Long Avidly Poems
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Ever since my parents bought me a Grundig TV for my room,
And every week day unquestioned and without fail,
I've watched the Channel 4 News avidly, glued to it,
From when I was ten when my ship did at last sail.
I fell in love with Jon Snow instantly as a father figure,
A socialist or social democratic who would interpret,
Political and social events in a way that I understood,
Without any superiority or cold, aloof mood.
My best subject at university was marketing,
Came top in my second year Easter class exam
And everyday when I watched it I analysed Jon’s socks and ties,
Until I was 17, I could predict to myself the next days dyes.
This made me so happy and empowered me to continue,
In that Christian fundamentalist world of criticism and guilt,
But the C4 News was my little secret which I kept to myself,
As I was taught not to love things like that, of a worldly, societal lilt.
I was a devious child towards my parents and their religion,
And lived by admitting only to liking that which I loved,
So that they could have the satisfaction of disciplining me straight,
But pass me by as someone who religion did very much hate.
I had my own sequence, mathematical formula in my head,
And the first day I got my television when the light was ahead,
Because my dad used to monitor what I viewed with intense interest,
I did not flip channels somedays, to suggest no deviation was in my head.
And when Krishnan Guru-Murthy joined the show in 1998,
(I had predicted it from his way at BBC news presenting);
As he reported in Newsnight and BBC 24’s current events programme,
And I thought he would compliment Jon Snow and for youth be an emblem.
I'm hesitant to say that I used to be able to,
Predict when he would grow a beard in playful discourse,
But I knew that he would always shave it off again,
‘Cos that concerned, innocent face is not for recourse.
I like Garry Gibbon, love Kathy Newman, Jackie Long and Matt Frei,
And Paul Mason always gets to the roots of the economics issues;
Lindsey Hilsum and Helia Ebrahimi give such good reports,
And Geoff White always excites me with his technology eye.
AT THE NEON OF NIGHT
That night closed when the café did
With all the secrets a star once hid
There was the whisper of a woman’s woe
And a man with nowhere else to go
Two souls shunning the same shadow
One mystery hidden in the mist and midst of misery
Two who sat upon opposite stools toasting the sunshine……….
While fearing the moon
An orb with the ferocity of fangs that grow fearsome as they devour the
noon
And regret is urged all too soon…….
The neon wept for two souls lost
Upon whose hearts was embossed the emblem of empathy
And strength summoned by sympathy
Until one weakens from weariness
and following errant rainbows
While wishing on stars too long dead
A shine and shrine shrouded shamelessly in dread
As the soul of sublimation summarily bled
When time sped by with seconds spent in seclusion
And hours harbored in the hollow halls of hopelessness
Wherein horror speaks of its own adulation
And betrayal is betrothed by beauty
You spilled some bear as I drew near
And fear festered within my stare of stagnation
with your self-righteous indignation
You were the you I feared you would be
And I, alas, was only me
No match for beauty, guile and glee
Since I was only me
The barkeep was taken by your sea-green eyes,
As I was forsaken by stars bleeding from the abdomen
And a miserly moon who made madness seem minus its usual impact
Your eyes……….
With a luminescent shade seldom seen in the seediness of a small café
a café that gave way to neediness neglected
and desire lost the battle that led to victimization rejected
after laughter, libation and languid conversation
small talk that seemed big at a small café
and incinerated the fate that would otherwise force me to my knees
beside a bar
A woman whom I would…………
with blessed determination and clenched teeth, keep afar
a lady who lingers in a landscape of roses and retribution
And although I was just me
this me knew to flee………….
The neon closed its eyes that night
As I went left and you went right
Fortune’s face was then revealed
When I avidly avoided what a woman of woe would yield
© 2012….copyright PHREEPOETREE ....~free cee!~
TransGender Women of Color, have the advantage
in a white male dominant culture,
have an advantage
for finding therapeutic tools
for awareness of marginalizing
traumatic business as usual
weapons against Earth's universal health care.
Just as RightBrain co-investors
in sharing traumatic fear
and therapeutic love feelings
have the open awareness advantage
in a LeftBrain dominant tragic/comedic
ZeroSum
closed-system
degenerating
entropic
misanthropic monoculture
Cooperatively finding Left/Right win/win co-operative
resonant potential
where Republican wealthy capitalists
must live unliberties of dissonance
with all that great spiritual leaders have taught
about compassion
experiencing nonviolence
and sacred integrity of co-empathic
co-investment narratives in
and on
and under
and above
Whole OpenSystemic Earth.
