Best Unrelentingly Poems
Fear
It is a very small demon.
It is a tiny monster,
that never stops chewing on;
anything it can get.
It is the one that hides,
and comes home with you.
It hops on while you are;
at the market, the post office,
work, school and even and/or
at church.
Listening to gossip,
overthinking the unimportant,
and by being unfocused on the big...
picture!
God walks with all of us.
Right beside us in the storm.
Lien on Him.
Talk to Him.
He is listening.
Angels around you.
Angels around your family.
Stronger than all others,
soldiers for the King.
Love each other unrelentingly.
Hold each other high.
Give the names of all you love,
to God in the sky!
Rain down drops of hope,
eliminate all dispair.
Let the saints know,
in their hearts...
ever that You,
are THERE!
On Grandpa’s farm we rose to summer’s light,
then stayed outside – sometimes till dark of night.
There was a gated big front yard and tree
and hollyhocks, so pretty, growing free.
Behind the house there was a tool shed and
some old machines with which to till the land.
Unused were they, and I recall one day
we sat on one of them while at our play.
A swarm of bees rose up. I swear they chased
us unrelentingly as home we raced!
Except for that one incident, our days
were wonderful! On soft grass we would laze.
There was a lane that we’d go walking down.
It led to an old road, which led to town.
We picked soft pussywillows on that lane.
Raspberries too – which gave our grins a stain!
Long gone is Grandpa’s farm where we once stayed
and Grandpa too. . . but feelings never fade.
An oldie for Janice Canerdy's Rhyming Couplets Poetry Contest
The brain is an incredibly efficient computer
Compressing trillions of bytes of information,
Registering every impression we encounter,
Analyzing concepts from formation to causation.
Compressing trillions of bytes of information
In milliseconds without hesitation, unrelentingly,
Analyzing concepts from formation to causation
Remarkably, it even functions unconsciously.
In milliseconds without hesitation, unrelentingly,
It processes the continual intake of our senses
Remarkably, it even functions unconsciously,
Outlining proposals, formulating our defenses.
It processes the continual intake of our senses,
All while regulating our involuntary responses
Outlines our proposals, formulates our defenses
Even evaluating the most complicated nuances.
All while regulating our involuntary responses
Registering every impression we encounter,
Even evaluating the most complicated nuances
The brain is an incredibly efficient computer.
Written May 9, 2022
She was known as "Miss Knuckle Rapper"—
My old-maid math teacher in sixth grade.
She was well-groomed, but hardly dapper
And unrelentingly strict, stern, and staid.
"You WILL master fractions," she pronounced,
Smacking her desk with a ruler of wood.
The desk wasn't all on which she pounced,
She'd rap our knuckles if she felt she should.
"Lay your hands on your desks, nice and flat,"
She ordered pupils who had somehow erred.
The ruler struck their knuckles with a splat.
It was the discipline she faithfully preferred.
But there was more to the Rapper, I know it.
Leading her students to learn was her passion.
The ruler was a prop to grandstand her grit.
She cared for us all, but only in her fashion.
At making math practical she was a star,
Noting that knowing numbers was a "must."
"I'm sorry to say it but you won't go far,
Unless you learn math from one you trust."
By school year's end I had come to know
My teacher was driven by admirable actions.
She ruled to prep us for what life would bestow,
Including the mastering of fractions.
"Angel Wings, Amusement Park Mouth"
Dark horses
aren’t necessarily angels
wrung out poets more like
unblessed prodigals
soaking in their own tears
spin sugared fairy-floss unrelentingly out
their dark sap, "Lost Woods" words,
and the ink no longer necessary
bleeds invisible
from their tap-dancing fingers
instead of dripping like blood
or honey off their
well-armoured tongues
and their messages
like murders of crows
fly out of their amusement park
mind instead of their mouth;
it's a private affair,
nobody really knows;
we sing our way home
on some bent kind of angel wings;
Dark horses
aren't necessarily angels -
the mind, authentic
is another thing...
