lost in the muse
Bleed me a river please and then, break me in two, time and time and time, again!?
Quondam sleeping now as, waxings cankerous sores somehow, speak their tolls
Tomorrows, priceless tears....
Diagnosis being it so hopeless then, let us gather in what we can, while we can; deja vu
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The house, of fallon dreams?!
Note: Smile ~ I was listening a bit earlier to the song, "Beautiful," by Mercy Me & I thought
About certain lives & souls so, painted them a poe ~ "My 'Love & Warmth,' Always," John!:) ~
Ouch! They cause pain whether
from human or cat.
Words can be claw-like when
attacking an opponent's back.
Being swift, cruel and degrading,
Is the clarion call of our generation.
The smallest of souls have violent mouths.
Souls in people with character can hold their own,
During harangues and deceitful, vicious onslaughts.
I need not mention who I am speaking of.
Just wish they remember they were all made by God.
And one day each of them like us,
Will be buried under the dark,
stillness of God's eternal sod.
June 29, 2019
7pm PST
With the winds of change billowing in her sails,
the ship of Hope forged her way through
beating off waves of doubt and fear
with nothing more than faith and determination.
Battered, but unbeaten,
Hope rocked gently in the quiet calm of the moment.
While her intrepid crew celebrated some early success,
her young captain stood frozen on the creaky foredeck
eyeing the sea of discontent and the dangers ahead.
With one stern brow slightly arched,
Hope's captain pondered the challenges that await.
Can hope endure the treacherous waters ahead?
How many more vicious onslaughts can she sustain?
Can the integrity of her hull be maintained?
Will cheers and confetti mark a historic voyage,
or will tears and wreckage note a tragic end?
Hope's fate rests in her captains hands
for he alone commands her destiny.
Angrily, rain enfolds the insular rise of lawn undulating.
Anglers dream, envious fishermen, inside looking out urging
apostles, who elope within imaginary onslaughts, hooked unburdening's.
Aloft, thunder encounters lightening's insistent taunt, oracles fearsome uttering's.
And still, each fisherman's innermost summoning orchestrates this untoward
atmospheric downfall, each drop induced, prayerful, outpouring is underscored.
Admittedly many envious housebound inmates seek oceans, lakes, unexplored
although, the earthly torrent interferes pitiless, onerous, rainfall unleashed.
Absent the energizing rays introduced by ordinary sun, undone
are these enigmatic men in rooms, oar less, ship-less, landlubbers unconsoled.
Another day encases them indoors mooning over fish uncontrolled.
A trophy earned, stuffed, indisputably shows offerings untold.
Ah, fishtails energetically rise incensed by objections never unabridged
absent their earnest wives, imagination rolls on winds un-curtailed.
Stymied synergistic stoolcumers synchronized
of gifted glib galb garbage run of mouth
nicotine rings of one night
no promise quickly spilled
ever taxed gestured pocket
pool. tandem coulpling random
access eye spew askances for a
tainted night glow. Weak whitewine
whispers office yupslugs curtaling on a
Friday nnite feeding rampage
cock'll doodle do ya, hopefully, fixed
******l trans plant stilted blue
libidious carneverous ego ectascies
exaggerate trip the gonad fantasy fantastic
click, click, click, scrape,
click females ina crowd leave ina crowd
***** puffers everywhere cancer
croonies suck lips with sunken jaw
jumping jill frenzy paste posted tooth
smiles--only gum grin where prohibited
white collar/blue collar share a
once beer of sorts, while linley smoke
figures haunt backwards in a sitdown dismal
denial comedy for the no show waitresses
geese gatheing empty of poignant personality
through bar riers of in-finite age range ripe
rituals for meta phor women to the restroom!
The plot hair thickens. my lungs hurt from watchexisting
Blue suit sancturary slugs offer office onslaughts through
oppulent openings via perservance in a temperate tampon
express meal head long into a pubic partisian oblivion?
True bar tintilation touting tempting tidbits of tumultious
temptations tilting time, tantilizing tremors, tracking
tricks of professional preference and sexosocial sinny
secular satisfaction. Gomer Pyle just pissed by.