I wish there were more middle-range,
more passionate mediation space,
more sacred forgiving pace,
less racing
avidly terrified of insufficient
human profit place,
A more comforting
short-term purgatory
between RightWing
"Vengeance is Mine"
saith The SWM Lord
And quasi-liberated LeftWing
"Seize Our Feminist SelfServing Day"
Ignoring spacious win/win potential
sharing stories
of when our species
has best grabbed hold
of Self/Other Empowering Ways
to co-operate humane multicultural
interreligious integrity
with EarthPatriotic polycultural
interdependent synergy
No longer ignoring,
but rather inviting,
our potential,
historical,
polycultural loving
and curious,
engaging,
mysteriously regenerative
EarthEmpowering Nights
Reflecting stardust bright
comforting integrity,
agreeing to agree
with therapeutic loving peace
personal stories
politically empowering
Engaging cooperative embrace
with constant curiosity
rather than settling for saving face
midst mindless mediocrity
Settling for another story
of anxious loss
and fear
that not only I don't count,
but we don't matter
When traumatic win/lose risks
outweigh therapeutic win/win
co-passionately cooperative,
curiously co-empathic
opportunities.
HARMONY 69
The night of twelfth December `69
knotted together an icy storm wind
that whipped False bay`s waves
to white -frilled blankets.
Thunderclaps against primal rocks
resonated through a ghettoe of glowing tents
on a dark, rough ,bushy patch .
Rising plaintively above the din
of drums and flapping canvas,
creole strains solicited the capricious gods
for a clement Cape .
Love songs , sweet like wine
would even tittilated mermaid`s melons,
stranding them breathless, with tails scaled.
In my sixteenth tempestuous year,
I was sickened and sullied, spoiling for a fight
with that ever- prying, ever-lying police-state
denying us
dividing us
deriding us
ripping us
whipping us
in an all-pervasive racist propaganda storm
Harmony,was forced ethnic relocation right there
in a stamp-size sea-resort next to a stinking dump.
Our yearly anticipated salty baptism,
fouled for a full ten years,
dunked in fascist soil
of a false bay with a real bite….
rubbing coarse salt in our opened wounds
Rubbing it in the flayed
William, my sire, of the black turf belly
Rubbing it in the lashed
Maxie , my ma , of white-on-black graft
Rubbing it in the spurred
Dot Adams, my oracle , of the pearled-truth tongue
imprisoned to a silent ninety-day solitary confinement. .
Yes, a full two hundred scar-studded waxes
avidly saluting the wretched who rose in revolution
drowning exploiters in the oppressed`s precious blood
Algeria whilst raped,unveiling herself,
firing fear into bared French fascism
exploding the myth of a benevolent colonialism.
“Lumumba will guide the Kongo to freedom”
grandpa agitated hopefully as revolutionary Patrice,
our dark prince of peace
died on the bloodied butts
of neo-colonial carbines.
My seven-year heart burst
in anger and pain.
A companiable heart`s balance
tilted with unease at justice , unhinged.
the periodic uprisings of people in far-flung regions
against the arrogance of anglo-saxon imperialism
salted my youth with the tears of broken children,
their blood ever spattering my angry brow.
I crown the missus "champ impractical joker"
Unbeknownst the wife appeared unusually upbeat,
she did pretend and succeed
to give yours truly a special treat
aforementioned item alluded to purchased
at Liberty Ministry thrift store
3841 Ridge Pike
(some miles further east
same road identified as Main Street)
Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426
I can show you proof courtesy
printed information on pocketed receipt.
Most times one garden variety generic bloke
(christened Matthew Scott Harris),
would with pursed lips think
and or mouth the words okey doke
what in the name of Judas Priest
by George, he a run of the mill
on the floss ordinary heavy mettle folk
doth thee spouse got up her (figurative) sleeve
thespian wannabe she never quite...
her constitute stardom quite a joke.
She practices April's fool day
(hoping nobody notices
as she looks askance)
every time she gets a chance
gleefully clapping her hands
while performing an impromptu (risque) dance,
when she pulls off
hat tricks of her trade
taking Europe in general and France
in particular by storm
madding crowds clamoring to prance
with said unsung hero.
The words mentioned above intended for you
dear anonymous reader to woo
allowing, enabling, and providing how I view
livingsocial linkedin with good n plenti true
without a shadow of doubt poetic license taken,
these words zealously, randomly, haphazardly
scattered across screen willy nilly I spew
trying to coerce coalescence of continuity
yet additionally trying to weave events
earlier today December 22nd, I review,
whereby yours truly while waiting in a queue
assorted merchandise fifty percent off
the spouse did avidly pursue
unbeknownst she would play a prank and outdo
pulling a doozy gag at my expense, he took netview
of utter tomfoolery, and readily admits Matthew
Scott Harris I nearly ate "faux chocolate soap"
finding wife in stitches, he too
did chuckle, cuz he knew
supposed treat smelled extremely fragrant
cocoa confection fortunately, I did not chew
but promptly spit out after sneezing atchew!
