Long Anachronistic Poems
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It is said that the world is quite strong.
When we both agreed, we were wrong.
But systemic risk leads to a spare call.
And it makes life hazy, as we shall.
When weak surfeit fulfills incisive inquiry,
the diction is made utterly dull and wiry.
Implied options for a farewell gathering
The effect is similar to lathering.
A dreadful jester with mixed craziness.
When guilt clouds your eyesight, haziness
A genuine illusion and a shaky submission
You are vigilant in the face of recognition
Lacking a faithful foe as a recent symbol,
To a mindset that is wrong at its core.
For the moral majority, act proudly humble,
to develop skills in each particular sector.
While skilled amateurs and realistic untaught,
assist fetch harmony to the dissonance.
This reliable test incites calm unthought.
That is aimed straight at the outer imminence.
It requires steadfast cynicism and rustic grace,
so as to withstand this negative preening.
And sway away from school without a trace,
to allow the word "normal" a fresh meaning.
Written: September 29, 2022
As Samuel saw vaulted Xanadu of Kublai Khan fame
In smoke-filled corridors of sweat-drenched Opium-eaters
Did I spy a vision so surreal as to render all my sentient senses to nought
And to replace them with a miasma of arcane thoughts.
I glimpsed of things most unimagined through vaporous clouds
Of effulgent smoke from wampums more confusing
than the peace of amity that it connoted.
Through numbing mind yet not fully suppressed
I beheld many-pillared corridors in a dazzling sequence
Of multi-hued columns - Doric, Ionian and Corinthian.
And through this tortuous labyrinthine maze ran
A languorous limpid stream off a meander
From an ox-bow lake, with a murmurous mutter
As it hop scotched the rifts on the floor.
With Cyclopean vision, floating wraith-like, in the distance
I beheld a dazzling high-domed hall,
The dazzle from a myriad gorgeous maidens
Each draped in dresses so diaphanous as to defy its definition!
And a prima donna sang in sonorous counterpoint to the susurration of the stream.
From up on high like a falcon flighted,
In anachronistic contrast I verily beheld
A jeaned and jacketed - Angelina Jolie!
It was then that I confirmed to myself -
My mind had truly busted!
I hear Donald Trump
would love to bring to Republican plutocracy
what Abraham Lincoln presidented
for uncivilly warring democracy,
but Lincoln's emancipation proclamation
doesn't sound like straight white might
is rightly winged
in not so healthy presidential TrumpLand.
What remains most easily to see,
transparently white
privileged to me,
is Donald Trump
as a Ronald Reagan no fun rerun,
a bit of white-faced black
and mostly relentlessly caste
as racism already past,
although not really
quite.
Perhaps if Ronald
had been born as comfortably
as Donald,
then he too would never have worked with his body,
and not so much played with his little lonely hands,
to make an honest LincolnHouse living.
Unlike Donald,
Ronald actually had experience
working for his mortgage.
Well, almost anyway.
Ronald at least had to act as if he could work to make a living,
and on occasion actually remember some honest lines on cue,
while Donald invests more in privilege grabbing gestures
against at least half of our more newly enfranchised
resident population.
And, Abe had some adolescent and young adult experience
with manual labor
and cooperatively owned an attorney at lawyering business,
while for Ronald,
and televised Donald,
these were acting privileged caste-ing skills
as comforting as heroic horseback riding
without a solid saddle
or respectful rein.
So, no, Donald,
you're no Abe Lincoln,
and only in your happiest imagination
are you as good at play acting President
as was "caste-blind"
and deaf
and unwise Ronald.
You're just another ornery autocratic Donald,
not even economically effective
at playing sustainably wealthy Republican.
Perhaps Attila the Hun
is a more logical progenitive inspiration for TrumPublicans,
with Donald playing their final post climate-trauma non-action;
most un-ecologically anachronistic
to employ white overlooking black not quite film stars
with patriarchal red stripes
when so much polyamorous full-color talent
waits in more multiculturally fresh-aired green
bicamerally intelligent wings
of healthy democracy.
Thee Apple Hove Bing an Herbivore...?