Judy, Judy, Judy. Poor Judy.
occular preferences occlude
Touched by terrorism
T ortured, traumatized touched by terrorism
O utrageous onslaughts obliterate innocence
U nprecedented Ultra-extremist atrocities
C auterized consciences create cataclysm
H emorrhaging humanity hopelessly held hostage.
John Derek Hamilton
June 27,2017
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXXIV
For Mickey COTO and his PTS-ed cohorts
IF you pull a long patriotic face
" My Country My God boundup in one alloyed essay
The blood I spill for either in one compounded commonplace
For Mother and Father begot me Soul and Body I let slay "
If you pull a long cramped face
In galactic worlds speeding pell-mell trillion light years away
The Glory of the Nation ancient History pure Superior conquering Race
Will Voyager II blot out from the Carter message the stain in our DNA
If you pull a long arrogant face
Vying with one another your Party's Will to impose in mellée
Loud yet dumb those who'll vain political power embrace
Won't names on plaques and stiff statues with time decay
If you pull a long populist face
Confound callow youths' psychés through geo-political play
The Enemy's the one with the ethnic-God's alien grimace
Won't " Demo-Cracy " make " People-Crazy " Passionarias pray
If you must pull a long pro-patria-mori face
Then breed the orphaned cloned-robot grandes armées
Mediativize the great onslaughts from Sun Tzu & Cong strategies
Won't the Populace then exult betting on their revered contrées
© T. Wignesan, Paris, February 16, 2019
(Not) Regretting Cake
Never ending restrictions are slave driver’s tools a debatable concept wielding
Onslaughts on conscience asceticism zero sums zero size and perfection
To not trespass the segments of cake the boundaries and frontiers rules and
Regulations to not violate prescriptions norms dogma seems violent in itself
Ethics of ingestion virtue Kantian Imperatives calculus of nutrients refrain but
Greed I am not talking about only challenging that second third piece of cake
Reconstituting its shape form and meaning on my hips on my nourished mind
Eat it and have it I do not propose though I posit another round of consumption
To further the cause of challenging prejudice stereotypes and conformity
The cake forms reforms formulates temperate moderation versus addiction
In ‘massa libum’ veritas and in ‘veni vidi vici’ I transcend over the tyranny of
Never-ending so-called scientific nonsense regarding what my cake intake must
Gauge on the scales of truth and honesty desire tolerance and discomposure
Calibrated shackles prisons torture chambers othering of weighty arguments in
Adverse confusion of liberation freedom unregretted pleasure life as such are
‘Khamsin’-like oppression hot air and antidotes to independence to my pursuit of
Ebullition in words feelings thoughts and propositions and in that second slice of cake
05th August 2016
I'm just a Soldier in his Camouflage
In the Mirror of the Mirage
Chameleon to envious enemies Onslaughts
They in the Image of Decepticons
Why I listen in on the Intercom
Walkie Talkie till the Image of the Affiliates Collage
Nightvision goggs I can see they Militants in the Fog
Not knowing they walking into planted land mine full of Bombs
With Grenades in my Palms
Stake outs in the Night to Dawn
Why I'm concealed looking from the Pond
In the trees with Ninja Stars
With a few Ninjas with Swords over they Arms
I pray to GOD for Victory an then I kiss my Charm
Then I put my dog tag back under my Thermal
Eyes filled with Inferno
That burns Eternal
I sit in the tree lookin at the stars an write in my Journal
To me it's Business and it's Personal
SOLDIER OF BATTLES.. Steve Hudson
It started, in silence, in infancy; the eyes look beyond the darkness
To understand the sounds of rage, echoes of misunderstanding,
The beginnings of normalcy wrought with disturbance,
Bereavement for the loss of innocence and the first lesson learned.
The lines in ground becoming clearer.
The only thing that ever came easy for me is warring,
Not because I chose the ground, but because it chose me.
Here is your sword; here is your battle,
The field is endless and there is no turning back,
So find your heart and find your place among the ranks
You sojourn with.
