Best Study Poems
Tongue Study
Tongues
Steady it wags
needing to know
more, about the
the very thing that
causes wars.
peace and pain.
I study my tongue.
Much has been said
about the tongue yet
how has it pertained
to my own.
My tongue has delivered
and served, it has given
and taken, it has blessed,
it has cursed.
It has been bitten,
and it has been written,
the tongue can be tied, twisted
curt, sweet, sharp, wagging or
bragging.
It may be your
native tongue
or foreign, it may be
exciting or boring.
If quiet is your tongue
"the cat may have it".
If you use your
tongue to speak ill
of the dead, you may,
challenge a force and
be cursing your life's course.
The tongue's confession's
may sweep out
dirty secrets from the
corners of your mind.
Wise words have fallen on death
ears, words smothered by pride.
truth escaped lying eyes.
Ignoring what you saw and
twisting what was heard.
Tongues may bond
with imbeciles or angels
forming positive
or negative energy.
Be careful, mind your tongue
it is closest to your own ears
and will affect you first, rather
before the others hear.
Be not at the mercy of
an imbecilic tongue
read their eyes
and duck the darts
about to be thrown.
Do not despise the
a foreign tongue
for it is the aptitude
of the brain, the tunnel
to his bilingual, do not
expect the champions,
to cater to the dunce,
or those who can barely
master his own tongue.
In general, I have concluded
whether you live by the sword or
stand on principals, I had to
learn to manage my tongue
as I would a loaded gun.
I will not justify my tongue
when I use its power for the wrong
and neither hold my piece,
to placate the sword of the unjust.
The real power is in
the righteousness
of the speaking tongue.
For those who live by
the sharp and swarded tongue
and wield words as death
blows to the innocent,
or those who are silent,
while others suffer.
May also die
by the mighty tongue,
or by the holding of it.!
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014
The room is still,
Quiet but for wind and rain
Making music on the windows.
Empty but for endless shelves
Of leather-bound volumes -
The first editions you loved so much.
The desk is weathered, coated
In a film of dust.
The chair is old and worn,
Tucked in just where you left it.
I can almost hear it creak
Under your weight,
Hear you whistle in that absent way.
I can almost see you there,
Hunched over creased pages,
Reading Keats or Blake.
I can almost smell that familiar scent
Of fresh soap and musty books,
Of spices and cigar smoke.
A Study in Love
Her expressions were delicious, her aroma intoxicating,
Her presence was lovely, and her conversation intriguing.
I was at a loss for words as we engaged in study, together,
Of the arts, which separates human beings from the animals,
But it didn’t feel like working to me; it felt flirtatious.
And when the spark from her eye leaped into my heart,
I was emboldened to ask her, shyly,
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
And without hesitation, she answered, “Of course!”
(As she gently placed her hand on mine, the touch, soft and warm.)
Naturally, I was taken aback by her quick response
And gazed into her face, contemplating whether to kiss her or not.
The moment seemed real, the timing perfect, and she was willing,
But the fool in me, out of desperation, looked for an excuse,
Afraid to show my innermost feelings due to my upbringing,
Pulled away, pretending to resume our interaction in education.
But my mind blossomed in that encounter!
Heavily broken our love is but a token,
from words left unspoken, you ruin me.
Your vow betoken my soul is now oaken,
as I'm left heartbroken, you don't seem to see.
My world has gone gray with these games that you play,
the price that I pay, as my mind fills with doubt.
You've lead me astray, but I can't stay away.
There's nothing more to say, so please, let me out.
In another life, maybe, you and me
could possibly be, but now the pain's ceaseless.
Just set me free and perhaps you will see,
worlds apart are we, yet, you leave me ...speechless.
08/15/2019
I walked into Dad's study and looked around
A wooden bull with ivory tusks stood its ground
a German Bayonet lay before lines of books, and
On the wall was an olde map of the holy land
Behind a schooner with three proud masts,
Lay volumes of worlds, of futures and pasts—
Palestine before the Hebrews, a Rhodesia Guide
Three Deserts, by Jarvis, hard to lift, I tried.
