Long Aggressively Poems
Long Aggressively Poems. Below are the most popular long Aggressively by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Aggressively poems by poem length and keyword.
The beaten clay of the market road is thick and heavy underfoot,
clinging to the tires of purple line 7 seaters and boots of the commuters.
The silence of the Kasane tarmac feels a thousand miles away
the moment I step across the border line and drop into the shouting of the crowd,
where the zinc sheets of the stall roofs are still dripping onto the mud from the sudden downpour.
I navigate the narrow lanes, my sneakers sinking into the wet, rutted earth,
as the sharp smell of dried kapenta mixes with roasting maize and hot diesel exhaust.
The money changers lean past my shoulders, aggressively flashing thick bricks of Kwacha notes,
their voices competing with the loud, erratic vibration of a petrol generator
that someone is fueling with a plastic funnel just a few steps away from the food stalls.
The woman who sells tomatoes doesn’t look up as I squeeze past her wooden crate;
she is entirely focused on using a piece of cardboard to sweep the muddy water away,
her plastic apron heavily stained with the dark juice of crushed vegetables.
Beside her, a trader aggressively unpacking secondhand jackets from a damp canvas bale,
shouting out prices to consumers who keep their heads down, calculating the cost of a meal.
A couple of young men stand huddled together under the narrow shelter of the butchery awning,
their smartphones held high toward the sky to catch a flickering network signal after the storm.
They are talking loudly about a music gig in Lusaka, using big words and forced laughter,
trying to pretend that the wet mud on their jeans doesn’t tell the true story of their morning hustle,
but the market doesn't care about their city pretenses.
It only asks that you look closely at the people who do not have the luxury of quitting,
and that you write down their names exactly as they are written in the mud.
The afternoon sun begins to drop behind the floodplains, turning the puddles into sheets of orange light.
The freight trucks bound for the north begin to rev their engines, waiting for the customs gates to clear,
while the vendors slowly fold up their damp tarpaulins for the night.
I walk out toward the edge of the clearing, leaving the smell of wood smoke and wet earth behind,
as the market closes its books and prepares to do the exact same thing tomorrow.
WinLose risks
probably never disappear
for WiseElder
Left-Right codependent Bodhisattvas
messianic co-arising
ecological egotherapeutic healing
and WinWin holonic integrity wholing.
Deep learning bilateral compassion
to meet our basic needs
economic ecology
through more democratically mature
Ego-EcoPositive political fashions
and, yet again, WinWin designs.
Immature competitive adolescent strategies
become automatic normals
re-acclimating double-binds
of WinLose dissonant compromises,
accepted practice for now,
waiting for WinWin raptures
and resonance
in fullness of time.
Resonant resilience of life systems
might become WinWin revolutionary self-deployed
each 3D cooperative identity moment
without takeover
by LeftBrain/RightWing aggressive violence
advocating more competition
to effectively Either/Or obtain
evermore monoculturing resources--
hoarding
as associated
with paranoia
about losing out
to overpopulating climates
of secular loss
sacred pathology of light
through dualdark cosmology.
I need not become a WiseElder
to know that losing integrity
succumbs to a dually endarkened
ego-privileged ecology.
I do not need a PhD in competing Busyness
to discover healthy differences
between not aggressively driving mindbodies
(which is a good thing)
but not as high a love
or health
or grace standard
as Golden Rules
driving active cooperation
as best WinWin defense
against not losing secular
not losing sacred
nondual ecology.
Growing my hair down below my knees...
stimulated courtesy follicles,
where Coconut, Olive, Grapeseed,
Jojoba, Amla and Vitamin E oils
allowed, enabled,
and provided head start
germinating peach fuzz into brown strands
after Flaxseeds, Pumpkin seeds and Fenugreek
being sprinkled on my scalp
yielded a bumper crop of hirsute weeds
occasionally tripping me up
analogous to hallucinogen
causing a public health hazard
warranting, necessitating, and goading me
to give shout out for stylist
to tender mine lovely brunette locks,
which might be repurposed into a wig
for patients undergoing chemotherapy,
or afflicted with alopecia,
(the partial or complete absence
of hair from areas of the body
where it normally grows; baldness).
As a knobby kneed, puny,
scrawny, wimpy kid whose,
(back in the nineteen sixties),
his parents decreed their singular
(painfully shy dorky, geeky and nerdy)
old school boy who sported a buzz cut,
which found him reacting and responding
(in short order rebelling)
passive aggressively by
refusing to bathe
until mommy dearest demanded
(well nigh upon
the bewitching hour of midnight)
to witness her son soaked
and essentially marinated
(until my skin shriveled like a prune)
in the (clawfoot) tub
lest he stink to high heavens,
and given a serious dressing down
by the timely principal Mister Clock.
