Best Regurgitates Poems
Ash - grey chemised
she shifts her shape
as silver flakes float coat
stripped naked places,
sheath curves and angled spaces
Angry glitter tingle stings
thick earth skin with prickly flames
and rumble rise regurgitates
shimmy - shake shudders
in magma's deep thrombosis.
Her feather boa plume
tightens hot cloud chokehold,
acrid smoke flung up in air
without a care, heat exhumes
her arrival, announced fiery flounce -
Hot air blast flicks ash everywhere
Grande dame, her vital force runs hot,
and bold, red and gold- full blooded flow,
feisty fight to escape fate,
inner pulses push a violent urge
to bleed and drape red lava's cape
across green fields, human habitations
Unplacated, rising up, proud impairment
anger virulent, out of hellbent
immolation via pyramidal vent.
She lifts her tiara, red ruby globs,
hurls evidence in defense - great blobs
of royal reign - no abdication!
Throaty roars rend intonation
into screeching supplications -
She knows full well, soon enough,
her phoenix fate infarction
Too late for earth's burst heart
High drama is a living, dying art
Impassioned pleas too late for some,
Earth's burnout buries victims in her wake
High on an island hill,
the boy lay crushed, and still
on temple altar, throat cut, bled out
Hurried offering, did not appease,
nor bring softening release
for angry, ancient mountain
Head caved in by falling blocks
of measured, square cut stone,
the priest grovelled on his knees
Gravel filled their mouths, no space for pleas
No one heard half- whispered final groans
And Earth, once she settled down,
murmured not another sound
Posted 17/08/2018.
A spaceship called Hope... made from the future's grand mist,
is perched upon a launch pad of manic chemicals and loss.
With stun-gun emotion, Mother Earth regurgitates.
5-4-3-2-1
Her metal finger meets the button...
She releases her ballast...
Blast off!
My brain engulfing G forces.
Soon to become a mustard seed
in a speed-of-light garden.
Filled with gravid redheaded planets,
giving birth to fat-headed moons.
The stars are cheering, like starving mad islanders.
Light years have passed.
Ground control has lost contact.
(by choice or by accident).
The rations are depleting,
but I'm serene in a starry tranquility...
I've blown by a million past lives.
Apologized half-heartedly to an alien God.
Who wished me well, pointed toward a giant black hole.
Then disappeared into the vapor trail
of lost potential and cachexic hope.
It's eerily over.
There's no more virgin oxygen.
Only the stale argon of saints and tyrants,
casting shadows of black hallucinations
chanting:
"Little seed...little seed...Didn't you know this was a one-way flight?"
I gaze out a stained-glass window for the last time.
Church bells are ringing from the parched throat of time.
Four golden letters peel from the side of the star-dusted ship.
Satiating the madness of stars...
"Little seed...little seed."
Sometimes when I try to write about something
my mind travels though light and darkness,
and it wanders through my universe of thoughts
A dictionary of scrambled words circulates through my brain and regurgitates them into my muse
As I try to reconfigure them into something that makes sense, I back-read my thoughts
And then, I realize...
It's time to put the cap on my pen...
It makes no sense at all
At the end of Mercy Street
lies a forgotten wharf.
A single row boat is
moss covered.
The battered vessel is
moored and unwanted
like leprosy -
conducive to an invisible cancer.
Two splintered oars imitate antennae -
receiving distress signals
from no one.
The dinghy will not row towards God.
The boat will not sail past
Bergen-Belsen or Dachow
nor will it glide 'gainst Newton.
Mother wouldn't allow such a spectacle.
Tommy doesn't sleep on bottle caps anymore.
Tommy and Mother are content now.
(Tommy is dying)
Tommy's back is not broken
like a scarecrow -
(for he is good).
His leg is not twisted like a licorice stick -
(for he is cloaked in servile flattery).
Tommy doesn't skip like a river
nor shine like a sapphire.
Kevorkian wise and Barabbas blamed;
he grimaces -
he swallows Mother's red roses;
knowing when he sweats -
(in the afternoon funeral festivities)
he'll smell just like her.
The darkened sunlight -
(which Tommy cannot see)
throws itself between two clouds
marking a dramatic entrance!
Tommy's knees are broken yet
he still dances -
obviously dumb-founded
and matriarch approved.