You tell one another it will be okay, and that we will pull through,
But no one really knows.
Its only after our first encounter and mortal blow that we find some
Courage to face another foe.
The welcomed peace endured for a season, then skies darken
On eminent splayed horizons and shadowy realms of spirit
You try to make sense of the next wave of terror,
Taunted and vexed at every turn.
Your enemies take form in shapes of, what is true?
Wrestling, pondering among bloody concepts and the why.
Wounds received through fearful encounters take shape of scars,
Scars take shape of trusted moments carried through
Onslaughts of deception.
Fallen men on smoldering ground, tormented by hounds of confusion.
This is how it started, but not how it ended for you see,
There was One we found in heated skirmish
Battle hardened and sure footed, the spear and shield wielded
With skillful hands, He inspired confidence in us all.
On days we found respite, He sat with us and taught strategies in warfare,
The secrets to winning the hearts and minds of defeated bretheren.
The certainty and comfort in His eyes, told stories of ancient victories held.
A kingly stature though plain to view, never considered Himself better
Then the lowliest man I knew.
We asked about some of the scars He brandished,
“They are scars received from the greatest of man’s struggles,” He said,
He got them while defending the poorest of souls.
It was then we understood, it was of us He spoke.
So now we gladly fight for this One who became the captain of our heart,
We’ve learned from the truths that have pierced our very souls,
our greatest cause and reason to be.
A soldier of battles was He…
unspoken
sounds of silence scream
in cacophonous onslaughts
again and again
©deborah burch
2.17.2013
Tis not easy walking within this wretched flesh to face....
Once one has tasted the light of tomorrow borne inside its temple to be!?
Thus, everyday let this battle commence and I shall not fall although
I may bleed and wounds may pierce deeply this deceptive heart of mine
As I sometimes stumble to become dazed by an onslaughts parade....
Ever taunting afore these mirrors of its own misery as mocking
The very eyes which behold sombers shadows, within their state?!
To be crushed as given this disease and plague shall be my vision ~
By the loving hands of The Most High that a poison may die; inside
Of a rotting corpse and but a memory in what used to be....
As one awakens unto the truth wherein they mark these chains fastened
Claws, still reaching from the tombs this ailment unto their veins!?
Shall we then again turn unto the throne of redemption; your cure
That you may escape; the source of your strength, risen from the grave ~
To slay this beast of burden poured upon these lives that have lived
In this valley of the remnant of death wherein they have dwelled
Lingering amid their own remorse to crawl through this that they have made....
Their blood; not in me, not in you, not within this place; this day?!
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....“Demons Be Gone” *
Often, some are unfortunately conditioned for abuse;
the odds are against them no matter what they do-
their rights deceptively denied, set up for public misuse.
Welcome to the world, your uncertain resolve many will peruse;
just like humankind's test subject, one among a select few-
often, some are unfortunately conditioned for abuse.
Loosening chains on little ones genetic wardens refuse;
foresight of what's to come not clearly in view,
their rights deceptively denied, set up for public misuse.
Later culprits will cover up and give themselves an excuse
for plots and games played on you, alone without a clue;
often, some are unfortunately conditioned for abuse.
With decades passage oppression persists attempting to accuse;
it's brutal onslaughts and attacks of heart once felt blue,
their rights deceptively denied, set up for public misuse.
The cement wall has shattered, hell has begun to lose;
power vanquished through traumatic scars, redemption overdue,
often some are unfortunately conditioned for abuse-
their rights deceptively denied, set up for public misuse.
Abuse contest
5/10/13
For what reason this all-or-nothing thinking?
Too hot, too cold,—but never in the middle
I live, a victim of this ruthless riddle
that contradicts reply (and has me sinking!?).
This anarchy of mind that's got me drinking
is never gray, but too much or too little
like a deranged, mad instrument, a fiddle,
that counterpoints a melody without blinking.
Unlike my thinking, life's not black or white
but somewhere in the middle, where insane
poor souls escape manic, psychotic thoughts
like refugees from their depressive plight,
a Scylla and Charybdis that won't drain
the swirling stream of mania's onslaughts.