The Golden Bough and The Struggle for Greece
The Revolt of the Masses, The Golden Fleece
The Lost Possessions of England, Leviathan
The Firmament of Time, and Darwin's Descent of Man
Stonehenge, The Heathens, The 30 years war
Each topic a window, each book a door
An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, then On Tyranny
The Wealth of Nations, Jewish Confederates, A Goodly Tree,
The Medieval Village, Capitalism and the Jews
Fred Bastiat, Thomas Sowell, Dad had free market views
Texts of Geography, that was his trade
Shelf by shelf, in a proud parade.
I can't put my finger on why, I feel a sad chord
For knowledge should be its own reward
On much of this knowledge the world turned the page—
His room remains—his shrine, his stage.
Coercive Persuasion, On Aggression — much more to the list,
And framed on the wall, the lives that persist:
There's how Mom used to be, full of interests, just like him
I step into those hard streets; the world starts to spin.
"I would rather be on a leaky ship that is mine, than aboard a more seaworthy vessel going where I don't wish it to go"—Poet's alter ego
Yes, I know what I’m doing
I’m the master of my fate
The captain of the sinking ship
Seeking harbor in ports whether safe or rocky
With gusto I plow through uncharted frontiers
Why do I do these things to myself? you ask
Perhaps I’m a rebel in search of what's unbeknownst
to me, in search of virgin long lost horizons pristine
Horizons others deem unreachable
I’m bold, brash and yeah sassy, brassy
And irrepressible! You can’t love me you see,
I’m a Lonewolf, and it's quite fine, to be…
Untamed as the wild northern wind
Sweeping the prairies with a gusting woman’s surge
Nature's raw elements try in vain to halt my advances
But I laugh and mock at Mother's efforts
Although I’m tossed and torn
In the grips of Her relentless tempests,
Her storms of fury suppressing, oppressing
Her stern and staid demands to obey, tame and domesticate
You may say I’m the constructor of my own chaos
A free-spirit, challenging myself
My integrity intact, place not your pity on me
Respect is my hallmark and independence,
my calling.
Pensive is what I think
for I have given her a smile
But received nothing in return
Deep I thought, possibly an artist,
A writer, a philosopher, a teacher, a mom.
She probably has a million things happening.
If I sat down and said hi, it would be rude.
If I brought her food or a drink
She might be frightened.
So I sit on this side of the room
Where we are both comfortable,
Studying her, taking notes.
I am doing a little character sketch
and a full poem, for she has a lovely face.
Deep in thought, I do not see or hear her leave.
CEZANNE STUDY – The House of the Hanged Man
Late Autumn
Buried in a hill,
Steep as descent from humanity,
A country house stands.
It’s late autumn,
Deep, sick autumn –
Deep as the plunging cellar door,
And fronting, its branches stripped, begging skyward,
This raped tree
Which no longer hides the window –
The window, like a large, trumpeting mouth.
*No E flat clarinet here,
*No Eulenspiegel, opaque humor.
No – The whole, a ground interment,
Is color of rotting flesh,
This God-awful house!
*Til Eulenspiegel was a German buffoon who delighted in playing
nasty tricks on the nobility. He was hanged.
*The E flat clarinet is high pitched, capable of sounding the pitiful
cries of Til as he mounts the scaffold
Acrid smoke in the scientist’s bell jar
Blankets of chenille-covered snow
Crystalline carbon diamond star
Drips forming stalactites grow
Effervescent waterfalls’ dreams
Frothy-topped cappuccinos
Gelid surfaces of lakes and streams
Halos of angels in holy repose
Icebergs splitting from their source
Jasmine-covered pergolas in Spring
Knuckles clenched in fear or remorse
Love’s purest form sobering
Mandala patterns on frosted window
Newly-born flamboyant flamingos
Opalescent lustre of pearls on show
Pineapple-licious snow cones
Quills of the porcupines’ defense
Ringlets of great-grandparents’ hair
Steamy hot springs vapor intense
Trailing wisps of London fog air
Undulating winter foothill maze
Veils of fine tatted lace purity
Wieliczka Salt Mine passageways
Xilinous spider webs artistry
Yahrzeit candle flame in memoriam
Zephyrus ballooning sails on a whim
The colors she wore clashed in confusion.
