Best Prolifically Poems
There is an antique writing desk
in my little study
handed-me-down
from generations of would-be
writers in my family
And there are ancient creatures
from days gone by
living in this old desk still
evil, larcenous little creatures
envious of literary skill
This explains much
Lately, I have caught them unawares
aghast, thought I imagined them
but they are really there
surly, sinister, repugnant creatures
in my writing desk
There's a putrid little jerk,
called Pernishicus who lurks
behind the piles on my desk
glorying in the mess
a malevolent, grimy-mauve gremlin
Who preys on newly created works
stealthily spraying them
with foul feculence
as soon as I commence
my writing-
...Sometimes missing slightly
and tagging my hand
making it hard to stand
myself (much less my writing)
for days on end
Then there's a creepy
mesmerizing fiend
they call Spelbadger
a translucent thing, quite obscene
who shifts in the shadows and purrs
With dark eyes deep- constantly changing
like stones from mood-rings
set in his skull
he psychically bullies,
intimidates and muddles
until my poor brain
is worn and dull
And perhaps worst of all
is that one, Grumblesleaze
with pale, glowering eyes diseased
a gray-green, mangy looking thing
whose famous quirk
is that he has the gall
to grouse about my work...
As he viciously shreds it
then glunshing and munching
greedily devours it all
leaving no note
or trace of remembrance
of my past brilliance
behind
Oh, out of spite
he might leave a few
of my ill-penned
unfortunate lines
I planned to cut anyway
or pull my worst attempts
from the waste-can
and lay them out
to remind me of my failures
Yes, this explains much
For there was only one before
our one lone ancestor
who was able to write
at this desk prolifically
tapping out volumes rather heroically
'Though tiresome and tedious
dry history and drivel
which, no doubt, shrank and shriveled
and lulled these creatures off
to sleep for years
Until we woke them up
broke their hibernation
with more interesting stories
and imagination, colorfully crafted
ingenious, piece after piece
Clicking and clacking away
on typewriters, keyboards
generation after generation
of irritatingly gifted writers
disturbing their peace
it had to cease...
Dear Poetry Children
Born from a need
to be heard and understood,
my poems were at one time
like my children.
Their number was not large,
so they were precious to me.
Years passed, and then it seemed
I was almost grand-mothering
old stories and old feelings,
for they kept re-emerging
but in different ways.
Some came skating in iambic
as on and on and on and on and on
they came along.
Some could hang my moon
with the magic of metaphors
while many others
appeared plain-spoken
and crystal lucid like stars.
Others, feeling more like stepchildren,
appeared less rhythmically,
so different were they
from my firstborns;
I loved them all the same,
adopting their characteristics
as I experimented with my creations
more and more.
I took notice of and appreciated
other poets’ lovely children.
Meanwhile, new thoughts and
changing values and ideas
began to flow from me.
Small new poems
emerged from the womb
of my muse in the forms
of haiku, tanka, sijo, cinquain,
and so many others.
Laughingly, limericks arrived.
With sweet refrains came triolet,
rondeau, kyrielle,
villanelle, and quatern,
skipping right along.
It isn’t easy to continue
propagating poetry prolifically.
But as long as my mind
stays relatively fertile
with passion of sentiments and beliefs,
I’ll continue to bring forth
(sometimes with great labor)
The poetry children
I so much enjoy
creating in
my image.
THE STATE OF OSTRACISM
Excommunicated by popular vote, I became isolated in a world chosen from birth.
Priests came to convert us, but we were practicing the Baptist faith.
Through mediums, they would include themselves.
They desire for power was great.
Ostracized, my mother stories told about not being liked by others.
We were atypical to her as mixed and mutated blood from the bands of a country formed by origin, immigration, and enslavement.
As time went on, my mother focus change to a more distinct way.
A way of life was seen that was the way of a nation conceived.
The new deal was for welfare states.
The entity that administer the benefits.
The races stated to be the demographics were Black, Brown, Mixed, and White trash that flattered the rich self-interest.
What blarneyed was a poverty index.
White trash became low income to middle class.
Socio-economics manifested.
A state of ostracism is thematic test.
Family not liked, I was given poetry.
My mother stated this to me.
She said snubbed those that are not right with your pen.
Next, embrace who is worthy with profound philosophy.
See and hear the cold-shouldered that wants you to be nobody.
Speak not but write prolifically.
Topically, I relate as writer and creator of the spoken word.
Via vision and a mission stated, I am an author of poetry.
To initiate hope, I speak about my belief in God.
I am the thoughts that possess and a method that uses the vocabulary.
The words are there to line the attack...
Yet, they are also there to move mountains.
_____________________________________________________________|
Written August 28, 2016!
But I walk along.
Forte to my cause.
A fort of strength…
Militarily built -
Therefore, must be militarily defeated.
Many say I am a buyout -
Too much intelligence to decipher.
No lack of esteem that can be embraced maybe a confrontation to face.
Personification of knowledge is an individual’s acumen ginned.
Gen by a rite of passage to quest for greater things.
Malachia is her name.
Anyone that desires the sanity of righteousness is a reformer.
