Where a series of
messages fly across
profiles inflated
in balloons of
hot air.
Where a model with doctored skin
sells better cells to cover your acne,
where people 'blackout' Tuesday
and appropriate taking a knee.
Where truth is a golden ticket, impossible to find,
where 'likes' replace juries, and we forget to #bekind.
Where stories are created at the push of a key,
replacing where dreams and drafting used to be.
Where a voice called Alexa can order, suggest and locate,
but also listen and through silent algorithms manipulate.
Where faceless Gemini can offer names for your new-born,
an ironic namesake, a duplicitous invader on your own front lawn.
And most of the time
those ongoing anonymous
messages simply
ghost
scalpel!
gently saw at the sides of the face
let it fall apart at the seams
now, put it up against yours
does it fit? is it a perfect match?
it feels cold, unwelcoming
the eyebrows are far too thick
the nose is far too big
i hate it
it is not a perfect fit.
scalpel!
gently saw at the sides of the face
let it fall apart at the seams
now, put it up against yours
does it fit? is it a perfect match?
it burns with uncertainty
the eyebrows are far too thin
the nose is far too small
i hate it
it is not a perfect fit.
how dare you be indecisive!
you bare no features!
only the blank canvas of a boundless oblivion
we gave you a wick!
we gave you paint!
i hate them
they are not a perfect fit.
I ascend to the stage,
I make sure not to stumble or trip.
They cheer and they boast and they cackle.
They like this new persona.
A beautifully doctored facade.
Would they like the girl behind the curtains?
They like my makeup and the pigment of my lipstick
Would they like my natural face?
Their teeth blind me
As i juggle my sanity
Ensuring that the tears that drip
From those tortured balls later on
Do not waterboard the floor
Their laughs distract me
As i contort my scar ridden limbs
Into the position of their desires
Ensuring that i do not break my weak bones
Who am I when the show ends?
Who am I when I take off my makeup?
Who am I when I am not performing?
The ringmaster wears darkness as a disguise
He watches my every contortion,
Judging my every breath.
If i drop a ball, if i break a bone -
He will punish me.
He has seen me behind the curtains
He has seen my face.
He is meant to love me.
But - he knows what they want.
I descend the stage
I stumble and i trip and i fall on my face
They cheer and they boast and they cackle
Do those fools think it is another persona?
Or is this my repugnant bona fide image?
In a moment, in a twinkling of an eye at the last trumpet:
for the trumpet shall blow, and the dead shall be raised up
incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
—1 Cor 15:52
To Friendly Face and Open Door
Spring of daffodils and time change,
of snowy Bradford pears and I,
to friendly face and open door;
ecstatic at the doctored lift.*
Of snowy Bradford pears and I,
an hour that cannot be reclaimed.
Ecstatic at the doctored lift.
Latter smile on church-countenance.
An hour that cannot be reclaimed,
and thus the gimp has no inkling.
Latter smile on church-countenance.
Pain perished in twinkling moment.
And thus the gimp has no inkling,
saved from the click clack of a clock.
Pain perished in twinkling moment,
in glory of Great Physician.**
Saved, from the click clack of a clock,
to friendly face and open door.
in glory of Great Physician,
Spring of daffodils and time change.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
*lift - elevator and metaphor
**Great Physician - Jesus Christ
***non-rhyming pantoum
Alone I drift, a vagabond psuche, haunted by daughter's lifeblood and husband's self-exploded mind, a diseased landscape. Frantic fingers dance on the page as I conjure reason's faint glow, a desperate chainsaw whirring solace in the abyss. Bloodlust welts of fury scorch the script, a deranged catechism of hedonistic, as I shriek into the fray, my frame a torched earth, solar barren and bereft. Scum-ridden silver glares back, mocking reflections of futility, as I seethe venomous disgust, a reckoning’s reckoning, spewing forth vitriol to corrode the granite complacency. Specters of forgotten faces fragment, a ghastly kaleidoscope of doctored truths, as I screech at the echoing of a hollow existence, a funeral dirge for the self that never was. And smile at the reflection of who I am supposed to be, single-mother-effer's manifesto, don’t effing question she, you don’t have the piano fingers to come near my grace on the keys, I tie cherries with my tongue, have your berries blue by morn, my hands are a whole different story.
Sometimes I amaze even me — this is poetry!!
My heart is rapid
Escalating by the second,
Flutters?
Flustered?
No.
That's not it.
That feels different
This…this is less innocent
A need,
To fulfill his desire,
But it feels awkward;
Doctored
After i’ve stopped him,
I realize
I'm not enough;
Hardly got any stuff
With a slippery substance, he doctored the baseball
~ showing no respect for the medical profession at all
Gb2 's a radio show, it airs in Sydney...But there's more to know.'
Ben Fordam has been speaking out, on the covid dictates
Roundabout on where the science meets the facts
Whether it's all altruistic.? Or do some just act?
