Best Without Aim Poems
Poem, I thought is just play of words and syllable
As breakfast of juice and toast laid out on table
Was fiancee's maiden breakfast, joined in dress with lapel
Napkin laid on my lap as table manner
To capture slip of drop or missed bite that may scatter
Drop did fall but the breeze from fan tossed it farther
Spoiled dress of my fiancée, upset with quizzical stare
Sorry did I say
Gave my virgin napkin to wipe stain away
Fuming, she threw her napkin at me that on her lap lay
Her spoiled napkin stained my dress by the way
Cursed Self less, more stupid fan
Rotating blades, cutting air, throwing breeze without aim
But tossed the drop dot on fiancée, oblivious of decency or shame
Switched off fan in fury, but angered everyone all the more
All loathed me for silly manners
I swore never to have breakfast on table with others
Since then, squat on floor, switch off fan even of next chamber
Avoid napkin, even to wipe hands, after breakfast is over
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© Hitendra Mehta
Entry for Members Contest – My Worst Poem Ever by (Destroyer ((Poet
A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go hump yourself, If you want my schtick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
There are those moments…..
spontaneous expressions
of life
finding expression
through the eyes
…the voice
…the hands
…the pen
a focus
…centering in the being
a channel
…unclogged
an echo
….without reverberation
a joy
…centering in the being
focused
….without aim
channeling
….its truth
echoing
…in chambered moment
the spontaneity
…..of now.
John G. Lawless
11/4/2015
submitted to Oil Paintings 1-2-3
sponsor – Eve Roper
painting #3
Talkative
Lady romantic came shaking bag green
Her habit is different mixing without aim
Not care of colleagues what they are talking
Starts to leave gossip as if bullet train
Red lipstick in purple lip is her favorite color
Green short and white pant with shoe tiptop
Curly hear brownish half sleeve in it
Black belt in waist simple looks her talkative
Friends and circles stop dialogue upon her arrival
Poor guys all know they should hear a lot from her
Creamery skin of her body dazzles as white as
Talkative title is famous for her she loves even to hear for
Odd habit she has got in mid of her talks
Loves to attract friends' attention must be paid towards
Touches every one and rolls eyes who are curious
Her guess stands accurate as if fashion of modern
Spending hours crashing grass she pass time always
Flee friends before hand as they notice her from far
Lady romantic is hip hop in the area by name miss brown
In absence of her people glee talkative so far.
5/1/2016
Deepak Chalise
Tribute to “The Day Before You Came” * by Bjorn
in the first 1982 ABBA version
The day before yesterday
You came together to play
To lift our hearts in joy
Belting out in convoy
The day after he came
We celebrate whose fame
You wailed through self-pity
But ne’er called it Beauty
‘Infinite suffering thing’
Would that Eliot could sing
Pre-dramatic event
Your breaking-up you meant
“Pretty sure it must have rained”
”…rattling on the roof” hearts stained
The day after he came
Most songs seem sound the same
“Knowing you Knowing me”
Never meant to be free
“…my life…its usual frame”
“…sense of living without aim”
Yes “Some one is crying”
No some one’s conniving
At noon must have left for lunch
“…usual place…usual bunch”
The sad journey on rails
Must break hearts crammed in jails
Due at eight in the morn
Back at eight all forlorn
“And turning out the light”
Curled safe in bed at night
For the day after he came
My life burned on a flame
The paradox of joy
Is that it makes one cry
‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’
Better still safe routine in tow
“…I hid a part of me…”
“…in heaps of papers” for fee
And let the world pass by
Not knowing what is joy
Is joy carpe diem
Was day before he came
Now my life’s over due
I’ve met my Waterloo
The train’s an ugly monster
Dragging its hind legs after
Frida’s howl pack of hounds
Benny's sound track train pounds
Anna’s swan tones lament
Bjorn’s lines uptight breasts rent
Beauty’s not only content
It’s also the way you vent
Conceit’s the ermine cloak
Rattling skeletons croak
Bjorn’s true lines exquisite poem
Sung in sweet pain What’s its name
Notes
Words within inverted commas are from the song.
Single quotes indicate other well-known words.
*Rhyme scheme: 4 stanzas (3 of ten lines with concluding quatrain) in rhymed couplets of varying syllabic count.
