Sometimes I sit and I ponder.
I ponder about my lacquered erudition.
I ponder about my varnished rectitude.
I ponder about my penning acquiescence.
The insipid tedium of my veins questions my oblivion to a stupor so stark to the glorification of my solitude.
I ponder its adjacent to the extolment of my void.
The seething flame sanctifies the feigning rot of my lungs as I inhale the melancholy of your lips.
Something so soothing.
Something so soaring.
Something so laboriously stinging.
I desire for the salvation of sin;
To tattoo your words on my tongue.
To swallow my decay in your blood.
To fuse your disparity on my webs.
I sit and I ponder.
Am I so inured to the metal of these bars, I distort the culpable intimacy of still yet existing in one?
And thereafter, I ponder whether my silver ashes will ever dare to utter the sinister sacrilege of my syllables.
Softly I hear its whimper.
I can only simper.
It doesn't even feel real.
Its intent is my mind to steal.
Clearly I listen to its ofference.
Although I take no offence.
I know its not real.
I'm aware it won't heal.
Defiantly that voice in my head,
becomes something I really dread.
The words tend to distort.
They alter every honest thought.
Loudly the voice expands.
In such need of helping hands.
Ignoring it becomes a strain.
Tears manifest in vain.
Screaming orders for me to back down.
Bewilderment and tears slowly cause a frown.
Its as if I knew,
the voice belongs to you.
I'm the vessel of your verses
The voice of your vice
The product of the dream you nurture
The nature you hide
I'm the vessel of your verses
For better or worse as
I killed as much as I healed
For your own selfish causes
Though like I
Sprinkled in time – a wrinkle in time
Distort this course of pattered patterns
As we try to advise
I come from a plight your voice invites
Yet through that noise my choice is mine
I'll rhyme with vice from time to time
But rhyme my course through what is mine
To frame my words:
Picture my verse reversing a curse and nursing a hearse
Purging the urge to merge with the merchant of murder or worse
Piercing the person that persecuted my pride
Piercing the Plight that worsens the worth of the words I write
Purging my urges, the grudges held from the judgment of hurt
Purging my hypocrisy, when it gave you hurt much worse
The stanzas alliterate to reflect the repetition
The verse of illiterate veterans on a mission
To verse you in their permanent "medicating" religion
Most mean love, while most only deliver what's given
With the wakened desire eerie, to be something,
It overgrows soon to be and have all-- everything;
The inner drive mounts a crazy tipsy horse clever,
Closes not on the unjust chase nor the goal ever
But for sure gets into too complex a confusion
That cannot find the fruition,lost in the delusion
A look back: and there is a huge, vast ruffled lot
Delinking time,space and the intent with each trot
Gone away are those that breathed full and wild,
Strong and firm against mind's all prompts mild,
With the darting strides sprinted with the gallop:
Somewhere in the dark corner of hope,all call up
Fostered,it grows fast ,certain only to disorder,
Distort the well cherished mettle yond the border;
The self overgrows toa monster,senseless of all:
The good and the noble,distant kith or kin, or pal;
One might loudly recall those tall conquests futile
And the great falls to the nadir in a bit short while
A summer bawdy or humorous limerick Poetry Contest
Tania Kitchin
My summer dress is a wee bit too short
I'm drawing aggressive stares of all sort
Men with their catcalls
And their big eyeballs
I thanked my dry cleaner for the distort
Cold floorboards groan beneath
the weight,
Of shadows trapped inside the gate.
The walls are bleeding memories
past,
In rooms where dying breaths were
cast.
A sudden chill, a phantom stride,
With nowhere left for you to hide.
The staircase creaks without a
foot,
And all your courage turns to soot.
The mirrors distort a twisted face,
That claims this dark, forsaken
place.
You hear the latch, you feel the
dread,
The house belongs to what is
dead.
Truth and facts are twins,
born from the same silence,
cradled in the same light,
yet hunted by different men.
Facts stand naked in the marketplace,
cold, stubborn, unmoving.
Numbers etched into stone,
events that happened whether we like them or not.
But truth…
truth walks deeper.
It enters the soul of things,
breathes beneath statistics,
and whispers what facts alone cannot explain.
A fact may tell you
that chains once held a people.
Truth will tell you
how those chains still echo in their minds.
A fact may record
the fall of a nation.
Truth will reveal
who sold its future in the dark.
And so the world fears them both.
Because facts expose lies,
but truth exposes intentions.
Politicians manipulate facts,
crowds distort truth,
and loyalists bury both
beneath noise and emotion.
Yet the twins endure.
