Best Shrugging Poems
Invoking bliss magnetism, let heart sing,
aware at all times of this simple fact:
the idea or thought is not the thing,
of the fruit we taste and deeds we enact.
We are merely one of the many forms
manifest upon this earth realm dual,
wherein each entity goes through life’s storms,
suffering unless love be soul’s fuel.
Futile and needless are ego spawned tricks,
deludedly engaging in doership,
since it’s love alone that resolves conflicts,
so let heart’s mindfulness be our worship.
Behold birds cross hemispheres without fear ~
Our heartbeat signals God’s presence is near
Our heartbeat signals God’s presence is near,
warming this form made of organic dust,
so by lending strobes of silence our ear,
in time love replaces animal lust.
In our life, needless is struggle and strife,
for at end of days, love alone remains,
so if we but let God be the midwife,
soul’s liberated from ego spawned chains.
In silence there is no energy leak,
enabling God’s spirit to manifest,
so getting out of our way, so to speak,
as witness consciousness we simply rest.
Nothing need be done, save coming undone ~
Recognise dear heart, God and we are one
Recognise dear heart, God and we are one,
simply feeling His breath in us that flows,
restoring our light, shining like the sun,
repaying debts of love, which our soul owes.
All doings are done by God’s hand alone,
wherein all He asks is that we be still,
awestruck beholding inner light full blown,
whereupon all dark voids within us fill.
Just as we’re immersed in dreams every night,
shrugging it off on waking at sunrise,
from this world too, one day we will alight,
if we but release each offered surprise.
Dwell not overmuch on soul’s broken wing ~
Invoking bliss magnetism, let heart sing
Flower power
“If you’re going to
San Francisco be sure to
wear a flower
in your hair”
long and shaggy
shagged longing wild
And to Berlin or
Paris for that
matter to dream to
meet a girl and more
under the fountain
The “Fountainhead”
on your mind
“Atlas shrugging”
all the weight of
established rigour
tremors oscillations
generational discord
transmitted juxtaposed
agonising opposition
Budding opening
freedom harmony
erect and upright
subconscious conscience
That girl with
curvy bottom and more
outer beauty inner fire
no curve balls
simply passion
adventure living
loving one in all
Embraces soaking
wet the moment
living on for now
for past and memories
intertwining venture
What is
what is coming
what was to come
appeared enlightened
what did not happen
withers lingers
explodes from
Venus-mangoed delta
reappears in wetlands
of pruned and rooting
ecstasy high rising climax
It matters not
if cobbled streets
descended from Montmartre
or mountains climbed
in open spaces putting
petting lips and heartbeats
openings and new
beginnings novel closure
It matters little great
deaths not so petite
at times of passion
'enlived' 'enstoried'
restoried recomposed
narrated and retold
episodic dedication
Floral bouquets
wild herbs and spices
arrangements
derangements
cinnamon bark on
your underbellies senses
Gathered over time
reflections longing
hope pragmatic
bold appeasement
ceasefires dynamic
bonfires bonne fires
static momentary
life and for the
living levitating
lovers
You are not going
to Paris all that
often any longer
but the scent free
spirit erotic flowers
frisson crescendo
warm hearted climax
exhaustion images
Is there in you hair
still shaggy longing
seduction floating
coming together
Is there in
your path’s ways
Is there in
your dreams
How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death?
Must we think only of victories, not defeats
and deny that all we posses will be lost as wealth?
Disease and age are our enemies...doesn't health control heartbeats?
Spread those tables and enjoy your food and wine,
dance and sing when sadness knocks, indulge in a life simply divine!
Should we live in the moment as the ancient Romans did indeed:
constantly thinking of invincibility and immortality...
shrugging off days and years of dire uncertainty;
wouldn't it be absurd to embody the essence of their creed?
In South Africa Lekker is a portent of good as the word, " Omens " is;
try to include it in your daily speech and write yourself a funny phrase!