Tommy hyperventilates and chokes.
Tommy eschews Mother's American beauties
and externally regurgitates the
memories he can't
(internally)
understand.
A single groove migrates
the needle into ambient static as
Tommy washes his hands.
Tommy simply washes his hands
and whistles.
(He simply washes his hands)
and whistles...
THE AMERICAN DILEMMA
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
There was a time when the town crier spread the news
Terse, straight, unfiltered, unbiased with no personal views
Alas, those times have disappeared into days of yore
We now have more news thrown at us than ever before
From sources sworn to be reliable, accurate and true
Usually from an illiterate maybe living next door to you
News now is reported in order to solidify a position
Repeated over and over to reduce valid opposition
These fools are not limited only to those in the streets
It’s for anyone and everyone that regurgitates tweets
It’s one moron to another stating his unproven facts
Certifying his allegations in spite of the proof he lacks
Most have many opinions stating incontrovertible truths
Gleaned from incompetent nobodies acting as sleuths
Honesty has vanished, repeated dribble is now the norm
Pick out a topic support it, rally, protest: create a storm
Those that oppose the demands are forced into submission
They will be named racists, bigots, etc: and did I mention?
They will be barred from expressing any opposing vision
They will be subject to physical and mental attrition
They will be silenced in fear of violence and intimidation
With no opposition the fools are more demanding n brazen
Masked attackers will roam streets seeking any opponent
Their continued demands increasing moment by moment
Opposition is muted, only few dare to parry their claims
Silent majority, silent, few dare challenge their aims
The silent majority complains in utter frustration
While sitting in the front row to the death of a nation
Reducing facts to black and white,
leaves little room for shades of grey.
And stubbornness leads to a fight,
when neither of us will give way.
As shouts instigate a ruckus,
anger regurgitates stale lies.
And when patience abandons us,
we don't hold back: till someone cries.
Feelings flare under verbal fire,
fueled by harsh looks that could kill.
And there's no escaping our ire,
as the tears start flowing at will.
Yet, retracting slurs hurled in rage,
Time silently restores reason.
And we start acting more our age,
assured that love's back in season.
MEDIA blah blah blah
pixels preened
behind the screen
bovine’s masticating cud
meadows buzz
with fervent grass
lush and bombastic
each host coerces
the baton
mouths go on and on
chlorophyll on careening tongue
resurgence of bile
coterminous commentary regurgitates...
i’m caught in the loop
i press a button
the curtain falls
i sip “soup”
7/14/2017
light poetry
Eden pedestalled
On burnished clouds of dawn
Is dew melted famished leaves.
Diamond visions
In our bright dreaming glory,
Bolt castle doors flaming grief.
That heaven is gone
We were too far gods to know;
We wear pearls now, frozen tears
Of soft sufferings.
It's all we know of love's grace:
Time's mortal beauty shines still.
For all else unknown
Consumes this as paradise
Total of the castle's store
Cached in heaven
Where each delight unveils fresh
Figures of old glory bright.
No memory here
Just dreams, the wafers so sweet
That melt on tongue and in light
Sense regurgitates
What had never been, communes
With divine grace, so we dream.
Each dream a spark, glows
For faith, and prods the heart clean
As the fired wine; we sip grace
In treasures of smile:
Joy's cached beauty spilling
From the heart: a frugal rain.
I want to dance there
And sing in it like children
To be swallows in the rain
Wings flashing light shards
The fresh eucharist
Of joy. It's eden's bright kiss
In every art that we miss.
Day peppered
With expectant hope for tomorrow
Meanders each angle and crook
A thrusting inferno igniting
Dormant banks of bordering crags
Unimagined prospects
And you are part of me
Like wave to sea
Night exposed
With starry expectation for another hour
Reaches each slant and abode
A tranquil warmth soothing
Troubled speculation of familiar sores
Harsh ordeals
And you are part of me
Like branch to tree
Reflection paused
With contemplative time for revival
Fuels each dreamer and recipient
An electrifying perfection arousing
Prospective seeds
And you are part of me
Like smile to glee
Fear suspended
With risky interjections of frightful flashes
Regurgitates each memory and thought
A calculating bandit devastating
Priceless gifts
And you are part of me
Like hive to bee
Faith directed
With feverish pitch of expectant revolutions
Reinforces each likelihood and opportunity
A stirring defense of former magnificence
Smiling déjà vu
And you are part of me
Like lock to key
You are part of me
As moon swaps place
With sun each day
With a tender promise
To always stay
You are part of me
In every way!
