To honor someone’s talent
While excusing certain views
Which the world may deem offensive
Is the stuff that makes the news.
For a well-endowed museum,
With a Costume Institute,
Planned to showcase a designer
Who’s the face of ill repute.
Known for comments that disparage
People different from his type,
Nonetheless, his output thrives
With many drawn into the hype.
Yet the show for Galliano,
With Ms. Wintour’s staunch support,
Raised the hackles of some donors
And those critics got to thwart
What, to me, was recognition
That should surely be reserved
For designers with both talent
And integrity observed.
Sometimes those with too much power
Make decisions which, I’d bet,
Turn the tide to flow against them,
Though they harbor no regret.
I am the box you spend with eternity.
Holding what is left, what remains.
Anguish seeps down from shattered hearts
Releasing unbearable pain.
I look put together for a little while
Then I fall apart where no one can see.
Like excusing yourself into another room
So you can privately grieve.
My satin filled insides will eventually disperse.
Until the Earth claims what is rightfully hers.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
Letting go is a powerful must.
They lower me solemn and slowly
Earth welcoming me back home for good.
Beneath the soiled surface,
I perform the work of wood.
Told to say something when quiet,
Told to be quiet when speaking.
What am I supposed to do?
What is the answer you’re seeking?
Am I to speak?
Or am I not?
Am I to stay quiet
and speak in my thoughts?
I speak in disease,
Slowly destroying everything around me,
Until I have nothing left,
Such a cruel reality.
Sorry is the only word I know,
It’s all I ever say.
Excusing my pitiful ignorance
Until my eventual doomsday.
I’m sorry for talking,
I’m sorry for staying silent,
I’m sorry for daring to speak,
Please don’t show me repent.
For it is my own naivety
that has brought me here.
I shall hide myself away
Until my end is near.
You think you’re riding high, so high falutin’:
the fact is, you’re the dumbest ox in town.
There’s no-one as unfunny as a clown:
reforming is a thing, but you’re just looting.
Repudiating allies while you’re rooting
for enemies will never earn the crown
you crave: and, in advance of sitting down,
you showed your hand. You gave the game to Putin.
Stupidity does not deserve excusing.
It takes a man to take his share of blame,
a thing you’ll never do. You have no shame.
Your hand-picked team are taking drugs and boozing,
already reconciled inside to losing,
because (like you) they ever knew the game.
If all people accept evil, color the world, Red.
We have lost genuine respect and love for all life!
Yes, I do mean Communism, with whom America, sleeps in bed.
Innocent unborn, slashed to pieces, with an abortionist’s shiny knife.
And, oh how we howl and berate with jealosy,all the wealthy!
We gave up caring for our children’s innocent, bright souls..
Excusing those elected, who steal our money quite stealthily.
Who teach ungodly sex, and that was never, ever our goal!
Teachers cannot replace your familiy’s Judaeo-Christian values.
So, get them out of public schools, for as a parent you are mocked.
Transgenderism is the new, abominable, government, regious rule.
Even one Supreme Court judge, knows not what a woman is, a total shock.
In the USA, people proudly march, drool and shout for death!
Standing for life or God, makes one the object of brutality.
And howling for murder is not considered any threat?
Thus, we give birth to a total heathen, egotistical dynasty.
4/22/2023
without excusing mistakes
I cried yes, the mistakes made
and I took off yes, aged lying clothes
There’s Who I am, What I’ve done,
And Where I want to be.
And how I choose to view them each
Sets their priority.
Just saying this is Who I am
Excusing What I’ve done
Means Where I want to be remains
The place where I’ve begun
But if I say that What I’ve done
shapes Who I am complete
Then Where I want to be becomes
A goal I cannot meet
Yet knowing Where I want to be
Without the other two
Will leave me lost and wandering
In deserts I’ve gone through
Let What I’ve done be marker stones
On pathways within me
That guide me up from Who I am
To Where I want to be
10/16/22
ER: Enlightenment Recovery Poetry Contest
If you knew they would you execute
Would you ugly wars prosecute
And child soldiers recruit?