1st stanza: aabbccde ff
2nd stanza: aagghhii ff
3rd stanza: ddggiijj ff
4th stanza: kk ff
Not all in perfect rhyme: rain/came (for instance)
The syllabic count (more or less): 14 (with the exception of the 4th
line at 18 and eighth (exception: 1st stanza at 10) and tenth at 6.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Life, a spark, is the birth
Breath of earth, deep in dirt
Blown desert, weeping sand
No man’s land, flame shall burn
Grow, love, learn, and embark
Life, a flame, withstand age
Born the sage, wise of mind
Heart aligned, beating strong
Hear it’s song, fire burst
Soul immersed, without aim
Life, does flash, within time
Does past mime, recreate
Bound to fate, clinging air
Unaware, death appears
New frontiers flies the ash
A bird flying in the Sky
Can be evidence
May be blind
While the justice disappears
Over the point of view
Down to as a whole
It may not downward
To sit with them
Sticks on the sky
Flying without aim
Looking back and at
The theories of peace
Word to word
Weapon to weapon
Blood to blood
Hand to hand
To fight and to celebrate
For a happiness of the end
Epic turns pages
Learns lessons
Without verbs
Freeze Rivers of universe
Melt and flow
Pouring human blood
Turning into “Red Sea”
Uniting the sea of whole
Glory and power
Will of desire
Bi- tri – polar
Toast for over
Arrogant decision
Legitimates peace
Innocent civilian
Encages to piece
Die and cry
Carry on why
Syrian’s sky
Heave a sigh
Bird you and I are misguided
Media as a medium
Is as a message
Hegemony of the God
Of several hands
Udaya R. Tennakoon
The moons and the tides
Strongly coincide,
Pulling up and away,
Tugging the sand from the bay.
My mind is a lot like the sea in that way.
It dips and it falls,
It falters and it crawls,
But then sometimes learns to just be.
To exist in my mind is a paradox you see,
An absurd conglomeration in actuality.
The grace of the waves and the glow of the moon,
Hold their cosmic connection betwixt their midsummer monsoon.
I tell my tired thoughts that they exist as a metaphor,
As a final weak attempt just to breathe.
To find some purpose in these days is the truest tragedy,
To wander this world without aim.
Your words sweet like honey tell my mind not to worry,
To find comfort in solidarity.
They take place in my head,
Turning from sound to shape,
Spindling their fingers over my nerves as I shake.
How I wish that I wasn’t born this way,
But what could I quite possibly do?
Every soul I’ve ever known has abandoned my side,
Taking my absence in grace and in stride.
I’m not a loss to them but they are to me,
A piece of my wrist hosting a new seam.
These are the days in which I wish not to breathe,
To push my head underwater and let my tired lungs squeeze.
I wish to struggle for air,
My body not willing to let go,
But to force myself to slip into the unknown.
For my lips to turn blue and my blood to go cold,
Would surely be better than the scornful gaze that you hold.
It surely must be better than my sliced wrists bleeding,
Dripping as I clench my white teeth, seething.
O’er the rainbow is the place in which I’ll go,
Even if the rainbow is black.
For black is better than living with myself,
And one day I’ll finally take the road less travelled and never turn back.
All by myself, alone, I softly chant your name,
Own up for our defunct weeping bond and I take the blame.
It was our love very pure and not lusty lure,
Unsure, kaput and insecure I thirstily quest for love’s cure……
Will not otieously shed another vainful tear
But in earnest long for you my Dear to be near.
Messed up our bond with blatant, glaring guilt & shattered our own heart,
Guess that’s the only reason we in our lives drifted apart.
Cannot truly imagine that I let you go,
But for us to be happy I did so,
I own up and take the blame,
To silently blow off our love’s flame…..
My heart I am sure you did not know,
Was tattered and torn from the time I let you go,
Ours was a bond carefree and Boehme,
I Own up for our broken weeping bond and take the blame.
I wish our bonds could have fondly stayed on,
Woven intertwined with emotions, enameled with love’s lacquerers firmly bound.
But I still take the blame,
And not dampen loves flickering flame with a sense of shame……
Now that my love, its end seems so near,
Sense its icy claws draw up and stealthy steps I hear,
I own up and take the blame……………
And fling my heart’s longings up above without aim again and again…till our laden guilt we overcame….