(hint – app peal)
Sans maintaining a strict carb on diet
(for Peat Sake) iz like really coal
man, cuz carnivores consume meat,
which genetically modified organisms
engender incredible non edible size foal,
these agribusiness farmed animals shot up
with synthetic hormones
spurring heightened development
accidentally, inadvertently, and unleashing
King Kong monstrous outrageous gnoll,
whereat each footfall taken
by scary creature resembling
a humanoid hyena
results in said frankenfood digging,
one after another humungous hole
resulting in dirt pile
cresting, kickstarting, and
rivaling a mini
spring mount tin knoll
necessitating massive
manhunt to cap cha
lurching, pounding, and thudding
beast whereat entire
motley crue all harkened
from places named Lowell,
nonetheless heil lee calf full
to arm themselves with more'n one
tranquilized tipped pole
anachronistic cautionary expedition generating
masterfully baiting monster
with immense gritty buttered roll,
whose gargantuan ramp
aging spree across
world wide web
found endangered population
tuff lee from their
picturesque enclave i.e. Floss
on the Mill as zee unbridled
quasi jabberwocky took a selfie gloss
silly attired (trumpeting
"FAKE" ska don face mask)
likening pulling up moss
as coiffed "hair...hm..." all the while
gabbling, instagramming,
snapchatting, and toss
sing fearsome Frankenstein
with especial bent toward
those sharing surname Voss
in tandem to flagrant
disregard to paradigm
housing hefty prime
statutes of grammatically
correct syntactical rhetoric, plus rhyme
ming showcasing a novel
discovered talent to enrich pantheon
until the end of time.
since times of auld
where linkedin note able people
(some long haired others bald)
plaintively, suddenly, and called
urgently to be importantly installed
to brainstorm figuring a solution
to vanquish, nightmarish,
and hellish abominable madness!
Decreased dissension
grudgingly did abate
unclouded protests trumpet
Trump to abdicate
irrefutable proof generates
activist voices to accumulate
linkedin over Green Party
blessedly to administrate
hoop fully figurative tide
will turn and aerate
political atmosphere whereby
progressive minds will affiliate
otherwise business as usual,
cuz spewing deadly particulate
will only aggravate
dire straits, where
webbed wide world series
of unfortunate events will airdate
prophetic apocalyptic fate
especially if nonprogressive
stodgy commander in chief re-elected
flush with bigotry and hate
increased chance (chants) ripe state
for revolution avast swath
of population to amalgamate,
and overthrow anachronistic government
absolute zero survival unless dramatic
nondestructive strategy eschewed
to supplant exploitation and mandate
radical transformation, which dramatic
shift off grid if lucky requisite
Earth friendly manufacturing
can possibly ameliorate.
Zoltar speaks “Someone will toast you tonight,
pretend to be surprised. The tides of fate will
steer you toward unexpected wonders. Keep
your eyes open for a twist in your tale.”
He is an animatronic fortune teller
Within the carnivals and circuses, a dweller
Anachronistic, rebelling in today’s mortality his drive
Something inside makes you think it’s alive
Gives off a creepy vibe boxed in, his temporary kingdom
A robot has its own agenda, and its false wisdom
Be careful what you wish for, it may come true,
Just not in the way you thought, granted in Zoltar’s view
You’ll never find him to play again, if you dare
To undo what’s done, the daylights out of you, he’ll scare
Creeper of dreams, terrifying themes from here on end
This is where the Anayalator comes in—the godsend
She fights not for the lust of conquest, but to end conquest
She fights to liberate us from demon bots, her quest
Ninja-manipulates reality, she’s advanced in ninjutsu
Beyond any limitations, water, fire, air, and earth she moves
Nullifier—from impure world reincarnates
Combining truth-seeking with her powerful crown of gems
She can nullify all conventional robot powers
Including regenerative cycles, invented every hour
Yin-Yang Release—Chakra manipulation of the universe
Spinning spiritual and physical charges of energy against hostile terse
Healer-Restorer of life, her golden rods of purest energy
Good bots for humanity are spared by the repairer of injury
Local used bookshop, an easy energy
comforting shelves crowded with tracks of wisdom,
literature, philosophy, religion, the sciences
even graphic novels, saucy and weighty
fluff, too, for pool side reading
fairy tales of fear and fancy (what does turn pumpkins
into coaches after all?)
stacks of Natural Geographic, provocative, with
indigenous innocence, lands and space
undusted spread of news
I walk through zig-zag enticement on floors that creak
like old folks mating
uninhibited, protracted browsing
bookworm's comforting crawl
steadied nirvana
Do I take a step in a different direction?
buy a cookbook though I've little kitchen recollection
Authors recognizable
soothing charm in
brittle, yellow pages
that have passed through protean ages
Gravitational pull of old, in a world where nothing much
stands still
like wired lives, pushed hard in the making
I'm told that I'm shackled to what's obsolete
to free myself from choke holds past
like a bookshop, anachronistic
Did I mis-read value? Nourish the inessential?
