Long Arbiter Poems
Long Arbiter Poems. Below are the most popular long Arbiter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arbiter poems by poem length and keyword.
Interpreting Poetry (mine)
Similar to scrutinizing
an abstract painting,
this author begetting
obscure words dumbfounding
readers, he eludes
(no shade tree fore rest)
clear cut discerning,
yet oft times his words
garner reviews raving
esoteric word choice,
how mind boggling
to this logophile despite
more than one reading
brow (sir) furrowed -
cognitive region scrunching,
no matter intent concentration
utter futility attempting
bedeviled comprehension, whether
literary master (me? ha...
not yet), among pantheon partying,
but nonetheless birthing
present day profoundly thought provoking,
undoubtedly tirelessly expending
mental energy eventually exhausting
effort in futility understanding,
asper mine stymied
linkedin attention getting
(then just as quickly losing)
registering resignation defeat alluding
to challenge physical prowess daunting
engagement well matched savvy sparring
partner, or possibly life
and death battling
against unwittingly aggressive brutal questing
archenemy, sans toward all living
species wretched nemesis ultimately deciding
mortality tacitly accepted proffering
transient longevity refusing
to compromise, haggle, negotiate,
et cetera casting
deadened demise of victor or villain
all thru civilization starring
as unopposable tour
de force quietly biding
end date, versus indiscriminately snatching
hero, heroine, coward,
et cetera requiring
impossible ransom while donning
mask of Melpomene
(Tragedy), or trumpeting
Thalia (Comedy), no exit stage door left
only joie de vivre
until last second ticking
unbeknownst unexpected, and uninviting
deathly hallows ringtone alarming
anonymous (oh Henry)
words worth struggling
to hash meaningfulness, viz
finite existence germinating
since birth, yet
terminal realization pressing
with greater frequency when aging,
and deafeningly ear splitting
amplitude bite the bullet clamoring
to tread welcome matt acquiescing
unavoidable phase of dying
devoid of any bargain, but requiring
unconditionally punishingly suffering
silent non binding
resolution, no exemption decrying
unfair contractual obligation, nor unionizing
worth a fig yore of
speech as cosmic arbiter
blithely doth shear - pruning,
without rhyme nor reason meeting
identical fate toward everyone
even posthumous destiny yours truly awaiting.
My Mistress, the Moon
From mine chamber, breathless and perspiring upon the bed,
I spy you there, out my window, looming overhead.
Your gaze, a silent arbiter in the night,
I cloak my naked shame, to veil my plight.
Reigning atop her celestial silver throne,
While I, lie with a lover not of my own,
Broken vows flee like ravens in the night,
And you, casting shadows of guilt in your light.
Glistening spectral tendrils adorn the wet cobblestone,
Where I and my lovely paramour have dared to roam.
With discreet footsteps, we clandestinely meet,
And you, with your enchanting freckled glow, how sweet.
Soft beams gently caress her alabaster cheek,
Lost in each other’s eyes, passionate and weak.
Reflected in her amorous gaze, I see your ethereal glow,
A witness to our sinful secrets, only you know.
Beneath the silvered shroud of your alluring gleam,
Our love, a surreptitious waltz in a moonlit dream.
In intimate whispers and fervent glance,
You orchestrate this forbidden romance.
The conductor of a symphony of sin,
Our affair, a soiled tapestry, unraveling from within.
In the dark chambers of my heart, you are the phantom spike,
The harbinger of this dreadful plight.
From my bed, to the window’s edge, I drew near,
An inquiring voice, “What troubles thee, my Dear”?
“’Tis naught, my Darling, j’st——the moon’s, cold stare”,
All the while, a laden heart, wrought with despair.
For my spirit is torn between duty and desire,
Engulfed by passion’s flames, intense blue fire.
From my window to the heavens, I plea my discontent,
To the pale blue eye above, I solemnly lament:
“O Moon, in thy spectral light aglow,
Release my soul’s despairing woe.
In thy celestial realm, I lay bare my sins,
Where shame deepens, and remorse’s tide begins.
Cast thy luminous gaze upon my plight,
Guide me towards redemption’s forgiving light.
For in thy ethereal embrace, I plead release,
From guilt’s relentless grip, grant me peace.
Lead me, O Moon, through this sinful night,
In thy mercy, permit my spirit respite.”
Beneath your fading glow, the whispers of love wane,
As I bid adieu to this fleeting masquerade,
Sun cresting the horizon, she reaches for the door,
The time has come, farewell my muse,
my lovely paramour.
