Line of inquiry:
“joy, empathy, compassion
on an upward arc
an effervescence eternal
causes bliss ignition to start” - Unseeking Seeker
When sanctity of sane sense turns into anger inferno
with fury embers erupting from the violent volcano,
curling up feral with the spreading smoke of spite,
rationale rays remain concealed in sobriety spectrum.
We need not run away from the blaze to self-heal,
or seek shelter in the disdained den of disregard,
nor we should ignite another flame in enraged soul,
face malice intrepidly, and feel good in retaliation.
As a fire can’t ever extinguish or contain another fire,
for, it burns fast in the linked space of attachment,
we confront malevolence with calm confidence of poise,
don’t let the flame incinerate the serenity of our souls.
When flow of absolution springs with love from within
with embracing empathy of mounting divine fountain,
compassion douses spiteful fire with sympathy shower,
emanating with timeless joie de vivre of innate ecstasy.
I speak not in tongues nor forks that brake
I speak not in rains, as the earthquakes
I speak not in things distant or disdained
I speak not in man’s empire but eternity
I speak in winds that roam the land
I speak in thunder that cascades
I speak in storms that reshape
I speak in lightning that makes
You see the evil doesn’t look at all condemned
Those evil troublemakers of mankind
Are well remembered, way above the nameless dead
Who by the will of country rulers had to die
Because the actions, as you say my darling dear
Speak louder than words, and so they act
As if they had too little history in rear
So thinking they’re unique in making pacts
They settle on the same old evil plan
The same catastrophe, the same vain sacrifices
Inevitably ends it up, as it did then
When those like them disdained the words of wise
Complacency can’t be outsmarted by the cruel
Can’t be reported by the frightened flatterers
Complacency is always punished by the rule
With no exceptions to it, but that’s not about us
We can’t relate to those obsessed with power
To their staffers, games of death and hymns of glory
The bumblebees collect the pollen from your flowers
And there we are, in our eternal garden story.
That Got-Dog-It Moment
With star-staring eyes,
that disdained look loudly speaks:
"I got to go squat!"
Give it to the rain,
all of your hurt and your pain.
Watch as it belittles under a clap of thunder,
all of your hurt, disdained.
Scream it to the sky,
make it heard.
Let him know how much it hurt when you went through his phone.
His promises, like fallen leaves, scattered by the wind.
Look to the sea, give it the stare you gave him when you found out he was leading you on as if you were some game.
Listen to your heart, let it hurt,
but never let it change who you are for worse.
Listen to your mind,
even if your heart isn't ready to leave him behind,
Remember how much loving him hurt.
The turning wheel of time
stirs up the dust of disarray,
that settles in the crumbling cauldron
of disordered life of illusion.
In the maiming moments
of disdained dejection,
truth tumbles in the mélange
of disorientation chaos.
Under the fantasy firmament
psyche in desertic isolation,
embedded in mindscape imagery,
suffering desiccated and lonely,
searches for a novel niche
in self-constructed reverie
to get a spellbound shelter
of captivating hope in frustration.
Dormant notion then invents dream,
steers mind into domain of delusion.
A thing made is destined to break,
but not by the will of the creator,
for whom the sense of time collapses,
making the frame of timeless trance,
where the dreamer assembles relentless
the shifting scenes of desire dreams.
The montage etched by the trail of mirage,
migrating in dunes of desolation,
makes collage of dream in deluded mind
against backdrop of nocturnal oasis.
The dreamer doesn’t see the dawn,
for the soul sleeps entranced deep within,
can’t escape self-built illusory maze,
until divine consciousness makes wake-up call.
The book contained their history—
Years of servitude and plenitude,
Years of gloom and bloom,
Years of darkness and redemption.
They were bound by the chains of the unknown,
Seeds of anguish were strangely sown.
The land was the footstool of malevolent spirits,
An enigma blanketed it.
It was a battle of the seen and unseen,
A war against malicious forces,
The sages searched deeply for answers,
Sojourning to secret chambers for redemption.
Hope gradually wore thin,
And the courage of valiant hearts began to fray,
Their steadfast minds were steadily pierced by defeat rays,
As a deluge of recalcitrant assailants descended upon them.
A rebirth came with the arrival of the sages,
The spirits of the forest were summoned,
They joined forces with the elements of goodwill
And defeated the malevolent spirits,
Chasing them to the abyss of nothingness.
Pride filled the heart of the new ruler,
Who boasted of the sovereignty of his reign,
He disdained the Divine and the watchers,
But one day, darkness suddenly pervaded his palace.
He was gone, and so was the book.
February 3, 2025.