Some may say, " It's madness! " and laugh as a delirious Macbeth;
others will accept it and suddenly forget that they are going to die
by contemplating this motto," How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death? "
God's curse on the human race can be undone, if we don't believe Satan's lie!
How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death?
Isn't it an impossible wish for all the living who can't escape reality?
Although science offers much hope with their findings on longevity...
we are bound for our graves without a single breath!
Black crime, Justice prevails
Lilly White Crime, no justice hailed
When the crimes of a man weigh more than the crimes of a man,
Justice has failed
We are all doomed to the broken edge of the gavel when clouds of white nights gale
Forces of guilt driven findings drawn in black man’s plight hammering down excessively to tightly embed black headed nails
Boxes of henpecked shrugging shoulders deliberating measures of one sided balances as a sleeveless gown displays two arms of justice as black and white
A white right arm defended by a two edge sword
A broken black left arm that once kept, law, piece, and order in one accord
Kept the trains of justice from being derailed
And
Upheld the balances of truth on an evenly weighed scale
AC4realpoetry
A picture appeared on my phone today,
on the proverbial page I perused.
A view of an evil most vile,
villainy veiled behind verve and vim.
Sadists from Auschwitz,
smiling in a storm.
Shoulders shrugging,
to shield from the sky.
No hint of the horrors,
the Holocaust they heralded.
Not haunted like the humans they harrow,
but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.
Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed,
their cheer chills me to the core.
They caused such wicked calvary,
a calamity that echoes into the current century.
Yet they dare to delight,
while they deal in death and dread.
Their depravity so deep that they grin,
as they decry virtue and destroy millions.
But what mortifies me more is,
how mundane their mien.
Will we fear the next fiends fittingly,
or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?
I guess I'm obsessed
With keeping my breath
I've small use for obtuse youth
And their smug, shrugging abuse
Blinding meeker minds
By the blither of twitter
Where shameless selfishness
Is seen as glitter
Where 'fake' news and 'reality' TV
Both struck by theft of identity
Our testaments and towns
Are burning to the ground
Those with nothing to lose
Are lighting the fuse
When corruption erupts
And common sense, chucked
When science is declawed
And law is outlawed
When propaganda censors flaws
We've cast the last straw
We are democracy's
One hope ~
If we vote.
9/16/20
N/A in 'Clutching at Straws' contest
Judged 10/08/20
Have situations ever got away from you
evade conclusions while dramas protrude
like a chain link fence no time to think
assess why you're tense or reflect to sync
up events with stress to pull the valve on pressure
just endeavour at pace absent of pleasure
naturally adapt to lessen the impact
while facts not exact and the lesson abstract
taking life in just not learnt
quaking within and mentally burnt
then one intense altercation the only
thing in focus expanding slowly
and nothing else gets noticed
optically trained within the scope
and the rest of the world you take no note
suddenly it's draining all your energy
and events around it just let them be
busy searching every angle like a clock hand
around the clock to brain tangling demand
lurking constant and you assert but weary
astounded half shocked continuously nearly
working it out but for doubt in a muddle
evermore dumb founded increasing struggle
shoulder shrugging as your wonder wanders
from blunder to blunder now going under
where there's no sun it's just dark and dreary
you're torn up inside and teary, now hear me,
HAVE A DAY OFF!!
Sunrise, a
lighter shade of gray
replaced a starless black.
Pines stand sketched -
one dimensional and sad,
shrugging - not knowing
if the day is
worthy of a smile.
While a robin adds
another twig to its
tightly woven hopes
as instinct whispers,
Worm hunting is always better
on a rainy morning.
My God!My God!
Why have you forsaken us?
Even now the whisper of wheels
On the track
Convulses me with tears.
What more could I have done?
Where did I fail?
You, the least selfish of men,
Dedicated to your students and staff,
Devoted to your family,
Committed the most selfish of acts.
By locking us out,
You locked us
Into a cycle of torment and pain
And we never saw it coming.
