Met by chance a coincidence
Met by chance a sudden whim by the side of a window isle , speedy montage , a train track
Never to fancy about a becoming, monsieur
Before then too t'was a maiden, a shrew, enjambment and a refrain, clerihew!
A gorgeously red wedding chant, a royal vow, know-how
pomegranate a hue, a blushing knew!
Today, the silky hue was a blackened clue, inconclusive
a garment and arose an eve, and a grievance whence Eden sank in grief!
Fancied about a wall, non , none, never, to belong
a myrtle a suntanned thistle thal home bound, a letter poem, enclosed envelope!
From hothat dekha an early composition
Hothat Dekha | | Voice : Rajib Mahata
The prognosis reflected an empty space.
My scrambled intelligence made it hard to embrace.
Dyslexic data merging all over the place.
Lurid innuendos impossible to trace.
My mind in tatters like torn Chantilly lace.
The vision before me was inconclusive to perceive.
How can I deduce what I cant retrieve?
Restitution would be the answer to weave.
Yet my brain simply cannot begin to conceive.
It is superior intelligence I wish to achieve.
1N73LL1G3NC3 15 7H3 4B1L17Y 70 4D4P7 70 CH4NG3.
7H053 1N73LL3C7U4LLY G1F73D C4N 4L73R, 4D4P7 4ND R34RR4NG3.
a car passing
driving slowly
narrow downhill
street
gray cloaked sky
snow on the road
sleet falling
sludge tipping
garbage cans
driver looks at me
i am over there looking
at her bundled form
her gloves grabbing
a loose steering wheel
now i am passing her
while standing still
slippery shoes
skate on
we watch us being this
downhill thought
a moment empties out
traction fills the space
a pause makes
when it grips itself
a plowing wind
pushes whiteouts
into a creeping darkness
inconclusive resolutions
pass-on-by
In science, we observe.
All only exist when and after they are
observed.
I, an explorer, lean in with a lens
to catch the scent of rained soil,
the mist above the lake before sunrise—
trying to defy
the myth of love, with my
list of what I’m meant to find:
- light feathery kisses in spring breeze’s tickle
- smiling to smiling eyes in a pavement puddle
- shared silence after a midnight rain
- a cocoa cuddle while the world melts away
Footnote: Data inconclusive
Jesus; he is Christ and he’s what Christmas is about
Jests and silly little jokes, some atheists will tout
Tests on shrouds would later prove a little inconclusive.
Tents would be too public for an imminent exclusive
Rents agreed for stabling when the virgin birth was due
Rants from Joseph, “Who’s this man who laid his hands on you?”
Mants inflict the Scot as statue’s eyes in blood do run
Manta rays glide ’neath the waves, where all life had begun
Santa, flies the skies above till Christmas Eve is done
[Mants = Stammers (primarily Scots)]
Melted in the background of the forefront of my mind
Thinking about all of the thoughts I've left far behind
Now everything within my head seems so very intertwined
The asterisk by the questions of answers I'll never find
Interference is what confuses my once solid mental state
Fear is the illusion that my enemies illustrate
Unbalanced in tortured abuses that echo and reverberate
Evidence seems inconclusive but not open for debate
Inhumane acts to humanity just a subject to be tested
Mind raped in profanity every part they have molested
Actions of complete insanity why was I even selected
The power of my anatomy has been tortured and arrested
V2K, silent sound, no touch torture, gang stalked target
How to fight those who always walk on Blood Red Carpet
bmdavey@10/6/24
Crystal waters plumping the honeydews
and cascading through amusement park ride.
As tourists engage in espionage
in Duckburg at Knottsbury farms.
As graves of self sufficiency,
Communes of bagged embalm.
"Do What Thou Wilt","Do No Harm".
Spirit cooking, charms I"m sure.
Missing and exploited children bearing no arms.
Foreigners get precedence over
the Citizenry collage for the sake
of stirring the melting plot.
The coffers brim
and Scrooge McF swims past inflation,
reaps the rewards of child labor
at camp Whinnie the Pooh with pedophiles and containment lasers,
adds a zero and then again, while CBDC
cabalist coup hides the genesis
of their new technology,
obfuscates the code in block-chain,
snart contract chaser-
in lock-step
and unlocked surveillance,
laser focused,
poker face,
tazered for inconclusive shadow, ban.
As we sell our Sons and Daughters
to a not so brave New World.
Sold at half price for reverse mortgage
and a haptic iPhone holographic massage.
OnlyFans and Tic Tok trends.
Where does it end?
Where the SoyLent is green.
Where the Red Firm Grows.