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Like a tumbleweed aimlessly blowing in the wind
across infinitely open and wide prairie home companion land
(which wasteland famously epitomized by T.S. Elliot)
a barren vista ravages metaphorical landscape
of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping along accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding and dodging diabolical demons
mercilessly and unrelentingly ready
to seduce this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst the pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence
racked with pinions describe bing
a demonic dragon filled dungeon
damp, dark, demented domains –
a veritable no man’s land
impossible to escape no matter how fast I -
as a foo fighter flee
from the fearful, fierce-some phantasmagoric forms
figments of my imagination seemingly real
tangible as bone and flesh
who haunt sacred crowded house of slumber
transmogrify me into a loathsome madman
ranting raving senseless gibberish and sic gobbledygook
perceived as metaphysically n philosophically insane
as soundgarden syllabification
from one womanly World Wide Web wayfarer
which virtual vagabond venerates vowels
and possesses means and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress who waves a magic wand
to produce supreme sentences
weaves tantalizing terrific tweed topographic tundra’s
that this admirer of her artful and colorful poetic endeavors
prompts me to accompany my mindscape
as a thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information super byways and highways
along winding labyrinths of critical thinking
or simply stepping o'er rolling stones
of silly rhymes without wing less reason
all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight to maintain
that sure footed stance of solitude
whose only entities happened
to constitute trappings of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and masterpieces of literature
yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest that cherished solitude shattered
and a heart rent asunder
twin tower ring inferno imp perils of loss that provide
an understandable cautionary tale
to the author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive acute Ape man
touched to the quick with a bit of angel dust
aware that this agonized and angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with the confines of cyberspace!
'Twas like imagery or perhaps deja'vu
air quotations or a hallucination,
naught tangible to the naked eye
but an echoing of whirlwinds,
mere beginning of an expansion
tucked aside noncommittal whispers
reverberating discorporate shadows
on dividers of processing graphics,
rough drafts' emphatic intimation
of intrusively summoned reckonings
referencing old featured impressions,
mid-escape concentrated faculties'
unfocused low-density frequencies,
betwixt susceptibility’s magnifiers
orbiting bout night-crawlers' psyche,
whilst darkly territorial distractions
evolve beyond unforeseen influences,
farthermost assertion's revisionary
assemblages divulging conceals,
structured within framework
unrelentingly penetrative,
drawn-out, long agone
an unreceptive peccadillo
Multitudes enter the venue
all know there's something Entre Nous
You Take a Friend to find your place
it's time to just Cut to the Chase
All Losing It, the lights go down
Signals a start to the Countdown
Vital Signs race to Larry, Curly, and Moe
a Distant Early Warning that starts the show
Can't Resist that sound, distinctive
while The Stars Look Down it seems instinctive
The Spirit of Radio starts (with an attitude)
up on your feet you're In the Mood
Making Memories with a Headlong Flight
and straight on into The Color of Right
Might they play The Necromancer
or maybe even Fancy Dancer
Tom Sawyer starts a wild frenzy
One Little Victory follows unrelentingly
No Ghost of a Chance they'd play Cygnus X-1
but books one AND two - they aren't even done
only Intermission
Presto - back with 2112
how far back will they delve
A Passage to Bangkok brings you to Tears
then showing four aspects of their Fears
While Mystic Rhythms start to grow
O Baterista is next, as we all know
YYZ, Working Man both kick ass
Natural Science and then The Pass
Makes The Body Electric and Time Stand Still
knowing you are Here Again of your own Freewill
They Test for Echo seeing all still alive
Red Barchetta makes sure you can drive
Trees stand tall in Cities of Gold that are Seven
swaying themselves under the starry heaven
Limelight shines in La Villa Strangiato
Wish Them Well for it is time to go
But We Hold On....
Malignant Narcissism starts the encore
Spindrifts into The Snow Dog and By-Tor
One can only Hope it's not the last tour
Closer to Your Heart than ever Before(and After)
In the End you know
you are Finding Your Way back home
endlessly rocking
endlessly rocking under starry heavens
As the Caravans travel onwards
riding out into a heartless sea
Remember what, to you, brought these words
Dirk, Lerxst, Pratt, and the lonely letter of E.
song/album titles/partial lyrics-Lee/Lifeson/Peart ©
shining way up high, rays descend
unrelentingly to earth
nothing escapes the hot
scorching, burning heat.
hills and dales.
impending
natures
ease.
penned 10 October 2015
I have always been curious about people from Kurdistan
I wonder why they are called kurds
I wonder when the kurds would become keese
Just like curd becomes cheese
I wonder if birds are called “birds” because they come from “Birdistan”…..