-Edward
waved away from certain topics
Yolanda and her Singing Saw blade
captured the intellectual integrity
of a generation in readjustment
freedom springs only from freedom kids
so lock your shields and set your pikes
and whatever else unmasks the poseurs
making mischief upon civilization
with zero police penetration
weighed and calibrated by the
by the US Bureau of Insanity
warned by the masked men at Masked Men U.
we'll find out if your daddy raised a fool
putting on a carefree face
clinging to childhood like a lost puppy
once again it's political suicide everywhere
the archetypes are tramping
through my head like Hitlerjugen
convulsed in the Little Death championship
strutting and hooting for a mate
will today's monster be tomorrow's arbiter of grace
Godzilla was eventually tamed was he not
he now does handyman work
and can come around some time
and get that squeak out of your door
that feudal ignorance and superstition
start with whatever impedes your mind
laughter will watch your back
cognition is a word game
rally and carry the colors with insolence
like a glowing catalytic converter
streaking across the endless night
distant from instinct like a horizon
illuminating a physics of the psyche
alive with maladapted ardor
like a dynasty of serial plagiarists
what then exactly is attention
news flash we are way past neolithic
up where the power meets the grid
if your point of observation is outlawed
only the involuntary spasms will remain
and a persistent mania for theology
to be dissected like laboratory toads
and poked with battery wires
where pickpockets with scissors
leave your pants a bit breezy
while clicking the mouse button of God
in a well orchestrated decoy fiasco
a talent show for the inept
tonight we have a knockout lineup
with lots of orange explosions
horrendous vs. hellacious
mastodon hair from the freezer
slapped on the bald spots
by a rapidly wilting imagination
strumming its ukelele in a hammock
burnt to a crisp in a flaming car wash
his soul finally attained its freedom
such as it was soot and ashes by then
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Written: September 09, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the area of dominion, where elitism wields
Altruism flickers as a beam of light in the field.
Some may consider this a sort of implausibility.
Yet, verity and equity will steer our ability.
Such as the animism axiom in every soul,
We strive for fairness to impel us whole.
Opulence and wealth may blind the eye.
But optimism onslaught will never die.
In the realm of idealism, we descry our stem,
A scarcity of tolerance we must condemn.
For in the recesses of our staggering minds,
We beget the power to endow kind.
People gleam with optimism and bliss.
Yet vanity often convoys to amiss.
Sailing through zeal with mounting tension,
Violence mutates the soul's contention.
Happiness and bitterness tread hand in hand.
On the edge of hunger in an indigence-stricken land.
The clamor for a vindicatory grapple grows.
As the judiciary leverage properly flows.
In a peaceful realm, such as a jay in flight,
Litigate we must, to ensure equity is right.
With clemency and clairvoyance, we shall proceed.
To rectify the wrongs that have been decreed.
Verity shall not be obstructed or bent.
On the judicatory bench, our judgment is sent.
In summary and contradictory, we may find,
But punitive endeavors must be flung behind.
Nemesis will not be our disservice.
A pacific arbitrator, we shall preserve.
In the realm of justice, unjust acts we blame.
Retribution and vengeance have no way to tame.
Inquisition dwells as the dictated route.
To cinch that every wrong is suitably tried.
In the pursuit of verity, we shall never hide.
The loop of equity is our gentle stride.
After countless years, the clamor will rise.
The bench and justice grasp people's cries.
With a judgment that is fair and true,
We strive to beget a world anew.
Despite how brief and conflicting it seems,
A punitory nemesis is not our dream.
Instead, we seek a pacific resolve,
An arbiter who might judge and absolve.
The candle light never stopped burning for aeons ago,
A hushed rustle of applause testified to a widespread approbation,
That was on the day he was certificated in the University,
Indeed, he was a bookish arbiter of conduct; a balanced moral fibre.
Tony - born in a home of abject poverty, a pretty immiseration,
The wretched mother sold all she got,
To raise all the buried hopes from their sepulchers,
A thread to the valley and shadows of death to wipe her tears.
As the hands of time ticks,
Getting a white-collar job remained a mission impossible,
Expectation darkened into anxiety and hopelessness,
Their fathomless depths of suffering deepened.
He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his muscles,
Doubt tortured him not; armed robbery became the last resort,
On the early hours of 24th December, 2016,
He called “Mother, I’m in Aba city now to be home tomorrow to rebrand your life”
Tony’s voice was soft and full of assurance on the telephone,
While the mother writhed in the grip of a definite optimism,
Hours later, they attacked an entrepreneur,
He was caught and the rest of the gang fled; a fluctuations of prosperity and adversity.
The commercial cyclists came with their jungle justice,
Motor tyres engulfed him like a deadly ring,
His eyes stared unseeingly as more and more stones hit his head,
The hope of survival became far, unrealistic and dim.