Also acts that block, that rile and shock; that lay down demands
That cost a lot..' Much production is de-railed; Aussie
Dreams now are ships with tattered sails, I hear that Ben is
Triple vaxed.. ) an early advocate, was his shout not so lax.'
Yet now he'll listen to anti-views ' To me that rings like
Dinkum news.' He' on facebook; and also twitter He's
A sounding board; and I'd reckon, a real heavy hitter.'
I haven't met the man as yet.' But I like the idea that
He's listening, and talking.' that's the part I really get.!
Go for it Ben,.' I will also here give mention to another
Australian heveyweight journalist Andrew Bolt a legend
In his time and this field, who has been questioning things
And even resigned, from the official endorsed media he
Was involved in, If I get time I will do him in a piece also '
I
I must have TEA
Must have been in a state
Mississippi
Must have sipped stale TEA
WENT TO HorsePetal
Flowery Hospital
Recovered Nicely
Re-covered
Doctored prescribed wisely
II
Missus Have TEA
Tennis T anyone
Yes Tennessee -
If Miss Sippy
Wore her New Jersey
What did Dellswear?
Go to ALASKA
In the cosmos, Mother started thinking;
'Oh! How will these mortals ever stop polluting?'
Then she had an idea, one so brilliant;
That she would send Corona, down as a pollutant.
He will annihilate everything in a yell;
And turn the world into a bloody hell.
'I think I should be more dangerous;'
'Maybe a virus, as that's far more disastrous.'
Then what happened? A virus he became;
And henceforth everyone feared his name.
Homo-sapiens for a year they hid;
Then they came out for the virus they wanted to rid.
But what shall we do? The earthling wondered;
We should turn to the people who are already doctored.
Then for another year they worked on an antidote;
And mother contemplated as if looking at an anecdote.
Will they finish the mithridate in time;
Or will their population be consumed by mine.
Mother racked her brain to find an answer,
And lo and behold! They found a curer.
Russia? Russia! How did they find a cure?
You don't ask me, ask them all.
We grow up being doctored into thought processes and beliefs on how to live and find success. Family and nationalistic attitudes inherited wether or not we believe in their rationales, logic or prejudice.
When we stand upon our own feet. We find our own way to survive. Survival takes its own path on these roads of many miles.
Our minds become accustomed to dealing with failure and success. Our bodies carry this engine that controls how we measure up against humanity and the human state of mess.
When it comes down to the basics the powers treat us, look upon us and condemn like we are all the same. But when it comes down to our minds we exist on levels of countless varied plains.
Myrtle had a pet turtle
She was fair looking and fertile
Tried to get into a girdle
Squeezing so hard
she turned purple
Her cows mike curdled
Drank it and hurled
Then Myrtle lost her pearls
As the story goes Myrtles turtle
Ate her pearls and walk in cycles
The funny thing was
Myrtle was married to
A vet who doctored squirrels
To go on would spin your head
Turing it around in cycles
light apparition -
is it angel that's captured
or human desire?
Brian Johnston
Date Unknown
Poet's Notes:
Response to a Facebook Woodland Photograph that could be real or could be doctored. Like a stain on a wall that someone claims is an image of Christ, the truth of such claims has no relevance to living humanity in my opinion.
They forge these paths with littered stones
Paint thick the way with gilded gold
Sing praise upon those doctored steps
Spew truths and lies amalgam
Till lines once fine are smudges
Blemishes on the vast drawing of Life
Old eyes had seen the picture
These new ones never will
They come to realize
A blur represents no cause
Lies further no truth
Those gilded paths have no end
Sprout from no beginning
Soar to no height
Shine in no light
Each step a step nowhere
And after the longest night
Most arduous flight
The sun rises
But falls too soon
Blistered feet touch familiar ground
And the night begins again
Until the sun burns out
And the night forever persists
For the journey made for meaning
Was tiresome indeed
Yet meant nothing after all
I was doctored
Before I was sick
Getting ahead of disease
Is the trick
...to being
I was wrong
Before I was right
Placed in between
Evil and light
...to struggle
I was cursed
Before I was blessed
Redemption needed
To enter rest
...as a baby
I was rescued
Before I was bound
Pleasures denied
Just as they were found
...in hope
Punishment a promise
Before reward was offered
All I could ever desire
Sacrificed on an altar
...of an AWFUL god
TRUTH appeared............
Now, WHAT?????
Written by Trudy Schrader on 07/26/2020
Note: Growing up in any society, we are taught WHAT to believe rather than how to think and how to process information. I think about Jim Jones, David Koresh and others who were obviously, mentally ill, but so were their followers, so easily indoctrinated. Why is it so easy for us to swallow, hook, line and sinker, belief systems based in punishment and reward rather than the TRUTH...God means to enjoy us? May we all come to know Daddy God as LOVE, because that is His name.
Related Poems