Worries you brought home
But you chose not to share them
Shrugging off my pleas
You did not want to worry me,
So you said
You dulled your tortured mind by
Taking solitary refuge in the bottle
And you began slipping away from me.
I tried to batter the door down
With angry words and tears
As my frustration mounted
Did the children notice our bitter rows?
Was it then the seeds were sown?
You fled to your mother's house
For the balm of her love
More forgiving than a wife's
And there I hoped you would find
The peace your troubled heart craved.
With your mother you returned
And she soothingly said,
"It will take time."
I saw a faint tear in her eyes
Though her faith was strong.
That night you said the sofa would be your bed
"Give me time"were the last words I heard
Strangely I slept soundly
But when I awoke
I crept downstairs
To find you
And the car gone.
Frantically I phoned
And your mobile rang
From the depths of the sofa.
Then I saw your letter
On the cleared coffee table
Stark and white.
You begged our forgiveness.
You said this would spare us pain
And you bade me
Look after the children.
Stunned and silent
Your mum and I sat
In dread
Time froze
When the constables came
With their carefully composed compassion
We knew it was just beginning
You had ripped away the veil of the temple
And the tomb was empty.
You had shorn your lambs
Of their innocence
And inserted a sliver of ice
In their hearts
Now I am faced
With the curse of Greek tragedy
Since I must spend my time
Trying to melt that ice
Before it hardens
Irrevocably
The clouds drape low,
shrugging blue mountain shoulders,
melding with ghostly river mist
ascending in specterous vapor trails
salted with primordial tears.
Between stately mottled sycamores
and aged medicinal white oaks,
slippered phantom figures glide,
clad in hides of deer and mountain lion.
Down to the silvered stream--
a mirror for chalky spirits and bright stars--
they slip to drink of pristine springs.
The powerful spell impacts within, without,
invading every animated sense.
A dream, an apparition?
I wonder at the dawn of bright sun rising,
green moss clad boulders warmed, fog dissipated.
I discern the curious sensation
of withdrawing from an ancient trance.
The happy river dances down the valley,
bordered in mountain laurel ruffles, pink;
the fragrance of breakfast bacon wafts,
a tantalizing, hunger inducing wave,
and campers' laughter echoes off a dream.
Copyright, August 19, 2014
The old faith healer carefully got things ready.
She had spring water collected from the source
that had been taken at the night of the new moon.
Some special herbs also gathered by moonlight.
Setting the pebbles in a circle on the cleared earth.
She lights a small fire in its heart and feeds it.
Once it is burning bright, she shakes out some of the herbs
adding them to the spring water, then patiently waits.
When the moon appears she busily goes to work,
a pinch of liverwort, some ground sunflowers.
Tansy and dried apple, a bit of spiders web,
she places the pot on the fire and stirs.
First three stirs clockwise, now two anti three more clockwise.
Chanting softly as she stirs the simmering brew.
Now adding crushed primrose and burdock, she stirs.
Then she lays it in the moonlight waiting for dark.
Once the moon slides from sight, she pours it into a vessel
and caps it tight. Shrugging back her hood she gathers all.
Now it is time for it to sit and infuse before it is time for use.
Her fame is renown, the kingdom wide, many are they who seek her.
She blesses the potion first with Mut, then calls on Pax,
finally she invokes Serena's help, finally done,
she sets it in a ray of moonlight leaving it for now.
It is time for the cleansing of her patients before they drink it.
The following day miraculous recoveries by them all.
Singing her praises they try to cross her hand with silver.
Gently she shakes her head, not for money is her gift.
Freely she shares it, for the goddesses gave her the healing gift.
Mut is the goddess of nature mother earth.
Pax is the goddess of peace.