A trial and purpose they have formed.
Strong suited to develop structure.
Strong points are shared prolifically.
A talent acquisitionist carries the scrolls.
A role player and leader at the podium.
Mississippi born and a Mississippian raised…
Acumen gins - informed by knowledge nowadays.
But I walk along.
Forte to the cause.
A fort of strength growing stronger!
Military built –
Thus, never militarily defeated.
Only a buyout prevails –
Cipher cannot be unconcealed or revealed.
___________________________________________________________________|
Written April 1, 2016!
In Africa another day is born
At dawn
The optimist awakes
To a world that’s bright with receding night
Hope and promise of things new
A world where dreams come true
In Africa another day is done
At dusk with setting sun
The pessimist seems right
In the fading light
Of yet another day
Where despair and failure
Lie strewn along his way
Africa’s sun at noon
Hangs suspended in the sky
Held in equilibrium
And pulled between the two
This dark continent illuminated
Her wonders and woes exposed, juxtaposed
And in the balance
Dangles her destiny
Rhythmic people sing their songs prolifically
In unmatched harmonies
Ladies curtsey in respect
Where culture holds the sway
Noisy kids at play
The epitome of community
They learn to serve and share and care
Well muscled men with pride defend
Their dark identity
Your people with poise and patience
Meekness and strength
Move along unhurriedly
You’re blessed abundantly
Game runs free
Stunning lakes and rivers, forests and plains
And summer rains
Busy markets bustling with traders
And splashed with colour
All enhance your wonder
Africa the cradle of humanity
If true begs a question or two
Why have you not advanced?
And why are you so poor?
Hungry children with hollow eyes
Roam around in rags
Corrupt dictators with degrees
Have learned to take a bribe
Your breadbasket has become a begging bowl
Migrants in their thousands leave your shores
Because of wars
In search of greener fields
With arrogance you name and blame
It’s not your fault
So you become the victim
The one entitled to
You’re held in chains and still not free
Although you brag of
Madiba’s legacy
Is there such a thing
as a prolifically sad time?
Surely, there is and was and still can be.
Every generation has had it, sees it,
some, more than once and those must question,
How can this possibly be?
Again?
Blacks with slavery.
Jews with holocaust.
Whites with inequality.
Multitudes with ethnic genocide,
so much non-success of political correctness.
There shall always be
a prolific sadness in the world.
Collectively,
Mankind is foolish, stupid, almost unrepentant,
unlearned and defiantly ignorant,
repeating the mistakes of history,
sacrificing one life for thousands
and thousands for one;
rinsing and repeating,
cleansing and burning,
tearing down and building up,
only to begin again;
remaining continuously,
uneducated in the lessons of life and sadness
and repeating the mistakes of history.
Once upon an eternal sacred time of Earth's Golden Age,
Yin knew her body as a divinely virginal forested place
given equally to all for and of Earth's holy
wondrous
regenerativity.
She, without language,
but with marvelously round holonic symmetry
and multisensory proportion,
recreated prolifically organic
panentheistic nurture systems
Bilateral crown/root shade trees
of cobinary up/down energies
with mutually subsidiary synergy
Ingesting/Digesting icons of Earth's
convexly articulating,
quadrilateral light/power octaved
health-naturing non-dissonant communication
Prime +1crown/-(-0)root co-relational
mind/body polyvagally cobinary
up/down double-binding
ego/eco-logical balance
of sacred/organic neurosystems
perceiving/receiving
polyvagal win/win resonance
Universally positive/positive 1-LeftYang
numeration
OVER
denominatively unitarian
double-negative 0- RightYintegrity
Yin's dualdark left/right
reflecting Yang's up/down
nondual dialectical .spirit/nature
mind/body
crown/root
enlightening empowerment tao-circle.
Elder Matriarchal YinRight embodied feelings
and Younger Patriarchal YangLeft disembodied thoughts were,
and remain,
happiest and healthiest
compassionately co-pleasured together
And cognitively-thought v intuitively-felt dissonant
when Yang remains adolescently uppity,
believing His superior sacred brain
over-rules His inferior, merely organic
neurosystemically mindless body
Too often His anthropocentrically monotheistic state,
dissociating Yin's RightBrained pantheistic outflowing
growing grace
Sacredly organic
ecological bodies
conjoined in circlingcrown/root
polyvagal dances
to LeftBrain's deepest resonant songs,
poetry of embodied crown/root flow,
Earth's ecosystemic up-lightened
democratic down-powerment.
Go tell it on Earth's mountain:
this Crown/Root of ChosenAnthro
co-redemptively reborn Bodhisattva PeaceWarriors
of Earth's Post-Messianic in/out-flowing
upper-mind/lower-body caste-abolishing
global climate of enlightened/empowering peace.
Early summer flowering deciduous shrubs,
And I among them came and went with
Philadelphus virginalis,
Their brightening solar ships.
Its natural tendency is to grow vase-shaped,
Clipping encourages the plant to fill out
And become dense, and in my final spring
It performed beautifully, flowering prolifically.
Mock orange is not a heavy feeder.