His soul was compressed into a single agony of prayer,
As mammoth pangs of regret made its splashes in his expiring mind,
He pleaded for mercy, and the mother came to the crime scene,
Disheartened and broken.
And she cried and said “My life depends on him,
He is my future,
And everything I got, please don’t kill him”
But the angry mob ignored her sorrowful pleas and set him ablaze.
Honestly, it was an unforgettable afternoon,
When death flowed in its accustomed stream.
He never visited the poor mother again with riches as he promised,
But only left Aba city through a hellish path to the grave.
My eldest sister Amélie Beth...
ever the amateur family entomologist
Upon texting her a picture
(countless moments ago
since October ninth)
unfamiliar delicate looking critter -
(seen inside the apartment many times),
she quickly identified crane fly
agilely affixed to lampshade.
I figuratively tip hat at Tipulidae
long legged dainty insect
poised to strike proboscis,
where adults buzzfeed on
nectar from flowers or other outdoor plants
unlike larvae whose diet
constitutes decaying wood and vegetation.
Said winged six-legged invertebrate
of the class Insecta
resembles a mosquito on steroids,
and can freak people out, crane flies
pose absolutely zero harm
to bipedal hominids i.e. *****sapiens.
Detriment to human beings
ought not serve as benchmark
to assess purposefulness regarding
all creatures large and small,
rhetorical question cometh your way:
how came man/woman kind
as arbitrary arbiter
determining which animal
and/or plant species
can claim their sweepstake
linkedin with world wide ecological web?
If assigned role of divine creator,
(atop egg shaped noggin of mine
thorn of crown yours truly would don)
dutifully, eagerly and immediately trumpet,
whereby naked ape relegated to dung heap
feasted upon courtesy voracious grubs
chief among them
the Alaskan Bull Worm.
Life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
in sync with inalienable rights
decreed toward all flora and fauna
except nasty horrible brute
loosing wanton cruelty upon planet
bajillion dollar bounty on her/his head
plus forced to eat Peruvian puff peppers,
which measures 16 million Scoville units
(this drake just joshing you)
if she/he violates trespassing code
compromising, jeopardizing, or yawping
indignities heaped against the existence
of any organism
(except haughty human beings)
entitled to live
upon oblate spheroid.
Invariably survival of the fittest
will decree dominance
of one or another living entity
unless robots take over the world.
Them and us under a Bombers Moon
By Steven Cooke
Making love to my demons
Under the flag of my country
Caught in between the never believer
And a pardon of angels,
Who bargain their souls for my redemption,
Empowered by a nation,
Glorified by heroes departed
My life sanctified by religious compromise
For tonight I fly, under the bombers moon
Nearer to God than most
I see the world differently,
This Earth orbits in a sea of cold
My plane hidden in its recess,
A place where silent screams dwell
And rainbows are sent to die.
Away from the gaze of my enemy,
A phrase worthy of the Devil
Away from the patriots sting,
These too, sanctified by a religious hand.
The History books dilemma
My run begins
My mind listens to a confess of whispers,
The engines my Priest,
The bomb doors open,
Horsemen of The apocalypse,
Released from their tethers
I am the Arbiter of Death
As in Nature, Chance will decide
The faceless will fall
And god willing I will return home.
In the scheme of things
A Cities worth is one minute, 23 seconds
The camera to record in slow mo for Posterity,
And to delight the victorious.
The Impact sweeps away the sweat of past generations
Creates queues of ghosts, waiting,
To lay in row after row, of white marble.
Their silent screams absorbed into Heavens Gate,
A cold Hallelujah for God to judge.
Just another day on planet earth
But don’t worry,
Time, like, the brook of sighs, will wash away these sins
But not the seeds,
For we are the gardeners of sin,
Their germination, lovingly corrupted
In our differences, them and us
The Pillars of capitalism our advantage.
The fear of the Devil theirs
Our final epitaph in the circle of life,
We are conditioned to repeat the mistakes of the past,
As is the Wilder beast to cross the River of Death,
Or theologians using religion as a weapon of war
The devil and the Crocodile dines well, on such a menu
We truly are, a blessed Race.
Making love to my demons
under the flag of my Country.
Caught in between the never believer
and a pardon of angels,
who bargain their souls for my redemption.
Empowered by a nation
glorified by heroes departed,
my life sanctified by religious compromise.
For tonight I fly
under the bombers moon.
Nearer to God than most
I see the world differently.
This Earth orbits in a sea of cold
my plane hidden in its recess.
A place where silent screams dwell
and rainbows are sent to die.
Away from the gaze of my enemy
a phrase worthy of the Devil.
Away too from the patriots sting
sanctified by another gods hand.