Outside signs are visible: site cleared for re-development
Demolition seeps (like tar) into our lives
to strip space familiar
to uproot stakes of what's connective
My aged bookshop, a disrupted treasure,
worthy of a quiet reverence
dignity
before the landscape veers
Poem composed: March 8, 2021
Revised: April 3, 2021
In a world where time flows like a river that forgets its bed,
poets remain forever outside of time, a kind of travelers through the labyrinth
of thought, with eyes open to dreams that others have long closed
in the chest of forgetfulness. They are the shadows that dance on the walls of ancient
citadels of imagination, carrying with them the echo of eras that no longer believe
in the miracles whispered by the stars. In each verse, they hide
ancient secrets, like a summer rain that reminds us of childhood
lost among the tambourine sounds of hope.
Why do we hold on to the anchors that prevent us from drifting
in all directions? Why do we remain silent when our souls scream
to break free from the prison of our own fears?
Perhaps we are afraid to lose ourselves in the vastness of the unknown,
but perhaps only by truly losing ourselves will we find the way
to ourselves. In the abyss of uncertainty, where light
meets darkness, we can be reborn from the ashes
of our own doubts, like Phoenix birds carrying in
their wings the burden and beauty of eternity.
Poets are thus always anachronistic, always absurd,
but through their absurdity, they become the most contemporary,
for they understand that time is nothing but a circle that encompasses
us all, and in the heart of this circle, we live, love, and lose ourselves
to find ourselves again in a world that no longer knows how to dream.
the great bard and Elizabethan play wright
begetting complete dramaturgy
explaining fate hollowly airtight
succor starved, riddled smitten tattered
sir real body politik blight
under whelming enthusiasm
witnessed blank quarto copyright
more tragedy than comedy
visited mine biography to date
expressed as dearth
decayed delight
devoid absent audience
hip...hip...hooray
three chairs to excite
zero non-exhaustive effort
summoning stagecraft
imagining hardened
faced spectators
muted nonexistent ovation,
sans anticlimactic action
superfluous stage fright,
thus retrospective stance taken
billeted envisioned
anachronistic gunfight
signifying emotional crisis,
especially high anxiety
pained height
incorporating mine every birthday
newly aged since
LIX January
thirteenth orbitz insight
oppressive ominous gloomy glum
obscuring highland dale light
whereby substantial sole action
asper arrival of midnight
celestial curtain call enclosing
somber static theatrical night
hoop fully explaining deadening
copious heavy breathing
followed by extended lapses
of utter silence outright
spartan mise en scene
absent agit props
nsync with holographic thespians
staid theatrics displaying plight
uneventful sleepy representation quite
leaving entire cast
(singular char actor his shun
of myself) remaining
soporific steadfastly right
lee measure for measure
much ado about nothing
hermetically sealed, NON GMO
vacuum packed no sight
worth seeing on the twelfth night
starkly barren aimless
padlocked mortal soul asylum
no, not even Romeo and Juliet
love's labor's lost passion
a comedy of errors,
viz unbridled trothplight
mock king lear ring alls well that ends well
where me crushed psyche doth unite
with death vis a vis
as demise of Julius Caesar
et tu Brutus I in vite.
Poets Hanging from a Poet Tree
Poetry in motion is perilous a dangerous pastime a thing of the anachronistic
past in the global villainous village in which minds are colonised for the greater
comforting good of synchrony when all are equal at speechless lack of words
It is decreed on pain of death that meter rhymes and scripted feelings tercets
appealing to the trinity of liberty justice and dignity are abolished from now on
that reason must appeal only to the rationale of what the rulers think for us
Signs around rebellious broken necks state crystal clear suggest resistance to
be futile ‘I am a poet swine and slept with words’ draped from the garrotte of
those scribes who could not be reformed in genocidal concentration camps
Surely civil society is a better place with those demised who smear the thought
police with craft and artistry dreams fantasies and aspirations of a loving kind
or critical reflection of virtues happiness not derived from greed or power
Will I hang gladly from the tree shout in defiance ‘death to silence long live free
expression eat my words’ or would I prefer to save my skin since once the chip
to monitor my mind has been implanted all evidence is centrally collected
Or underground persistence burrowing subterranean streams of consciousness
hacking into silicon and copper in my brain to garble up regimental surveillance
short circuit and cross wire all those in power with one massive Trojan virus
Scaremongering you think and cynical exaggeration spreading rumours croaking
ominous fake news and propaganda well think again and make a plan for how
you’ll fare with threat and passion because the trees are there and so are the signs