It loves sun and reads memories
On cactus leaves with sideways glares,
Though on an "established" plant,
One should prune out about one-third
Of the old growth (the trivialities of life's Agur),
Allowing the gloried lightness of day
To seize upon bright green leaves.
In the shadows of a
darkly relinquished night,
an unrelenting musing beast struck
presenting a proposition,
as he pranced about
viscous vision's intentions,
promised a copious poesy garden
'tween early morn's
buttercup metaphors
& dusk's poppy delusions,
danced 'til lavishly penned spirits
were indubitably unleashed
exploding 'neath elliptical eclipses;
whence the sun it did bounteously appear
midst all its magnificent splendor,
whilst Delphic inky nectar dripped
deliberately descending beyond
hellbent scripted passages,
vying vaporous voids of creation
'pon prolifically paradisaical poetry
A seed is to produce whether it brings forth fruit or the truth.
In life, there is a light that incites and provides insight.
Justice is taught through philosophical thoughts and the thinking of scholars.
Through her aura and her authoritative enunciation, these lexes are phrases
that parrot the life of a crusader.
The Lord loves Maya Angelou and her life transgression shows that wealth.
Maya stepped.
The core of her existence is a brick and mortar.
The purple clouds express an elaborated life.
She was animated to her focus.
Her advocacy was for what was right.
In a political arena, she erected and endured.
Prolifically versed she prevailed.
Such power asserted withstood opine of another.
Maya's treads were written to empower.
Oration I heard from heights of trouble.
Declared just a walk with the Lord, Maya’s voice would sing from the spirit
of the *****.
Discourse she would have.
She would seek the body and mind the soul and spirit of woman and of man
though her poetic dance.
Dr. Maya Angelou stepped and her life proves that.
Adieu...
____________________________________|
PENNED ON JUNE 17, 2014!
In Remembrance of Dr. Maya Angelou...
Care to pause and ponder upon
the mathematical proportional sum
of that miniscule electron
in the microscopic atom.
Then further have the mind digress
upon the quantity of atom's
amassed as molecule's to impress
the awesome arithmetic's address
in one Blessed rain-drop's Earthly quest.
Guess the number of orbiting Planets
in the Universal whirling Systems
The number of Suns in a Galaxy
How many Galaxies are there around
the numbers prolifically astound
Mind-boggling,the virtues profound.
I've heard,
but never experienced,
that cleanliness
performs next to godliness.
I'm looking into a game theory
that mental health
hygiene is also
not not spiritual wealth
co-mediation
Sharing
caring
riding a daily journey
from sacred newborn ideation
to ancient
dusk driven
remediation
of all self-righteousness
other-leftoutedness
felt unclean
unseen
alarmingly mean
Lack of prolifically spiritual
soul-filling
hygiene.
This is not a poem, but since National Writing Day was a couple of days ago, I thought I would share a couple of words of advice for writing that come from my personal experience, writing workshops, and other authors. To anybody who stumbles upon this- I hope it helps with your experience as a writer!
Write prolifically. Write at threes in the mornings. Write everything- limericks, sonnets, minimalist poetry, essays disguised as poetry. Expect the worst to receive the best; good poetry almost always comes as a surprise. Write to rewrite a thousand times. Find some inspirational poets and try to emulate their work until you realize you can't- not because you're bad but because you're not them. Avoid cliches. Write not to make others realize but to make yourself realize.
And lastly, write not to win awards or money or recognition. Write because you truly, truly desire to write.
None rankle me like a parent so blind,
he or she that see what they choose to see.
O readers, I beg of that rudest kind
must they breed so damn prolifically?
A time to be seen, a time to be heard,
such should be the nature of kids and kings -
and patience tempered with an ordered word
in the battle of wills and childish things.
All I ask of you children of the corn
is hold your quicksilver tongues as a rule,
but every minute a jackass is born
who will play up, play dumb, and play the fool!
Thus a child not chastised in transgression
is schooled in misdeed and not the lesson.
Written: June 1991
I have roles in from the depths of pain;
Relive my life knife games;
Random promises of broken flames;
I was bitter and embarrassed:
I should have prayed;
Mother was in pain one Saturday afternoon;
So prideful filled with hurt and void;
I chose to relief and relish in my pain;
Mad at God because He took later that night;
Deep deep in my heart;
I hurt what to believe in why, how I thought to myself;
I should have prayed
The sacrifices of this polluted world;
Spiraling down to be unfurled, frolicking, prolifically, wondering coasting down the stairs ;
Whom am i to fear;
Step by step magically disappears;
When all the heathens gather together and all the saints;
All the passion all the pains seldom Glitters Humanities in pain Humanities in pain and I wish;
That I could have changed all those sins;
I committed so humanistic footloose let loose and cursed;
I went right instead of left, left in reverse;
It didn't hurt;
Because I've learn to put Jesus first;
I should have prayed;
Sin nature full of fun;
Later pending on your outlook on life or death;
The wars here but endangered species only ones left;
The poor riots dying innocence;
Shootings, robberies, murders this is;
And the say, what should I do what can I do..
Well
Guess we should have prayed