The History books dilemma
of right and wrong.
My run begins,
my mind listens to a confess of whispers.
The engines become my Priest,
as the bomb doors open.
Horsemen of the apocalypse
released from their tethers,
I am the Arbiter of Death.
As in Nature, chance will decide
the faceless will fall
and God willing I will return home.
In the scheme of things
a Cities worth is one minute, 23 seconds.
The camera records in slow mo for posterity,
and the future will bathe on these memories
to a nations delight.
The Impact sweeps away
the sweat of past generations.
Creates queues of ghosts, waiting,
to lay in row after row of white marble.
Their silent screams absorbed into Heaven’s Gate,
(A cold Hallelujah) for God to judge.
For the folks back home it is
Just another day on planet earth.
But don’t worry,
Time, like the brook of sighs
will wash away these sins
But not the seeds.
For we are the gardeners of sin.
Their germination lovingly corrupted
In our differences,
them and us.
The Pillars of capitalism our advantage,
the fear of the Devil theirs.
Our final epitaph in the circle of life.
We are conditioned to repeat
the mistakes of the past.
As is the Wilder beast to cross the River of Death.
Or theologians using religion as a weapon of war
The devil and the Crocodile dines well
on such a menu.
We truly are, a blessed Race.
Ecotone
I did not plant the prairie tickseed that appeared among
The cultivated flowers of my garden and quickly dominated.
It seemed to say, “We live, still!
My house sits in a tension zone, an ecological “no man’s land” where
Tall Grass Prairie and the Cross Timbers, vie for control.
Here the vagaries of weather assure that all who enter are mistreated.
Seasons turn through the Zone as Fall, Winter, Spring,
And the Heat. The moisture-prickling Heat, like a visit from
The in-laws, comes early, stays long and wearies the endurance.
Rainfall is the fickle arbiter of the Zone. It befriends the trees
Almost; the grass too much. Legions of plants, playthings
Of climate, contending over millennia for land suitable to neither.
They were not untended. Cultivation by wild fires, twisting winds, floods
And drought, performed acts of purification and renewal; encroachers purged,
Minerals recycled, seeds scattered, and the arena reset for the endless contest.
But gone now are blades of Blue Stem and pickets of Post Oak.
Red subsoil overlaid with Bermuda sod is my “Sooner” system;
An inanity to the Zone kept on life support by irrigation and fertilizer.
Bermuda minders are hungry yet grow heavy with time
And plenty. They seek order amid uncertainty, and
Shelter from risk, yet cast their lot in a tension zone.
Their dis-ease stems from attempted breakouts of the Cultivators
Struggling to wrest free of human controls. (They who are said to have
Ears to hear a wildfire in its death throes claim it hisses, “We live, still!”)
They are not alone. Homes of the coastal naïf become
Mere tender for Chaparral fires as those of a floodplain
Are flotsam for the river.
Like mallards returning to the same pond
After each thinning by hunters, the unwitting
Rebuild as the Cultivators whisper, ”We live still”
Copyright Paul Thomson 2017
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXII
for Carlos Bousoño, the eminent Spanish critic, poet and professor
who maintained that if you don't like the "humorist",
you're not likely to find much to laugh at in/with his (sense of) "humour"
IF ever I had a country, a country where every TOM-Cat, Dirty-DICK and Royal HARRY wrote what his fellows called POESY
And if ever I were the only SON of a GUNny Sack-Bag incapable of pouting lines to an astronomically non-sensical degree
And as punishment thereof - sans appeal - if I were to be appointed by the Supreme Inter-Galactico-Cosmo-IL-logical Council of the Arbiters of Tyrannic Taste the one and only ARBITER and JURY
And should my fellow-poets ever so much as utter or let escape a squeak on, relating to or about what they cook-up as stew or porridge of
un-hermeneutical ETERNAL VERITIES which they print publish post (ne’er you mind: plagiarize) and/or pander to their pridefully painted images potpourri
I would first and foremost issue an EDICT - nay, even a DECREE - to CONFINE each and every one of my bumble-bee constantly buzzing comrade BARDS, purveyors and promotors of mutually unintelligible verse within their own ivory PENTHOUSES of phantasmagorical (a)musings
under pain of summary banishment - should they ever so much as "peine in poiein » - to the GREAT ATTRACTOR WALL of GALAXIES and so be it, I pray thee
And this, even if I were to be confined to my very own solitary dungeon and be condemned to listen to - against my will, day and night, for ever and ever - the ethereally soul-uplifting poutings of the Poetasters of Isphahan in their wordy giddy swirls of SUFI
And even if I never ever had no country where POETRY had need of mutually EGO-BOOSTING commentary
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, April 5, 2020