Far back as I can remember,
the significance of hair
assumed an outsize role,
whether enviously eying other lads
their thick straight hank,
or nowadays bristling
with self reproach
cursed with thinning
greasy limp strands
(interspersed with gray)
experiencing shame being seen in public,
a disgrace to our family name of Wagstaff
and an embarrassment
to the human race
ofttimes associating
myself with Samson,
whereat emotional, physical,
and spiritual strength
rooted (pun intended)
within each hair shaft
(the visible part of the hair
that sticks out of the skin),
and rooted in the skin and extends
down to the deeper layers of the skin
surrounded by the hair follicle
(a sheath of skin
and connective tissue),
which is also connected
to a sebaceous gland.
"You will come to the grave in full vigor, Like the stacking of grain in its season.
— Job 5:26
Abraham breathed his last and died in a ripe old age, an old man and satisfied with life; and he was gathered to his people.
— Genesis 25:8
PARADE OF SILVER ROSES
Ripened with wrinkles and jowls of joy,
why cry over fallowed days,
when the brightness of youth
squeezes you tighter than foremost days.
Giggling, kicking at the mound of enjoyment,
the parade of silver roses laid at the grave —
that’s how the whippersnappers see you,
those tug-a-war children that hound at the heel
of your beloved grands of glockenspiel.
Supercilious satisfaction as you tether your cane
to tenderness and affection, aggressively pointing
only at those crooks who choose to lambast insane,
ruin your days and keep at arm's length the babes.
Silver in your hair, spun by hands with stigmata holes,
and you’ll breathe your last and first breath all the same.
With seasoned wheat, such golden beauty,
ecstatic at heaven’s attraction, standing in frame.
3/9/2020
For Silent One's - Mamma Poetry Contest
Where is the love, Mamma?
Through broken Louvre blinds, you're ever watching
Rosary beads clicking prayers on repeat mode, uttering
Your plethora of Faith keeps me steadily striving
Though, frustrated when peace will be arriving.
Under cover of the midnight moon, hookers seducing
Shady men with illicit wares aggressively peddling
Of changing our situation, I'm forever idealizing.
Enduring every day's trauma, just surviving.
Seeking direction from above, when is enough enough?
Tell me, Mamma ~ Where is the love?
Collective immorality still existing.
A ticking clock morality meekly resisting
Corruption, greed, and deceit still abounding
This life where goodness seems to be drowning.
A depraved degradation of insanity still insisting,
Death, broken hearts, crime persisting
In the chaos, qualms never ceasing.
lawlessness above the muck and mire rising
At the kerbside, a holy man piously preaching
Should I turn my cheek, still beseeching
Amidst their plundering and their leeching?
NO !!
Enough is Enough ~ Where is the Love?
Beyond-repair abhorrence, I'm escaping.
Fervently, I'm hoping and praying.
Please God, Mamma, be safe while I'm gone
I'll be back for you before long
In the eerie darkness, emotions imploding
Sirens blaring, with the sound of guns exploding
My shallow breath quickening, turning back with throat thickening
All the while, I'm screaming
Where is the love?
Back through this hellhole, I'm rapidly racing
All through the panic, still hoping and praying
Please God, Mamma ~ Be Safe, Be Safe, Be Safe
Neon blue-red lights flickering and flashing.
Through my open front door, I'm madly dashing.
Looming through the haze, I hear them saying.
'Sorry, Miss, yet another random shooting
Your Mamma just got caught in the cross-firing.'
The last thing I hear is my own voice crying.
MAMMA ~ THERE IS NO LOVE! THERE IS NO LOVE!
DURHAM BULLS
A triple-A minor league team,
most remember Bull Durham the movie.
I, the most spectacular firework set,
in the stormy sky. The kind of lightening show,
I think I shall never see again. The stands erupted
with screams and yells
“Chicken! Chicken! Chicken”
Well, we are in the South, with their choice of entertainment.
Looking left and right, wondering at the uproar.
The ground wet, the sky still, a mini diamond
for a balking bird, a mascot of sorts,
running bases, while the crowd cheers.
The game back on, after sweeping away flood waters.
Every home run produces red eyes and a snort, steam
aggressively fighting from the nostrils of the famous bull.
My young nephew,
proudly walks away with a team jacket.
Whether the game was won or lost, I don’t remember,
except we had such fun. Our American past time,
memories last forever.
2/21/2017
It feels unfair,
the doctor said,
to blame all pathological -isms
on LeftBrain dominating
NorthWestern enculturation;
Too geopolitically ecological,
too globally sweeping,
where my reason looks
for biological neurology,
more inside linguistic powers
more intimate.
But, both neurology and ecology,
both natural biology and spiritual theology,
these four each and all agree,
whether secular or sacred paradigm
for discernment,
Monocultural ecosystems
divest of originally healthier
polyculturally robust wealth,
resilience,
multicultural resonance,
harmonic compassion.