One sock grey, one sock blue
as her mind wandered ... where?
She never knew her name
called out of the fog.
The blouse buttoned wrong
with sleeves too long
and she didn't belong ... anywhere.
When the fog settled in,
she stared out, turned around
full circle to a stop.
Very foggy now walking into a room
not knowing what to do there.
So, she sat in her coat and hat going ... nowhere.
Later from a hand come into view,
she is led to a closet to take things off.
Faces came and went, strangers all
even those who called out "Mom!".
She couldn't say who she was talking to
and that voice ... was that Her voice?
Who was Her?
Better not to speak at all,
let silence take her ... (everywhere).
Let the fog drape around her soul.
Perhaps tomorrow,
the curtains would close
and she would know
what was waiting in the wings.
The stolen love of you and me
where once reflected two is one
the thought of you still lingers on
as in the looking glass I see
your image looking back at me.
So very close through years were we,
til temptress's wiles destroyed my soul,
enchanted mistress took control,
oh demon femme please let me out,
you ruin me with words you say,
as heavily broken the doubt
remains, yet, I can't stay away.
In another life, worlds apart,
your eyes reflect two in my heart.
08/15/2019
I'm lost in there
battered between form and function
existing in the guesswork
institutionalised by containment
figured out on the block
measured by what takes up space
every layer perfectly in place
to provide freedom to conform
I merge and merge again
despite being part of no plan
unstoppable in my inexplicable existence
tip out my untapped potential
lay me on the table
busy yourself with dissection
broken up into components
I can do no more
cannot be put back together
an empty head
with no view of itself
an offered up cadaver
any day of the week
I see him flinch and I figure out his next move
Because I have studied him, and now have the ability to persuade.
We dance the dance, but both know I may win
For I took the time to understand him, and study him
And in his rush to share his prowess with me,
He neglected to learn anything about me at all.
His flinch is gone quickly, but not quickly enough.
We both know the battle is over because I took the time
and made him comfortable, and earned his trust, and learned him
Whereas he knows not his opponent and has no clear direction.
I smile, not a smile of encouragement,
a smile of victory.
This he recognizes….
Twenty-four seven completes with only twenty-four hours of sleep.
I am up against the wall.
All day on my feet.
Pacing the halls.
I stop to brush my teeth.
A day without stupor does not defeat me.
Anybody knows that the world is gone to another way.
Anybody knows that the world is wrong to change the norms of our creator.
Inertness finds me often.
I am shock that I can control my inner being.
Formed from the lack of time, I sometimes close my eyes to unwind.
This workaholic environment is chaotic.
When it is time to relax, I deny myself.
I am that person aforementioned.
Anybody knows that the world is gone to a different way.
Anybody knows that the world is wronged to change the norms of their creator.
To pattern my euphoria, I add an eight day.
Another twenty-four hours of relaxation.
Where I overachieve…
This day is called Type A and is only for me.
If I am to be relieved, I must not aggrieve.
Anybody knows that the world is gone to another way.
Anybody knows that the world is wrong to change the norms of our creator.
Asleep and dreams do form.
I am the leader of my kingdom.
No conflict do I have.
I will return to these reveries were I left.
The sun is shining bright and my time is of the essence.
Anybody knows that the world is gone to a different way.
Anybody knows that the world is wronged to change the norms of their creator.
In accordance, we are in a state of serious absorption as an abstracted dictator.
______________________________________________________________|
Scribed June 23, 2015!
Her
body,
rounded curves
perfectly toned,
sudden surging peaks
with pink rose tipped pleasure
~~over a small soft valley,~~
then downward plunge near her waistline,
far below Grand Canyon is waiting,
a perfect sculpture created by God.
© kashinath karmakar
===============000================
Placement: 3rd (Feb. 2012)
By:kash poet
Contest:Poetic Art
Sponsor:Linda-Marie