LIFE without aim is BARE LAND.
LIFE with aim is GARDEN LAND.
whether your life want to be a bare land or a garden land?
the choice is yours.....
Hello.
Hi
Nice to meet you. Much water flow by.
Many moons gone.
Long time.
Much altered much moved.
Karma Ferris wheel.
Merry go round and round and round.
Days of hibernating.
Thick mindset cloud
Synchronicity of minds.
And a helpless but powerful female.
Attacked and attacking.
Those that supposedly rule the collateral coughing cosmos of earth.
Many ears total six.
Large stemmed waistcoats sneering.
In all places
At all times
To fall is to have been felled.
But felling will ensure new growth.
Strengthening bows
And arrows
To ensure more even aim.
For without aim
There is an existamce equivelent to a mass herd of grazing livestock.
Of which the crowns and shrouds of ancient times
Would have held absolutely no purpose.
Wow and whoah
Whish and wanktania winkl
ZxZ
roaming without aim
early man hits on a cave
his niche ~ our future
By
David Kavanagh
“Fear Mongers”
Newspapers yelling,
TVs screaming,
Radios blaring.
Is this what we want?
Is this what we need?
Politicians lying,
Preachers ranting,
Black men dying,
Mothers crying.
Is this what we want?
Is this what we need?
Breaking news,
More breaking news.
Shootings here,
Robberies there,
More mothers crying.
Is this what we want?
Is this what we need?
Fear mongers
Marching, Marching, Marching
They’re coming to take you away
Hey! Hey!
They’re coming to take you away.
Battalions of mongers
Armies of mongers
All painted red,
Coming to take you away.
Cool it down,
Take it down,
It’s getting hot down here.
It’s not all that bad
It’s bad for your heart,
It wrongs your soul.
We aren’t like that.
It’s time to say goodbye,
To these days of spitting vile,
To these days of ugly words,
To these days of vulgar thoughts,
To shooting arrows without aim.
We’re not like that.
Too many mothers crying.
Cool it down,
Take it down,
It’s getting hot down here.
It’s not all that bad.
It would do my heart good,
For you to find some good
In this disease infected world.
Take a trip I say,
Take a trip.
Spin your wheels to
Mount Rushmore
Listen to what those
Four have to say.
This is what we want.
This is what we need.
Amid a tempting generation
Is the presence of extreme desecration
History beckons on history
Evil now occupies mans memory
Where is love?
Where is peace?
What has affected mankind like a disease
In the land,i search for purification
Only to behold with mine eyes
"Moral degradation"
I weep,i wail,i think,i am pale
For to mankind i ask,"which Creator do you now hail"
Pestilence,Hatred,Wickedness
Are elevated in today's presence
Mankind has adopted treason
And as such,no longer reasons
Upon those concrete issues that create joy within
They now serve a god called "money"
Upon this noble earth are ignominious deaths
of people who were stars at birth
Where is the sacredness of human life
God Almighty established us in beautification
And now,man says no to sanctification
What a shame!
Who do we blame?
Millions struggle and hustle without aim
Life!Oh Life!Is surely vain
I wander out of my state of boredom
And ask,
Why have we devalued our values?
Why has man left out the Holy tracks?
Where are the traces of love?
Where are the traces of hope?
Why is mankind
"BAREFOOTED".
Just One © 2013
Written By
Lewis, Y.K
I’m alone in the mornings with only shadows to greet me. Silence
is all around me. Wait I hear something, every once in a while
noticing it, it’s just that lowly old heart of mine. I thought it
would be a more comforting sound but wait, there is more its only
my squeaky fan making the only constant sound.
My thoughts are lost flowing without aim going in all directions, wanting to be
noticed not by all, just one. I’m connected to none; not my heart,
not my head, nor my body. Seeing. Waiting for you to love me.
Love Me is my name. It’s the password to my connection as a blade
cuts through the air it cuts to the bone.
It is the only way to feel that turn on, that bite to the ear. The flames of passion I’ve lost the key. Silently, I listen. Waiting, just waiting.
Remembering when you loved me. I’m on top of the world.
I’m alone in the morning, only with the sound of the fan thinking love me,
a tear falls remembering your dead.