I should be home,
And waking up with you,
Embracing the beautiful chaos
Of our family
Together
Instead, I'm asleep
Trapped in this cruel nightmare,
Cut off from the ones
I love most
In my dreams
I hear only echoes
And see only shadows
Of my life before
As I wait in darkness,
Longing for moments
Lost,
And memories
Unmade
And as each day passes,
I grow convinced
No devil could concoct
A greater misery
Than to take a loving man
from his family.
How many times have I sat down to write
When I worry over whether I might
Not touch base with my fickle muse
Without whose inspiration I will lose
Whatever poetic conceits come to mind
At which point I would feel totally resigned
To leaving my pages unscribbled and blank
As I felt my energy ebb and my spirit sank
Then did faint stirrings tickle my brain
As I hoped I could begin again
To venture to concoct my story
Every new poem being a step towards glory
Though doubts about my efforts remain
How long can budding poets ever be sane?
The torture of trying to find the right word
Forever renders such a struggle totally absurd
We walk with the information of
quasars and the discernment of protoplasm.
Each day we live and die, each day our tears run dry.
Information is the rubble, the clutter of our civil war.
Reality becomes disposable when fact and
fevered fiction are made coequals,
when the rampancy of lies massacres the truth.
Each day we live and die, each day our tears run dry.
Propaganda walls our gated communities, our guarded cells.
So many concoct frightful conspiracies from techno-witchcraft.
So many dehumanize and scapegoat from delusive threats.
Each day we live and die, each day our tears run dry.
So many are captive here to the craven complex of revenge.
So many swallow here, the mollifying Fentanyl
of a cruel and brutal state.
Clinging to the demagogue, no one is free.
Somewhere in the brownout, is there a beacon?
Somewhere in the nightmare, do we awaken?
Each day we live and die,
each day our tears run dry.
no cowboys in stock on this side,
but acrid fishermen provide
marine lifelines, hamlets sustain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
pre-dawn cowboys of Waves arise
early wranglers trawl for the prize
through murky waters or in plain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
catches of chub, snapper, and sword
concoct dinners we may afford.
praise the fishers, saddled with strain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
rank as sins, veiled in ocean scum
nets shoulder-slung, descendants come
off the tides, firm ground to regain
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.
Humans, long a self-seeking breed,
Oft concoct love foreseeing need.
With tender grass lush green
Does a butcher fatten
His sheep in his own selfish greed.
___________________
Translation |37.01.2025|
Poet’s note: Sanskrit has thousands of verses of wisdom called Subhashhitam. This verse says that man by nature is a self-seeking breed. Keeping in mind a selfish motive, a butcher concocts false love and fattens his sheep with tender grass. But it is only to fetch better price in the market, not for any altruistic love. The transliteration of the Sanskrit verse follows (sandhi duly separated):
Kaarya-apekshee janah praayah,
preetim aavishkaroti alam |
Lobha-arthee shaundikah shashpaih,
mesham pushnaati peshalaih ||204||
If I'm not important to you - why should you be to me?
'Cause you're obviously blind if you can't see
If you were in my shoes - what would this look like to you?
I promise you'd feel like a used, hidden, mistress like I do
I promise you'd feel exactly how I do right now
And if you can't tell me - concoct an explanation somehow
This isn't working with an overanalytic person just like me
So if you're going to be with me, some explanation maybe
If you're looking for a fortune-teller to read your thoughts
You're with the wrong woman 'cause that's something I'm not
If I'm not enough because I'm not a Supersoldier like you
Then please go live in your own reality of warped truth
'Cause I can't and won't be something that I am not
I'm wifey-material - not some dumb høe or slvtty THOT
I won't mold myself like play-doh to whom you want me to be
I'm a very aggressive advocate for transparency and equality
I can't be something in your hands that you can just mold
(Unless you know how to transmute base metals into gold)
'Cause I hold the women's feather-weight champion belt
God broke the mold when he created me - you work for him - go ask him yourself
Water can be calming until it floods the earth with its purpose
It becomes quite unpleasant when the water overextends its intent
Is it the moon that is making the water have more intent with its purpose
Let it be known that the water cares for the earth to an extent
The water cares for its blood and claims to care for the earth, and wants to nourish its seed
Well, the seed does not want the water with salt
Do not concoct a form of a pleasant and tasty Meade
It would prefer to have the sweet nectar of a malt
The earth is the foundation of life, and the water should cool it down from the internal and external fires
The earth does not want to be overrun with water and all of its creatures of life
A partnership until they enter the pyres
The earth wants to have the blessing of a wife
Each day, the earthquakes and the water go out
Or does the water come out like a spout
We dream ourselves free and in our pride, we concoct lofty words of praise,
"We are democrats, lovers of liberty, free from prejudice and hate,"
In our furnace, we build the great human experiment, a dream always worthy to follow;
We speak melodiously, with noble sentiment, growing gardens of ideals meant to be seen.