"PreOccupation"
spiced
cut up poetry
divides
numbers
intentional
drivel moved
to the side
on a blank page
into neat lines
sucked up
a much loved
addiction
novel and short
Pre Occupation
of all the glossy
shrouded shrouds
minds spiced
scab picking, their
word salads, tossed
the windbags
blowing braggarts
know-it-alls
blow it all
cutting the lines
like neat poetry, up
gladiator
brides
are us
sucking it
all up
like sweet custard
vampire voices
puck shot
through goal posts
cleansed?
they think they're missed;
I think not
baptised virtuous
scrabbled
war torn pilgrims
the lecherous
with nothing
better to do
watch all
bride defectors
sign language
look into the mirror
your reflections all
on repeat, the watchers
all wisened
move through,
or move
through not
they still avidly watch
the time wasting
away
Pre Occupation
sides and numbers
all blood suckers lost
buried, wearing
their shrouds
poetry in lines
black and white
cut up neatly
divided
on a blank page
the sucked up
read all the
time wasted
lost
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Halloween approaches Vampires,
suck blood and be
merry
“The meeting commences in the arena;
Gladiators and space defectors
In walk the druids and the shock troops
In walk the druids and the shock troops
Ringside seats, bird's eye views
Video cameras only tell the truth
Milliards of youths complacent in the eyes
Of their contemporary sleuths
Witch-wizards sat on cosmic thrones
The new age crowned all skin and bones
The sacred priestess of Merlin The Mage
Opens the book, she turns the page ...”
...
"Conspiracy of silence
An orgy of peace
They're all here from every sphere
From every planet to shake their spears
Divide the lands of the halls of Pan
Painted warlords in their hordes
Asa kings and obi queens
Step from my skull and live my dreams
(excerpt/”Druids”, Toyah Wilcox, 1982)
It is really a veritable question of our time,
In fact - of all times,
on this once beautiful
molten rock with sea and sand,
We so avidly call our home
Paradoxical fearlessness
albeit so sublime, created by the dark force’s evil hidden hand,
That might only remain a vision,
Inherited to us in trust,
Yet neglected from addiction to,
Their indoctrinated pathetic lust,
In fact, we do not either really care,
To whatever shape it takes
All material realms
- are prisons,
That irregardless demand already
A Spiritual entrapment
Laid to rest..
And also laid to bare,
All arbitrary enforced concepts cast aside, for a while,
Particularly ones of Group,
All Manufactured by "elite" an ignorance to reconcile,
A dastardly incensed minority,
Destruction a recipe for their rank..and file,
of a toxic and insidious soup,
Plotting planning from within
A dank rotten and riddled carcass entity,
Lies in angst ridden, wicked And flailing stench to blame
Behind veiled prison its minions hide,
Use of an external matrix game
A feigned nucleus for outside,
Of Humanity, therefore every man, woman and child,
Natural Truth and Natural Law are not and could not ever be to blame,
Nature, an almost silent piety, ever giving kind and mild,
The Natural beauty of our World its name,
Has suffered through constant anxiety,
To one day be released
from possession,
a marcarb emblematic walled Trophy obsession,
In cretinous treasonous bastard's Hall..
of heinous undeniable and awkward shame,
Indefinitely, behind this
obvious veil
Originally most inhabitants here,
were seemingly, invariably though quite sane
It therefore really does beg
the question, once more, to relearn once again..Man's role,
To premise this if you can,
Never questioning to falter or to fail,
God's Providence recaptures All,
Our mind's genuine faculties
and Soul
On Earth can Sanity ever Prevail..?
Kurt Hubbard-Beale
16th February 2022
ThePoetTree on Telegram
No flame within!
do I hold for you
no delightful delicacy
shall I put to rhyme.
No picturesque words
in italics of your
woeful wildlife, no
acknowledgement of
the ancient mariner, he
that crossed the margin
of our “Atlas of the world.”
(Still in use, [I believe] in the
old stone museum.)
One can easily live in fear
of your many mordant moods,
to see you capture the
embracing horizon, where warring
clouds fondle the sunlight,
and the departing QE 2 is
reduced to microcosm.
How can one live in awe of
you, when at the end of each
day you snatch at the light of
sustenance, therefore
giving license to the veil
of damnation, soon to be cast
out of the east, driving impending
fears to languish upon the
unholy waters of the Styx?