Okay, that kurd-bird joke one time never went down well
One audience I entertained transitioned from swelling to swearing
The agitated audience looked at each other, left and right
The bird joke got me pelted and unhired, now I'm a fly-by-night comic
The joke was inspired by a 12 year kid I once knew, nicknamed “Talk shop”
He used to hang around the market stands and chatted nonstop
The lad knew almost all of the countries with syllables ending with “–stan”
He bragged about Kazakhstan, Tajikstan, Uzbekistan, with the “stans” he was never done
The smart-****’s Turkistan questions hit me like a slap
Unrelentingly he tested me to spot Manhattan on the map
I totally lost my geography to the kids embarrassing pressure
The kid burst into a belly laugh when my finger hovered over Asia
In trying to change the subject, I asked him about the story of Tristan
I was zipped into silence when he told me stick to geography and not romance
I asked the kid what his real name was, and how he got an extra memory chip
He said if he taught me how, the conversation would flip
And then he revealed what his real name was with a “My name is Stan, duh!”
A felt relieved, as adult dumbness left my shoulder
I bet you would know every country and its geographical location
If it was made up of some weird syllables sneaking up on your name
The cocky kid asked me to test him on anything
I went spiritual, a subject the kid probably had no grip on
I asked him why we confess to a priest, if God can directly hear us pray
He said “so that we can have an eye witness on judgment day”
I tried to get rid of the boy by pretending to be bored
But I let the boy stay, when he told me that I would miss him one day when I get old
There are times, when I the pauper, pretend that I am King.
Power uncontested have I, the master of everything.
Beloved by all my subjects who adore me from afar.
Festivals honoring this miracle me, my name etched in the stars.
Tailored cloths adorned with jewels to cover my royal hide.
A simple tear or pin prick drip and I toss them all outside.
The finest foods from around the world brought in each time I dine.
Fill the goblets of glowing gold with most luxurious wine.
My leisure is of royal command my joy by royal decree
Just think of it, a whole Kingdom thinking me High and Mighty.
A knock disturbs my nap one day in late afternoon.
Another ball in my honor at the next full moon.
Posing for another sculpture, another portrait commissioned.
This bard’s song of my good deeds, and that one’s new rendition.
My every day so busy now, my Kingdom must prepare,
Strong against our enemies, may they all beware.
I toil over strategies and rulings of my court.
Solving problems of those little people with whom I do not consort.
Into bed I fall asleep exhausted every night.
My advisers unrelentingly needing my ear at first light.
More battles to be won today new subjects fall in line.
Soon the entire world it seems might very well be mine.
The people they need food and drink, I must divide the lands.
The royal lists of would be Lords, all under my command.
Arguments continue on it seems they never end.
So many to bow before me and yet I’m without one friend.
Every decision a higher cost, nothing’s simple on this throne.
It has been near fifteen years since I had some time alone.
Slumping on my golden throne, lost in royal thought.
Sometimes when I am King I pretend that I am not.
BEACHED
broken
abandoned
to the cruel sea
which unrelentingly
scatters driftwood on the shore
" where beachcombers each day explore"
Sponsor Joseph May.
Picture number one.
6 / 12 / 2022.
Howmanysyllables.com
The idea of a living constitution
has the same forensic indeterminacy
as a committed dream.
I am content to trust this dream to the end
to have it fill my cup of hope all day and night.
I am content to receive its order
to hasten to obey without a pause.
But, the old voice sounds
unrelentingly in the chamber: Do not
compromise. Punish.
Crucify him.
The infirm musing of a perpetual dreamer
rising up with eyes wild for relief.
I am content with the terror and anticipation that
keeps turns by watching me:
Justice, once imagined, cannot be undone.
I have been left to think along these lines
to look for the abandonment of arcane unfairness
months after months.
The months
burn up as a fading lantern
homage to the majesty of the absurd:
A muse easy to bear, Camusian laughter to
suffering’s exalted well —
what single rule might break the dry spell?