So it is with LeftBrain dominant egos,
monotheistic dominated ego,
securely enslaved servants
divest of originally healthier
multicultural
robustly cooperative,
and compassionately felt,
true polypathic wealth of empowerment,
multicultural enlightenment
Trusting
liberal cultural-istic phobias
conjoin with
conservative historical-isms
to regenerate more democratically robust
global ruminations,
discernments,
political power and light dialogue,
cooperative investment.
Yes,
well,... the doctor responded,
racism
and colonialism,
and capitalism,
and sexism,
and anthropocentrism,
and ageism,
and bullyism,
and narcissism,
and even omnipotent monopolistic
closed ego-systemic monocultural monotheism
of LeftHemispheric enculturing verbal dominance
feel too aggressively unfair as well.
I’m a tightrope walker, strung between
the hedonistic abyss of winter break and
the unforgiving canyon of organic chemistry.
The stack of spring syllabuses are a prophecy whispered
in Latin. The story they tell haunts my dreams - wherein
each biochemical is a monster lurking in the shadows.
“I’m not in a tailspin, that would be unfair,” I tell Lisa, “I’m in a lull.”
“It’s like that awkward time, between a hangover and drinking again.” she laughs.
Sure, I envisage late, week night study grinds, and sleepless
hours, but the price of serious things isn’t trivial - success and hard
work are, unfortunately, yoked together, like Shakespeare’s double shadow.
A tough spring curriculum won’t stop me from
taking 3 or 4 minutes to dance with roomates
when a head-banger like ‘Spiral City’ plays or
enjoying sudden, late night jelly bean melees.
And then there are the spring things that spark joy.
Walking to class on a brilliant spring morning,
with birdsong, a warm sun and fragrant breezes.
Laughs stolen in the back of classes,
gossip and secrets exchanged over
guilty coffee and croissant indulgences.
Skipping through crowded halls, drawing looks
‘cause we’re clapping aggressively to each other, singin’
“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh!”
“Ok,” I think to myself, putting my hair in a ponytail,
“I’m ready for spring semester - bring it on.”
.
.
“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh”
Are lyrics from the song “Party” by André 3000 and Beyoncé
When Yin was growing down
and into belonging
still in EarthMother's warm wet womb,
she followed her interdependent 0-wheels
of enscripted color and sound octaves,
Appreciation for multicultural sensory integrity,
primal relationships of sight and scale
felt polyphonic longing and/or belonging,
meta-physical creolization,
gratitude for polycultural dialogue
and consensual democratic circles
warm to discernment,
co-empathically seeking full-round consensus.
Meanwhile,
as Left-hemisphere dominant Yang
was colonizing out
and patriarching up,
he conserved 1-universal BusinessAsUsual monochrome
in triumphal shades of dark static non-elite nights
and peak triangulated wealth experiences of white
light
universally transcendent bright.
Yang thought in bipolar Either/Ors
of black or white
while Yin felt through dipolar Both/And
circles and cycles
spirals of nuanced multiculturing colors,
tones,
hues and felt cries
and sighs
and shy.
As they learned gratitude
for each Other's 0/1 GoldenRule
and 1/0 GoldenRatio preferences of bipolar thought
and dipolar intersectional warm feelings of belonging
they deep learned democratic cooperative compassion
for healthy regenerativity
as positively and politically and economically
and ecologically and theologically
and analogically polypathic,
And mutually-owned disdain
for competitive win/lose longing,
reductive RightWing dominating seductive LeftWing
with aggressively monochromatic degenerativity,
negative paradigmatic dissonance,
both cognitively and affectively ineffective
Especially as Yin deeply repurposes growing down
and in
still under MotherEarth's warming
wetting
multicoloring NonZero-Sum womb
loving democratic
meta-energetic
ecofeminist healing life.
The wind blowing aggressively while a moment of quietness
Life blurring at a glance with visions of a world that is unclear
Loud thundering roars comes out of nowhere for a moment
Shocking voices rapid noises become more permanent
So dark and gloomy cannot see the world in front
Trying so hard to focus and still my little eyes cannot view
There stood shadows ominous and scary yet calm
The embrace and hearing the heartbeat of one who cares
Smooth lips on smooth skin a kind presence of unique
Finally the own voice or volume came a spout of noise
Hungry not tainted with other than hunger striving to suckle
Then time came and the hunger disappeared
Growing in a place that was damp and cold with restraint
Then came a change that mother cannot be near
Flesh needing warmth in a long travel that was a scare
Then calming wind and calming days appear
The threshold of despair came once more and it was quiet
Stumbling noise crying echoing across the field
The moment of departing was feeling quiet and anguishing
Stunned to be pulled away and the heartbeat disappeared
Came a lot of anger, spite, and nervousness that pierced
This came to an end to another place I suddenly am part of