(An extraction of the mind,
an evaporation of the memory
the spray dried brain
tossed into oblivion.)
Yet each morning an
interval to one’s ongoing
nightmare, when with renewed
levitation, the new light reprieved!
Begins avidly it’s universal
journey across Manukau’s
“Pack ‘n’ Save” Car park.
Oh yes! It is so easy to hate you;
you that brought the rest of
the world here, you that constitutes
a world within a world, that,
where the cycle of life creates it’s
own constitution, each player
judged on cue, to become an act of
fodder, mobile supermarkets
in ferocious competition with
nothing at all to give.
“Unless death itself is a gift!”
Upon the surface your
treachery still lingers, there,
tenacious tentacles lurk
within the sedulous surf,
groping blindly at sedated
rocks, those pinnacles of sanctuary
that harbour the weary,
support the rod.
Only when gravitation truly
intervenes, does the perpetual
invasion subside, leaving one in
no doubt about your promiscuity!
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Written: April 25, 2024 For Edward Ibeh Contest
1st place contest winner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Young souls stalked by predators at night,
They aim to inflict chaos upon an elfin sight.
They don garments of gentle compassion,
And tend a hand to mountebank passion.
Lacking inspiration, youth may falter,
Without wisdom may stumble and halter.
Who desires apodictic whole annihilation?
Reach a furry hand to who lurk destination.
We are friends; disregard your dad.
He is just an elderly man without a tad.
It's not dangerous, to be jubilant.
Moving in gloom—deceit is exuberant.
Such a story may be found in prophecy.
What the devil's grasp seeks an odyssey,
A seductive lure for the wayward soul.
A web of lies spun by its vision control.
Yet, it is a hollowed oath of the heart.
Preventing villain from tearing it apart.
A radiant cheek is a display of delight.
Within a withered apple—a rotten bite.
Avoid yielding to evil lure craft.
And never let gloom drain your raft.
Support truth and path of morality.
Beware of evil deceit and brutality.
In the abyss, evil spins a web of deceit
Yet virtuous spirit will never retreat.
Remain faithful to the sacred source.
Let evil hide—thwarted in course.
Truism will ultimately prevail.
Then, a grasp of evil will avidly fail.
Stand firm—let your spirit shine bright.
Stroll along the righteous path light.
On an evil field, falsehood may thrive.
Yet virtuous spirits will forever strive.
Don't yield to nagging fears of night.
May winding roads never lead to blight.
Embrace the gentle touch of the divine.
Proceed onward with unwavering shine.
Utterly reckoning goodness will prevail.
With strength evil loss is the trail.
Remain steadfast, and let your soul soar.
Goodness and light, unlock every door.
An evil smile may be beguiling and sly.
With a pure heart, I never drove awry.
Hmm... on second thought
lemme join anorexic club
until rib cage protrudes taut and visible
doubling as drum to drub
synchronized within heart of darkness,
especially when electrocardiogram exhibits
absolute zero vital sign,
cardiac arrest translates
as cessation to lub dub,
hence yours truly
declared dead as doornail,
coroner report deems arrhythmia
directly linkedin to deliberate Machiavellian flub
courtesy the missus attempt to poison me
actually aborted cuz nanobots
loosed upon body gripped with rigor mortis,
a minor inconvenient truth
cuz odorless and tasteless deadly toxins
rendered me convalescing
from bout with death, an oxymoronic
former slenderman gourmand.
temporarily deceased
until said microscopic robots
avidly analogous to frenzied
figuratively hogtied pigs
buzzfeeding at a trough
creating porcine hubbub
invisible nanoids (0.1-10 micrometres)
accomplished programmed task
whereby fatal microbes they did scrub
away leaving me fit as a fiddle.
No matter she thoroughly, painstakingly
and lovingly didst strew
haphazardly she threw
leftovers together,
this blustery march like
November twenty six figuratively view
wing the remaining thirty plus days
of two thousand twenty one
thoroughly cooked in microwave until...
poor excuse for my meal appeared
with consistency of shoe leather.
Think the missus not afraid
of Virginia Woolf keen to experiment
treating me like the Gingerbread Hag would:
questionable resultant glop pantomimed
for my guessing pleasure
never figure out in bajillion years
as amateurish Marcel Marceau charade
performance courtesy the spouse,
an entrée she gave - yours truly
immediately sought to evade
me subsequently evincing
horrific puckered mealy mouth
as though I swallowed hand grenade
figurative exploding oral cavity
feeble futile gesticulation inveighed.