Sometimes the unforeseen, the unpredictable
springs in the heart of justice
bending its way upward
again and yet again
towards a distant point
all unaccountably, into the strengthening clasp
of fresh now-born idea,
nearer to binding faith
than wild dismembering injustice.
When the far-distant element
of suffering humanity
looms out more clear;
the faint, far, complex notes of hope
its head moves near
and new flicks of justice’s well
unfolds beyond the known.
Is there any new depth to this well?
Say, what is its true nature?
Quietly nature covers over
the dying bird and the dead rover.
If justice’s dead, it is as though
a robin died beneath the snow
tucked away neatly, whose bright eyes
once stared with impudent surprise
at every tit-bit flung to her.
Now every season we must bear
to live without its whistled air,
for law lives beneath the Spring,
like a sequestered paradise
exiled from the steady hammer of faith,
a trackless rice field
ever trudging through groves of
crouching, unconquered territories.
Oh enchanted universe
conqueror of earth’s stadium
in your wild, singing glory
the faults you committed live.
Come hear my sharpened cries
surely, you can hear my note of crisis.
Ceaselessly I raise my cry.
My cry ascends and floats away
scattered by whirling winds afar.
* “Endure what you suffer as being a father’s punishment.” (Heb. 12:5b-7)
Author's note: written on the anniversary of Harvard's abuse of my human rights
inherited
everlasting
bountiful
there is no
shining sun
because it is not
the sun’s turn
to shine.
instead these stars
glisten
and sparkle
from heavens
we stretch our arms
and faith
to touch
and shine down
on this earth,
this divine planet,
which houses the baby
who has already
inherited
the weight of the world
and it’s humans
and it’s human sins.
this manger feels
too soft,
too first-breath fresh
for me to not feel
the contrast
of a pure
and golden Son
against a cruel
and unforgiving
backdrop of crimes
of flesh and guts.
his mother is weeping,
tears of exhaustion
from hours of birth
and tears of joy
from being the mother
of the Savior,
and my heart crescendos
to see
a bruised and crying babe
amongst soft cascades
of gold
and frankincense
and myrrh.
joseph himself,
the father of the son
of the Father,
idles at the top
of the trough with a hand
on the top of
his first child’s head
and smiles at us
with a comforting sweeping gesture
meant to drive us closer.
my feet and
my soul
ache to crawl;
to fall to my knees
and drag myself to the edge
of the hay
littering
this impromptu church
and bow my head to
worship
the everlasting light
and love
and redemption
of my newborn Deliverer
jesus christ.
as i reach the edge
of this makeshift crib
i am blessed
upon blessings
to see the small upturn
of the messiah’s lips
as he finally
succumbs to the first slumber
of a righteous
and bountiful life
filled with whores
and betrayal
and forgiveness
and adoration so rich it pours
from his eyes
and his mouth
and his hands
to heal his people
and bring us joy
because our lord God
deigned us able to save,
if only we have the
heart to change.
and when his life ends,
blood dripping down an unrelentingly
strong brow from
beneath a crude crown of thorns,
hands and feet
impaled against cedar,
pine,
and cypress
grown upon,
within,
his Father’s
green earth,
this divine planet,
ribs broken open
by spears declared
the unrepentant
love and light and forgiveness
of the true Jehovah
and shined down on us
the shame and irony
of killing the man
meant to save us from
murder.
He came into her world unforeseen and uninvited
Adorned in Valyrian Steel amour, overexcited
Enticed her with promises of a neverending love
Made her turn her back on her gentle turtle dove
Heartbroken and rejected she allowed him in
Removed the smoke in her brown eyes like kin
He became her Khal, and her, his Khaleesi
Now they dance to the mighty drums of the Dothraki
She loves him with every artery and fiery passion
Like Lady Stark, she adores his honorable fashion
She caters to his every want and need with joy
Loves without bounds, inhibitions or being coy
Alas, he has taken too much ease, chill and pride
Forgetting to honor her, cherish her as she cried
Treating her as he would an errant gullible child
Regarding her heart with dampened love so mild
The smoke in her eyes makes it hard not to cry
She still loves him like no shilling can ever buy
Like Winter Fell, she prays winter never returns
Hopes his love once again unrelentingly burns