Serena is the goddess of healing.
written 10/14/2014
Sect: Faith Healer
contest: Religious Poetry: Non-Christian
Plump grapes patiently wait on their vines
To be plucked in the prime of life
Give a toast to this spirit sublime
Oh the joy of sipping away the days decline
Eagerly pop open the cork with my pocketknife
Plump grapes patiently wait on their vines
The sweet aroma permeates the air enshrined
Thoughts unfocused, attention is rife
Give a toast to this spirit sublime
Spirited dancing late, not caring of time
Such a joy- this barhopping nightlife
Plump grapes patiently wait on their vines
Succulent, lovely wine- my lover and concubine
Feeling no need for a nagging wife
Give a toast to this spirit sublime
Our devout affair leaves no time
Shrugging off hideous daily strife
Plump grapes patiently wait on their vines
Give a toast to this spirit sublime
Dull, dank depressing Summer Solstice. A pretty chesnut pony ridden by a little girl on
the pavement (sidewalk to our cousins across the Pond) wishing to be a wild rider, but
not along the High Street in this once BLUE Radical part of town if only both were not
escorted on foot by two women, the mother and the child's sister?
Astounded! I said to a bloke pasing by, "That's legal?!" half like a full capon judge, half
like a Radical. The bloke broke into a wry smile, shrugging his shoulders replied, "Don't
intervene". With a pretty white maned pony, two determined women and the little
hoped to be wild rider wearing a blue helmut, I knew that I was on to a loser, as we
say; later in the day when a teenager on a bike blocked the pavement - er sidewalk-
when I and two women, one in a wheelchair and another pushing it could not get by
the cyclis;t, I, 'The Big I Am', as my father in his dotage called me, with no stentorian
tone, but authoritative and polite, he moved! An intervention that worked.
Flabbergasted! When the pretty pony with the white mane and until then co-operative
demeanour move left blocking the side ah, you know what I mean, the mother led
the pony, the so assurred rider in the blue helmet with her elder daughter - all -
onto the road, the pony reared! The mother puzzled said, "She's frightened!"
seemingly not expecting any traffic. The appearance of a pony on a pavement, you
know by now what, getting as busy as bees in midsummer, as narrow as a path across
a field in midsummer, until a semblance of order returned with pedestrians, motorists
and the long suffering pony suffered itself to be led across the road to the safety of the
car park - ur- ing lot of the Baptist chapel where behind lay a graveyard of
Anabaptists, so seriously radical!
The truth of their own beholder. There is none in him in their golden deceit Retreating into their cycloptic gland the apple of their eye Discordia. the age of the bewildered beliefs off their rails of the reality tunnels Truly a crazy train to avoid the truth by division creating endless tunnels of dystopia The unapologetic of their own heresies Blacks smiths of the ancient psyops Bring back the out cast of their own makings whether swinging in Jung's jungle tuning into Leary's leery lyre Blavatsky blatant blasts Freud's fairest fraud wanton Anton's or Crowley's unreality. All are like Dionysus genetic cupboards perception pills. The altered states of discontentment crossing wires in their twisted hannibal codex.Cybernetics new captain of trans humanism still shrugging the world off their shoulders for the evil that they perceive into an atlas of chaos with quasi- motto ringing bells for their Franken-design. Their upside down stairways leading to the stagnant light of a cracked door a vultured eye absinthe. To get over their guilt of their own law do what thou wilt assuming that their conscience are not defiled and all the while they are searingly beguiled The truth is is is the Truth the absolute. Lies lies lies prowl around in hooded greys propagandist of the endless mazes. Lighting false fires of the Prometheus blaze hissing asps of the doubled tongue setting their own world on fire. Like the orange clock work of the Georgia guide stones. The meth wine of the undivine with nobody to come only a desire to go. But....
Beneath the busy theater,
a little trap door,
modest and illusive,
opens to a space
infinite and peaceful—
a broader dimension,
resonant and real—
the silent birthing chamber
of all possibilities,
including, by surprise,
the gears animating
the action on the set.
One may find the door
and bask in this continuum
by stepping out of character
and shrugging off one’s script,
releasing and recasting
preconceived props.