For facts are the footprints of reality,
and truth is the soul that left them behind.
Separate them,
and society becomes blind.
Unite them,
and even darkness begins to confess.
ODE TO YOU
To the success of my endeavors might Love
not illude me. Then might my toils be not
in vain. That even the holiest of me turmoil
is seen as wicked and such meddling
unwanted
.Ultimately from fides or fidare might
a faith ensue that trust then is established.
Only a promise that I may then refer to her
as mine.
Then all that tempest her shall be seen as
outsiders with intent to crumble our trust.,
or distort our togetherness.
The formal promise.
----------------------------------------------------
Staccato
Hera (goddess of marriage)
, Hymenaios (god of weddings)
, and Aphrodite (goddess of love)
shifting a relationship from something casual
to a long term relationship.
I've been told many a time to fan Chelsea
That my darling club is not worth my time
That Arsenal will never bring joy consistently
For all the love, time, money and energy for support
Not to be in waste without any trace of payback
Oh the so called blue; her weight put winnings on knee
Yearning of the past glory as their prime
Yet hope nothing good is for ARS. insistently
But claimed her players, maybe are distort
Keeping at heart the soon to come winnings-- back-to-back
Mortify reproach; let Arsenal shock them
That those who run never have those crawling condemn
The eyes of yesterday
cry in silence behind broken glasses
where perception is scattered
like dust swept away
So as not to distort the memories
of a tempestuous fool
trapped in a whirlwind of lost judgment
in a drunken playground of self-indulgence
painting a loftier picture of lies
which slipped through life's fingers
like mercury
how still is our silence if thoughts intrude
even as words in the conception stage
since symbols distort, being always crude
even latent stirrings, mind battles wage
negating this form and the universe
piercing pores of space, stopping flow of time
we as spirit have no need to rehearse
mirroring God’s heartbeat felt as love’s chime
vibrant thus in a unified force field
transcending the limitations of mind
divine aligned, resolve of our heart steeled
we attain truth that cannot be defined
being both immanent and transcendent
we are fully love and light resplendent
He climbs out of his car and admires his reflection.
Intoxicated by his self-perceived perfection.
He tells himself he's number one.
Says he's entitled to his fun.
Will never want to pay his way.
When he's asked, he walks away.
Rejects responsibility.
Just tells himself he must be free.
Will lie to cover up his tracks.
Distort the truth - denies the facts.
Says self-preservation must be his rule.
Believes he's a winner and thinks he's cool.
He's a legend inside his tiny mind.
But sadly, one day he will find.
He's on his own - his friends are gone.
And will never accept he’s done any wrong
Cohorts of suits distort
Court the last resort
Damnation of immigration
Onslaught in cahoots cavort
Pander to propaganda slander
Escort darker fraught faces
From other races caught
To starker places.. shunted
Hunted like a sort of sport
History debunked
“Before” skunked & kerplunked
Lore of Yore junked
Fossil fuel full sumps
Well More is More
Trees flump become clumps
Of gnarly snarly stumps
Petrol pumps pour
Sheriffs thumps any grumps
Tariffs Gazumps…prices soar
Ready for the final encore?
Eclectic Notions on A Sunbeam
I cannot see inside your mind unless it’s telescopic
On bended knee it rains sublime with the next contentious topic
I’m rendered please into decline as I am incline to stop it
Befriended a line of enchanted rhyme to retreat from the myopic
Auspicious arguments that have no point or vision
Vicious bargains that consort to continue upon their mission
Superstitious monuments that distort the acquisition
Pernicious paradigms for high concept mimes that refute the inquisition
Social intimidation before you’ve even left the house
Perocial lamentations leave you quiet as a mouse
Antisocial inclinations at the introverted house
Precocial salutations that leave me wanting to renounce
Perspectives on the global scene bereft of accuracy or intention
Detectives of the broken dreams wishing upon the next invention
Reflective thoughts before the scream to bequeath an intercession
Eclectic notions on a sunbeam underneath my last confession
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
I watch
colors distort into
dots tiptoeing on the white wall
Black target expands—engulfs—
flitting between rear and front sight
Blood drums in my ears—
tides I ride with breath held
shallow. It hums, the shadow—
taunts with broken birdsongs
It knows.
All it takes is
a skipped heartbeat
for a sniper to fall
Countdown.
Lens focusing into center
breaths narrow into blade, inhale—
The world refined to
a single shot resting in the barrel—
Exhale.
A light tap on the trigger—
a sparrow’s footprint on fresh snow—
silent, sudden,
the sound catches up after
the recoil sends a shock to spinal cords
That’s when chirps falter into echo
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