In between the lightning
the rain plays tricks
and my judgment is inconclusive
a stranger's face becomes blurred
the rain pours in sheets
the silence of the night is broken
It's something inconclusive
This feeling that I'm not
A perfect human specimen
Lukewarm compared to hot
I scrutinise the mirror
That I carry in my phone
It tells me of belonging
Yet I feel so far from home
I probably need rebuilding
Like a human Lego set
A different type of perfect
Is the answer I detect
A voice within me cries out
Don't change a single part
I love you as imperfect
'Cos you're perfect for my heart
Let's work on your perspective
Stand right here just next to me
Now tell yourself through my eyes
Not more perfect could you be
My best guess is that it was some 20 years ago that
the number 100 represented years I wanted to live.
This was my request to The Lord, adding that I would
like to revisit the matter then to see if I wanted to
live beyond 100. It was a prayer of simplicity without
conditions, declarations, decrees, or qualifications.
It was all about longevity, legacy, serving God and
humanity. At that point, the matter was closed.
A few years ago, as I was sharing my longevity dream
with a friend, he countered with the fact that he'd
rather not live that long. For Bob, about 85 years
would suffice.
So, I concluded that I needed to revisit The Lord with
an amendment granting me 'a healthy 100 years'. Having
included that caveat, I then felt much better about 100.
I must say that my friend's comment about being both
aged and healthy was a sobering one of which I took
serious note.
When I look across the horizon of our shattered world
and the challenges to be faced, issues personal, foreign,
and domestic that refuse to be silenced, there is a toss
and turn in my spirit. Although inconclusive with second
thoughts, I'm still inclined toward a climb to 100.
062023PS.
This was once a sea of mud
Where thousands bled!
Before it reverted to!
A field of Flanders Poppy Red.
Do lines of ghostly squaddies!
Plough through ethereal mire!
In an endless quest to!
Charge the enemy barbed wire.
Do Mill Bombs explode!
As machine guns bark!
Sending many of the brave!
Into death's final dark.
How many bodies sank
Into that glutinous paste
Just futile victims of
A futile war's waste.
Do those shades fight bravely
Or do they fight with despair
Knowing it was sheer folly
That they were ever there.
The Flanders Poppy thrives
It's vivid scarlet red
An enduring tribute to those
Many brave but wasted dead.
And the massed white tombstones
In their precise lines and ranks
Are tended with love and care
In sincere but inadequate thanks
17 October 1916 the Battle of The Somme enterd its 109th day and had 32 more to run. It lasted 141 day in total. It saw the first use of the tank in battle, and extensive use of air power.
Casualties: British and Empire: 420,000, French: 200,000, German: between 434,000 and 500,000.
It was classed as “inconclusive.”
100 Years On I feel like crying/
Stay in rhythm, little buddy;
don't need that report to muddy
what has been a peaceful, quiet,
restful phase, so skip the riot.
Couple that were inconclusive;
fine by me - remain elusive.
I'd rather not be sliding back;
let's get the rhythm back on track.
VIEWPOINT
acquired
discovered
&
conceived
so personalised
alongside
an
edge
a layer
& the flavour
& the
character
of
destiny
of the
fragile
&vulnerable
to bear
in mind
identified
the
inconclusive
displayed
alongside
the luminous
so
recently
discovered
an
emphasis
on the
novel
niche
&otherwise
familiar
the
ultra-contemporary
a showcase
emerging
as a
restorative
to
overwhelm
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park
playing a rickety 5 string and hoot'in and holler'in.
I have no idea what he is singing.
There is no discernible melody.
Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air
to take some sort of measure
before plunging back into his flailing guitar.
After another stuttering burst he will stop/
then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/
punk operatic/ style
nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/
he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough
It's/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key.
Beyond the realm of anything/
resembling cohesive musicality
/rambunctiously obtuse
yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.
His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/
You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/
and make of that an evening/ with class
but I like the way this codger lets her rip/
this ragged chanteur/
airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style
When I die
I give the Pulitzer Board
Permission
To exhume my lyrics
And some overweight ME
Will put my verses on a slab
Going thru my stanzas for tone
looking for assonance and
Consonance in my bones
As my family waits around to see
If i really was a great poet
And they will probe my lines
for cadence
Meter and Trochee
Taking notes
As they dissect
My poetry
They will say I was anemic
On my tercets
And many of my quatrains were forced
As they search for the source
One of the examiners
will write on his tablet
That I never wrote
A Sestina or villanelle
They will note, He was good.
But his books didn't really sell.
The NAACP will close that he didn’t
Represent the Black community
Like King or Rosa Parks
Leaving my legacy a question mark
And no one will be specifically sure
If I advanced the Black Race
Leaving the matter a Cold Case
My kids will ask
But what does all this mean?
Was he really a great poet?
Was he as good as Frost or Hughes
The examiner will stare confused
The autopsy will be intrusive
And they will say:
REPORT INCONCLUSIVE!!
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