3 of every 4 creatures on earth
Are insects, now you know
Why hordes of damn mosquitoes
Pester and bug you so
They sow their seeds of mayhem
As we sit in the summer sun
Being annoyed by these tiny bugs
Till finally we get up and run
After a house fly eats its food
It regurgitates and eats it once more
Imagine if we re-ate our meat balls
That's something I would abhor
Americans eat 12 billion bananas
Every year, no wonder at times
We get the urge to hang from trees
Or scratch our protruding behinds
Each one of us uses approximately
Fifty-seven sheets of bum wipe
Each and every day of our existence
We're killing our trees, my gripe
Maybe instead, use toilet paper
With a hole right in the centre
We could use it over and over again
Washing up is a disease preventer
In 32 years there are approximately
One billion seconds of time
Each one of them is so very precious
Waisting one is a downright crime
I've taken on the task of educating you
With these obscure, interesting facts
A service I provide to my P-Soup friends
Love the accolades I keep getting back!
© Jack Ellison 2013
A bitter rind of sorrow encapsulates my heart:
it insulates;
it separates.
Insensitive the laughing throng
regurgitates their song,
unknowing and uncaring,
blindly shoving me along.
A bitter rind of sorrow encapsulates my heart.
Copyright, 4/28/2014
Faye Gibson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Picasso of contemporary literature...
Sestinas and Plantouns, fiiled with imageries,
These fluorescent poems, alive and talking.
Bethoven's concertos, silent and buried.
Triolets and haikus, mottled the pages with music;
They sing to the audience of poetry.
Robert Frost, in his zenith,
Longing to hear poetic language,
Regurgitates words onto the skies of the dead.
A poet, in this vortex of imagination,
TRI TRAN, drowned in the apex of the sea,
His words, music and paintimgs shadow the past heros' arts.
__________________
poetri(tt5555)
We all blame life
Life is cruel,barbaric and unfair we say
That Life is an abstract concept
Each time we cursed her, we jinxed our stars
She is the collective us
She reproduces what we create
She regurgitates what we feed her
She is us , we are life !
Dawn has broken the thick darkness
To engender the shining morning sun;
I see, calm and nice is the blue sky
Birds of all wings flock and fly freely
Humans on the land breathe fresh air,
Watching birds’ traffic up in the sky.
Animals in the bush grazing at peace,
Bees being very busy making honey.
The sun’s fatigued and is now setting.
She’s missed; the weather’s disturbed.
Like Lucifer, the sea’s rebelling steadily;
Its waters’ color and size are altering.
Waters are involved in a mad blind dance,
Following strong and heavy winds’ music;
Culminating into huge passing mountains
To soon vanish and produce corrupt smell.
In jeopardy fishes and algae are, but birds enjoy.
My stomach regurgitates on seeing the carcasses,
Killing my sense of humanity, to destabilize me;
But soon, tempests will be gone to see the horizon.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
The actor was acting up
whilst falling down,
then tumbling
like Jack and Jill,
watering his career
with the director’s tears.
Those tears they turned the reel
into a real mistake
that killed the mistaken idea
that the actor couldn’t act.
Oh, he’d act whilst playing
a wall or packing a wallop.
He could play it straight
after emptying a barrel
of hops. He’d monkey
around, sure enough,
but the reel turned
out real good.
The director sobbed,
as did the leading lady,
sober as a titmouse,
lips trembling,
for she had wined
99 times.
But, that hack was good.
She’d had to admit it,
after she was committed.
Had they committed the bum,
the movie wouldn’t have won
and the Oscar
would have gone to the ‘toon.
The director and leading lady
dry their eyes
as the actor wets his whistle
one more time
to charm the public
with his sublime rhetoric.
He bows
over
and regurgitates
over and over
his subliminal vocation.
The ‘toon’s now sarcastic,
bombastically declares
he should have won.
(No actor is humble)
This fumble will cost him,
and accost him.
The winner wipes his lips
and the sweat from his cheeks,
cheekily rips
up the toon’s script.
“Be real…” he says.