For a moment
Life feels like how it's supposed to be
For a moment
I can tell my mom that I am free
For a second
You become the forgotten memories
For a second
I know where I'm meant to be
But for hours
I've drowned my sorrow in tears
For hours
I've wondered if the knife was near
For days
I've sold my body to wandering eyes
For days
I've spat on my own pride
And for weeks
I've distanced myself from friends
For weeks
I've disdained myself with men
For months
My corspe has been lying in the coffin
Nailed and sealed by the rotten dreams
For months
I've tried to find myself in you
While you stranded my songs on the haunting hill
But for years
I've built a shelter
So when I'm lost
I know where to sail
For years
I've created a haven
Shielding from the woe of the failing dreams
All terrain passing over sand stones from a distance catering to the hillside the mountain sent down a calming coolness while the barrels of oil leaked my minds eye focused on the stone slabs beneath the mountaintop grinding as the convoy entered the hidden nooks conveyed by night hiding under day teal lavender fabric covered my being hints of dates aroused my senses while meaningful gestures crowded my space chatter invaded this telepathically disdained balance covenant by old disagreements that poured out into the caves my knees trembled as I'm being quite pampered by kings giant screems facing every direction nations gathering for a group meet up my hands are kissed peppermint teas are chills served in brass tea containers looking over the world exploding I am comforted i am safe I am kandahar
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Tom cat got a bunch of wedding cake smeared in his face
By six ex-wives who thought he was a grooming disgrace.
Always marrying someone else, a sleezy one this time too.
This was meowed by wife number six, I think her name was Boo.
Who invited them? Tom yelped out with a disdained screech.
He was interrupted by wife five’s not so very nice speech.
His sixty-five kittens surrounded their marrying dad.
You are not a good groom, one of them said. You are a cad.
The marriage had not been consummated yet, so this was the time.
For the newlywed bride to turn and run away from this slime.
Instead, she wiped the wedding cake off of his face.
And said “He is number seven for me, and not any disgrace.”
My life is a raging fire
I'm desperate for living water
Manipulated by the ultimate liar
I'm even afraid to meet my daughter
Floating aimlessly to catch a wave
Hiding behind the wall of my shame
Time is endless as I wander this cave
The fleshly appetite is too difficult to tame
Hope seems to be my final thought
Confused by what I need
No where to go after I've been caught
When will I grow up and take the lead?
My ambitious intentions have been restrained
All I see is a life that has been disdained
Apocalypse kindles
relighting the fire
Malignant denominators
melt from above
Savior disdained
pontificate’s stain
Tomorrow endemic
— in nuclear love
(The New Room: March, 2024)
Can you recall a time
When words could scarcely say,
The sorrows on your mind
Or joys of yesterday?
It often is the case
When urge is met with pause,
That silence stills our tongues
And minds us of our cause.
A broken heart disdained;
A love you gladly found:
Words we cannot utter
Lay littered on the ground.
I’ll fix them in my hands
And mail them to the stars,
For surely God will hear
And heal our carnal scars.
If e’er you lose your voice
Amongst the noisy clutter,
I’ll speak on our behalf
The words we cannot utter…
The phrophets have ordered disdained execution of phrophecy
A cleansing
Chaos to order
Death and birth
One in the same
Crinkling elder writings
Static in sound
In vibration
The center
In the eye that weaves
At the edge
On one leg
Teetering
Balance of none
A storm
In the midst
Winds of change
Heavy
Shivering and teetering
Wobbling and shaking
The weave
Such a fine
Slippery line
Yet
Perfectly
Symmetrical
All around
Infinite loops
Within
One
As a whole
More intelligent than the rest
The others
The eye
The space
Within the commotion
The turning wheel of time stirs up the dust of disarray,
that settles in the crumbling cauldron of disordered life.
In the maiming moments of disdained dejection,
truth tumbles in the mélange of disorienting chaos.
Under the scorching blaze of the envy flame,
the desiccated soul suffers parched and forsaken,
searches for the niche of sanguinity in self-belief
to get the self-seeking shade of hope in frustration.
The sapling of irresistible longing rooted deep in desire,
nurtured in the receptive core of the longing heart,
blossoms the flower of passionate hedonism,
luring the being with the illusion of impulsive urge.
In the disorderly squall of divesting dismay,
the mangled mind is disheveled to a dishabille state,
tries to snap the chords of captivating greed,
the psychic cascade of unconcern carries them away.
Chasing the mirage across the dunes of desolation,
the hope of taking life to the oasis disappears deluded.
As the beleaguering storm of disenchantment blows,
consciousness takes the correction course to undo despair.
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