Best Plastic Poems
When we search for answers from egotistic minds,
life is full of meaningless questions that lead us nowhere.
You sabotaged the sandman who brought me my dreams,
corrupting and confusing the clarity of my conscience.
In a world of betrayal, I thought you were my
saviour,
but your promises were sworn from a throne of lies -
where you perch as the king of false pretences.
Tired from being a victim of your insecurities,
I am not your mistake nor your abandoned
trauma.
Fate led my empathic sanity into your labyrinth of splintered hollowness,
confining me within a soulless sphere of unfair
madness,
yet, I still remember how you pledged to show me the moon -
falsehoods which led to an eternal eclipse for my eyes.
You stole the silver sewn with perfectly metered syllables,
calming the storm I carry in cacophonous silence,
but now, all I see is a megalomaniac monster, draped in rose tones of synthetic rhodolite, pretending to be an ivory dove in a horizon of vicious vultures,
hiding behind a decaying province of black petunias.
Your synthetic smile veils your cruel character, afraid that the vermilion you paint across your
sunsets,
will reveal the poison you fed my paralyzed soul.
My ink will always portray your true parasite persona,
about your attempts to assassinate my authentic aroma,
as now i blossom in meadows without your
toxic touch.
Time is ticking for whooping cranes,
the buffalo and prairie dogs.
For their losses outweigh their gains;
displaced by cattle, sheep, and hogs.
The elephant and the blue whale
may share the fate of the dodo.
For their lives are now endangered;
like the dragons of Komodo.
Alligators and crocodiles;
tread the fringes of extinction.
And the California condor's
future hangs on its distinction.
Seal pups are slaughtered for their fur;
otters for the fish they've eaten.
And the lions and tigers left,
are routinely shot and beaten.
In sanitized utopias,
we plant the occasional tree.
But in our plastic paradise,
there are no wild creatures to see.
Sitting so pretty in a vase
You lift your deceitful faces to the world.
I may arrange you how I wish
And I may rejoice that your thorns
Lack the sting of real thorns;
But betrayed, you always are
When I touch you.
Your delicately moulded petals are cold,
And you stand upright
Because you can do no other.
You lack the perfume
That is nature's inner attraction,
And you do not droop and wilt,
For you know not what it is to lack water.
In pretending to live
You are no flower.
Forever beautiful,
You live not at all.
Forget artifice, but dare to take a drink
From the bottomless well of life,
And you will find the wonder of your making,
The divinity of life, ripe for the picking.
I just thought as I looked at the table,
to love I am no longer able.
I look at the vase,
take a second look just in case.
It came to me,
our so called love I now see.
Our love may be fake but forever will last,
despite our troublesome past.
Plastic flowers I stare,
not real but who would care.
Our love is as fake as the flowers,
to revive you would need powers.
Yet fake flowers need no tending,
and love you are not sending.
You can just leave them their,
forever they'll last not needing air.
Plastic Playground
The plastic playground sits on land,
Land now defaced of nature’s scheme.
Scheme offers colored shapes pristine—
Pristine like board games played inside.
© Sandra M. Haight 2015
All Rights Reserved
~6th Place~
Contest: Four Lines Only - Visual 5
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Judged: 06/12/2015
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In grimed secluded alleyway’s it’s his key into the divine,
Believing deliverance has arrived while he walks this narrow line,
Those eyes begin seeing reality his mind now lucid has cleared,
The truth’s of his past now a cacophony welling up within perfect ears,
Numbing out his nervous system a blind faith blanketed brain,
Sporadic lighting of violent flashes lost within his mind deranged,
Everything once believed assured now snippets of a life long elapsed,
Consigning his soul to valueless spirits his self worth allowed to collapse,
Without destination a wandering shell conforming to push through the days,
Ignoring the voices of pleas and salvation sinking farther within mired haze,
Memories taunting of mandible grasps devouring slowly his will to survive,
Nightmares convulsing those hideous features transforming beauty into
despised,
Shrinking in angst from real vindication devolving back where the journey began,
He ties off his arm inserting the needle releasing the demons inside once again.
A butterfly
on a plastic rose...
how long
does it take to know
all that is fake
Published in A Hundred Gourds
kash poet (kashinath karmakar)
WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD
Shadows of leaves against migrants stripped of bark
Children hidden against a darkened sky
A cup of river foaming at the mouth
Suited men and women laced swirl about with noxious airs
Walk blindly into an imaginary sun longtime set
Sink into the plastic remnants of bottles drank
The dew on their skin stings like acid spilt
Breathing particles drawn with charcoal pencils lit
And I think to myself what a Trumped up World
08/26/2018
A matted cross of gray does catch the light,
In muted form it shines atop a peak
To all of us who hate the dreary sight
The massive model church awakes to speak:
"Embrace the waste! Industrial people!