The thrice- honored far being cute
But now and ever Plain Brute
And The Devilishly Mute?
If you saw combats could yield addicts
Would you pass drug-use-excusing edicts?
All that you did powerfully predict
Trends offering to easily contradict,
More shooting hands hiring,
When you should’ve ceased firing…
Try you they shall for Genocide
And compel to eat herbicide:
An In-The-Midst Weed
They don’t at all need.
I need to be patient with some folks I know
Who prattle on about nothing and loudly proclaim,
They are experts on this or that … hot air they blow
I suppose to acquire for themselves a bit of fame.
To be known for blathering and loquaciousness,
With no understanding of the value of dead silence
Causes me utter consternation, I must confess,
And sometimes almost provokes me to violence.
I am too polite to say, “Will you please shut up!”
My gut starts churning as they drone on and on
With meaningless bloviating at a horse’s gallop,
So, excusing myself, am to nearest restroom gone.
written January 14, 2022
This wasn’t any lawful, peaceful protest,
Nor a rational expression of free speech.
It was one nation under siege by misguided,
Manipulated puppets under 45’s direction.
Every MAGA hat-wearing oath keeper proud boy,
All those angry white thugs in tactical vests,
And every other rat domestic terrorist
Committed treason, clear at first inspection.
There’s no excusing violence and vandalism.
No patriotic warrant to condone.
To attack the institution of the US Constitution,
It was nothing less than traitors’ insurrection.
He has not been feeling well his mother said, excusing four-year-old Chad.
He has asthma, she said at five,
he did not mean to shove the child off the slide.
He has headaches she said when he turned six,
and another child is sent to the hospital.
He is having a hard time, he is dyslexic,
she said at seven, trying to get him on a field trip.
The other children were terrified of him; he bragged about torturing animals.
He has a hard life she told the policemen who picked him up for a home invasion at eleven.
He went to juvenile hall but was returned by a judge who dated his mama.
He ran away at fourteen, sixteen, and seventeen; but he was brought back.
He broke a child’s arm, knee, and nose during his absences.
He is supersensitive, his mama explained. That other child started it.
According to her the other children always start it.
Today Chad is in federal prison.
Convicted of murdering three women.
Suspected in the disappearance of three others.
His mother tries to date the right people, so she can get him out.
She has not found the right man, so she is still making excuses for Chad.
Climbing the walls
or are they holding me?
Really anxiety is a slow moving plague;
Over the lingering fear;
Not a question, not an answer
always excusing irrational behavior;
Viral spread of ‘You better listen’
ignoring the slow decline of freedom;
Radical screams pepper no substance;
Under the mask is the real virus
slowly smothering independence.
My towels that fall on its floor
Never again cross my door:
Always sentenced to Death by burning,
The circumstances of one mourning…
Or demoted to a shoe rag,
Its reacceptance to eternally drag.
My sponges that in its slips off my hand
Become soldiers missing in action:
Some seconds of silence plus military band
Followed with ‘Rest in Peace or the notion’
I could round spin in my Jacuzzi
But in public bathroom keep eyeing the greasy,
Scarcely thinking it easy
Excusing the unforgivable sleazy;
Always, The Ever Tactical
Any rash alternative, nonsensical.
This poem is for Pagunda Zahid who asked me
Write a poem before he is reluctantly, thrown out,
A spoiled brat who’s lost his best teddy,
Sure he’s plotting to make trouble already,
An impolite, jealous, trouble making annoying fool,
Trying his hardest to overthrow the winner, not cool.
Accusing the election of being fraudulent, how dare he
Lost his balls, think his marbles have also shrunk to a pea,
Has many rallies where nobody wears a mask
Surely the law should take him to task,
Depression and anger has been said to affect a winkie
The senate might have to keep excusing him to take a tinkie!
Hatred
(A disease that only God has the cure for.)
By: Miracle Man
August 30, 2020
Anarchist’s don’t want jobs and hate the badge,
Their desire is making others exist in their ruts.
They choose to loot, whine, pillage, or cadge,
and excusing this behavior shows a scarcity of guts.
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