But in reality, we are a vulgar mob, shoving and sharing quarrels,
Where passions are easily stirred by demagogues, media, belief profiteers, agitators.
Blasphemies uttered, this is called "the society of free people"; it's a heavy word,
What can we offer the world but overly full plunder we've stolen from humanity's land?
Under the hallucination that this mad theft can be called progress and bright culture,
We substitute our being in a blind race, too often tempted by subliminal deceit.
Everything is built on the foundation of illusion, a selfish altar on which we sacrifice common sense,
And we lose our hopes and dreams in the abyss of momentary prosperity, the delusion of a lawful happiness.
Sex is satisfying surreptitiously,
getting the bang for your buck,
no, from your buck. His heart
pounding, over and over again.
His antlers held high with a sigh.
Sleep overtakes the gorged,
with victory of a benign smile.
Deep is the pleasure, no need
to concoct the siren of his dreams.
Delirious, at once put out
of his misery with no need
to set sails into the dark night.
His nostrils filled with her sensual perfume.
Her hair strewn upon an adjoining pillow.
Her hand laid upon his rapturous heartbeat.
Her buck is spent. He emptied out his pockets.
There is nothing left, not a glance, nor a tingle
for a dish, doll, nor centerfold. Only his wife.
Shook
You whispered to the brokenness of my sleep
Sweet as though a pillager in a gaseous light
And as I was a castaway by every concoct
The horizon faced me forward once again
There were wars and abstractions
Ugliness and harrowed bearing
As you cooled me in the darkness and let me sleep
Where any tread to turn, you'd not understand
You were my crutches as seeming stolen to love
In luck and blessings and gracious as you were held
So deep the best weight
I took a star and always keep it
Forever you remain, perfection
In your life experience,
how well, did you think you did?
Just to find out that
thing you were pursuing
alone with others
ended up being a fairy tale,
which was profligated in the end.
Concoct ever-lasting souvenirs
that will exist throughout
the ages of the ouroboros.
In the depths of the night, when all is still and bare,
When the wind howls harshly and the trees begin to scare,
It is then that the creatures of the night arise,
Unleashing their powers in a world beyond the skies.
Shadows dance in the moonlight, ghosts whisper from the trees,
The night is pregnant with magic, with secrets and mysteries.
And as the stars twinkle above, the creatures convene,
In a feast of the supernatural, dark and unforeseen.
The air is thick with arcane rituals and spells,
As the witches concoct their brews in their smoky hells.
Werewolves howl to the moon, vampires quaff their wine,
And demons laugh and prance, in orgies so divine.
But beware, my friend, for nothing is as it seems,
As the supernatural surges, and the veil between worlds gleams.
For when the morning light slices through the night,
The creatures will disappear, vanishing from your sight.
So, lock your doors and windows, and pray until the dawn,
For when the supernatural comes, it never lasts for long.
And as the world returns to normal, and all seems well and right,
Remember, my friend, that you were part of the otherworldly sight.
AI
AI stories
Are unending
Algorithms untiring
Reaching into their
Immense conditioning
To concoct what
Attracts and repulses..
Hmmmm..
Sounds familiar...
No money in balance,
please the extreme.
Promote what is current,
manufacture for fiends.
Concoct what will profit,
no matter what’s true.
Convention in nonsense,
the popular clue.
No money in balance,
no money in peace.
No money in virtue,
it won’t pay the lease.
I am so grateful that you read me and opine
On unique thoughts and ideas I claim mine
But I must be honest and humbly confess
I often lift your ideas to concoct this mess.
Written November 12, 2022
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.