For whom are you to say, 'I stand apart?'
The Earth constructed this plastic steeple
Because you molded dreams with plastic heart!"
"So bow to your God! Industrial men!
The plastic veins inside me gush with you!
You're made in my image! Say it! Amen!
We'll write a Good Book, friend -- gray plastic, new!
But like all gods to which humans pray,
To wake from kneeling dreams, god fades away.
the sun's a furnace...
or angels glorying god...
meaning or nonsense...
which 'isness' is truth...
if either then therefore both...
truth's not paradox...
truth's situation...
truth means separate problems...
science or poem...
truth means purpose...
a different circumstance...
responsible choice...
words degenerate...
over any and all reads...
so truth means context...
that's reality...
words are compliant plastic...
for you and for me...
to relate a now...
describe in part or total...
an experience...
stan sand
air rockets skyward
uppercutting inside
plastic neon flesh
contorting at inhuman angles
what does my body language spell?
ankles anchored into the Earth
to stay grounded as the wave
of time and space crashes
a flood of stagnant flux
there is a symphony of bones
snapping and cracking
in twisted orchestrations
the act of existing for me
is a resilient demonstration
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
And it's always the same.
As I look into the camera.
Back out through your eyes.
We know each others secrets.
Yet "believe" the other's lies.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
it's easier that way.
It's not superficial.
This glorious facade.
Keeping up the act.
Is always super hard.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
They're the rules it's not game.
I've forgotten who I am.
You've forgotten yourself too.
I'm sure that this normal.
Matters not to me nor you.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
When I'm done you're thrown away.
Purely fictitious.
A character you create.
Image equals status.
Only have to imitate.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
Why would anyone complain?
It's not disingenuous.
I always play it straight.
Clearly you're enamoured.
I'm pretending I'm not bait.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
I'm perfection on a plate.
Vanitys a virtue.
You're a stepping stone.
My new flashy bauble beauty queen.
Shows how much I've grown.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
The limelights faded you away.
Like the film in an old camera.
You're no longer on a roll.
Hanging up to dry.
In a flash negative of soul.
Pretty plastic people.
Pretty plastic play.
What you see is what you get.
And it always ends the same.
I'm viewed as a plastic Maori,
because of the way I choose to live life,
moving with westerns trends,
away from traditional life.
This is all I have known,
being city born,
I did try to learn my Tikanga,
but I was severely scorned.
Don't talk that white trash they reckon,
what are you trying to prove,
bloody plastic Maori,
you ain't Tuturu.
From this point on wards,
I've struggle to fit in,
not knowing where I belong,
my identity taken.
I went back to my white world,
broke free from that cast,
forging my own identity,
free from there past.
The reason Maori struggle now,
there too wrapped up in the past,
they really need to change,
because the western world is changing fast.
(Tiikanga - Maori Culture.
Tuuturu - True)
M.Mahauariki © 2012
Tattle cries are just as loud as battle cries,
but the difference is
tears from mannequins dry on untouchable skin.
You may have a purpose, but your attempt at a movement
is motionless because your passion
is a carefully constructed image
replicated in a false ideology
that manifests into something specific
obtaining a manual manipulation.
A self servant visibility is indicative
of an egocentric personality and everything insinuated
to be perceptually believed as sacred
usually doesn't leave further than the tapping of your fingers.
You proselytize by regurgitating the ways
of a preferred deity and establish yourself
by turning your mirror to reflect the angle
of how you want to be seen and adjust your thoughts
for a higher seat in your vanity
in order to possess everything in your hypocrisy.
The feedback you get initiates a sedimentary mask
you proudly wear and give a name to because
as a statuesque representative in an upscale consumption
of physical and mindful gluttony,
it is the exemplary rock to inscribe your identity.
You disguise it as spirituality, enlightenment, or awareness
labeling it as politics, religion, parenting, racism,
abortion, extortion, activism, or sexism.
It does not, in anyway, alleviate
the struggling strong minded from with holding their weeps
on garments bled by friends in unsung tongues and private sin,
in time well spent where the secrets
of the heart are kept for keeps rather than exposed and disposed of
in a widespread generic documentary
for the world to see the effects of their warfare.
Where words of vulnerability and exposed nerves
are perceived as nothing but memes and black sheep
trying to be shepherds making lists of things
to better humanity in articles utilized by a machine.
As if the top ten life hacks will take neglcted children
out of the slums of a poor shack
and stop the hateful attacks on those who need welfare.
The bandaging by labeling and over medicating
will not eradicate the urgent need for eye to eye,
flesh to flesh, heart to heart
laughing, kind, grateful, melting of this
plastic society.
When my body begins to burgeon,
I go to see my plastic surgeon.
His magic tucks and nips
will make me smaller hips;
but he just smiles and says, “Stop splurgin'.”