Long Bend over Poems
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concerning Iran (a brief letter to the american voter)
dear miss or mister
still-believing-in-the-“dream”---
which face that you see being displayed on your
screens,
do you think will get us into a war with Iran
first?
will it be mr. hope & change,
whose translucent slogans were
transparent to many of us,
even prior to his ascendance,
whose own hands became bloodied/dirtied on
the way up,
and who now spends his time
twisting on the marionette stage
to the hand motions of the moneyed interests
who fueled his first campaign &
who have fueled his present one?
as the manipulators of mr. hope & change
make him continue to strangle Iran with sanctions,
pull funding from Palestine &
pump more & more money into
militarized & already nuclear
Israel,
will the region get any more peaceful?
will all the countries who showed their dissent with the
Arab Spring
then become the little slaves that the empire wants them to be
under mr. hope & change,
further gearing up hatred,
encouraging the next 9/11 on US soil
as a direct result?
hmmm.
will it be mr. romney, mr. santorum, mr. gingrich or
mr. perry, whose combined complete lack of concern for the
citizen of the empire & wanton militancy
will sacrifice everything to crush the last stronghold
left in the region
(who refuses to bend over the table for america
so that it can install another Shah &
rape it of its oil)
in the name of the war on “Islamic Fundamentalism,”
whose characteristics seem all too familiar
if you are watching the whole thing happen from a television in
the
“Evil Empire?”
hmmm.
will these iron-fisted capitalists
who make fun of the unrest within their own country
by blaming the unemployed for the occupation of wall st. etc.,
march into Iran
(like the christian caped crusaders that ya know they see themselves
as---finally getting to convert the infidels after all these years,
with the big american military *****)
like they marched into Iraq &
they marched into Afghanistan
only a few years ago,
to incinerate the country &
start building permanent bases there with money that
could have been spent on
universal healthcare for americans,
better education for american children,
new employment opportunities through making america
green &
paying off our own debt?
how many Iranian citizens are going to die because of
the american empire’s hegemony & hubris?
hmmm.
Let's play a game, shall we?
It's a fun little number I like to call
"Do I miss you because I love you,
or because you're my brain's scar tissue?"
Let's review the facts, shall we?
You're a spoiled NEET who took pleasure from my pain
From making me bend over backwards
And watching my free will vanish
Like a parasite, you latch on to everyone
Begging for gifts and food like a child
Passive-aggressively plotting when you don't get your way
And everyone gives in to get you to shut up
By all accounts, you're a horrible person
So tell me why, tell me why
Why do you still haunt my dreams at night?
Why does the thought of losing you still hurt me so?
You're like heroin
Because man, doing lines of you through the night
Was the greatest high when the trip was fine
And the comedown was so fierce
So here I lay, sweating yet freezing
Dope sick and hungover after the greatest afterparty
Craving another hit to feel the ceiling again
Gently gnawing on my twelfth step chip
But you weren't always that way, you know
The love we shared was once pure
And each day was a blessing that I'd give so much to return to
And I think that's the you that I miss
But hey, that person died two years ago
You wore her skin so well that I didn't realize
That I still had a body to bury
Before you skinned it and wore it
More often than not, it's the pure memories I recall
When I'm clutching my phone with my thumb above the send key
And another withdrawal pang hits my temple
And jolts my thumb to the clear key
So where are you now?
I can't imagine I'm in a much better place right now
Eating my fourth cup of cup noodles tonight
Poring over a broth stained essay
It's comforting to share a pitiful existence with you
Because in a weird way, I feel more connected with you than ever
Sharing a loving, tender kiss across time and space
As we both scoop the last shrimp from the bottom of the cup
But each cup leads me closer to my dream
As you stagnate at home
Self-actualization is a difficult concept to measure
But your NEET dream dies with the last of your savings
The sun rises and the glare from the screen hits my eyes
Another frosty December morning
Through the sight of the rising sun and the scars you left behind
For now at least, you and I are forever intertwined.
Dear Poetic War
I'm here to inform you to change your name to (War Shoe.)
Warlock doesn't even fit you!
I have many ways to insult you.
I have to play nice, can't you see all them evil eyes!
Poetic Warshoe the only talent you poses is the word LOCK!
No need to try and crush what you can not see
All you are is another loser who can't let me be.
You silly jail bird, you sound more like a game of Monopoly
Its my turn and I hold your ticket to get out of jail for free.
Don't worry Warlock, Board Walk is owned by me.
Washing your couplets down with a cup of tea.
I laughed so hard your words almost made me pee.
Warshoe, why are you jumping on me like a little flea?
The only stinger you have belongs to a bumble bee.
Poetic thug you are messing with the wrong killer bee
Sorry I told you I share my fate with Nate!
Go grab some more help from your psychotic mate.
Raid I will spray on your strategies you poetic bug.
You have no class to be a Warlock.
The only thing you master is being a poetic thug.
Go back to playing dominoes, cards, and chess.
Your poetry smells like potpourri.
My demons will hit you with an epic battle of success.
Hunting me is the way you want to waste commissary.
I will enslave you to worship the grounds my feet caress
Challenging me will be the best thing you've had in 5 years.
First I will send you this letter with a small request.
Look down first before you think you pushed me over the cliff.
I own the crown causing massive damage to your quest.
You will never dominate my battlegrounds, I will end you in a swiff.
Your sword will be conquered in my arena, bringing you down to a rest.
I will make you suffer begging for mercy and forgiveness.
For trying to step up to the best.
Warshoe you already failed my test.
In this game you will never beat me at my own contest.
Your heart I won't eat I will feed that to my guest.
Warshoe its time to rip you out of the shadows where you hide.
I will LOCK you in my WAR of hell.
Shackling you in a fetal position as we collide.
Your fear will spread for everyone to smell.
I will end your poetry with no pride.
I will post venom in your abyss through out your cell.
A poison so rough now bend over and open wide.
Warshoe by the time this is over you will bail.
And I P.D. will still have you under my spell......
by;P.D.
The sun, has begun to rise, lifting up, to the sky, from the oceans horizon, on a beautiful morning, as I take, my daily run, along the smooth, warming, yet wet sand, now putting my footprints, in first, before the thousands, of others, have erased my trace, forever, along with, the washing, of the tides, that rolls in and out, as I notice, far off, something shiny, like a mirrored reflection, sticking out, in my path and so when, I stopped, to rest, I then bend over, to found it, to be, an old, lavishly ornate, delicately designed bottle and with, dusting it off, I turned it over, to then hesitantly, remove the stopper, when there was, a vibration, to it, as it suddenly came, to life, while a light mist, then pours, from the spout, followed by, a thick cloud, of bellowing smoke, began to gather and in shock, I took, a step back, tripping, over myself, as I watched, in slow motion, it fall, from my hand, in a race, with me, of who lands first, on the sandy earth, from in the air, as I, then soon, could make out, the hourglass figure, which emerged, of a young, blonde woman, a goddess, of the olympians, a vision to behold, which is dressed, in silky white, harem style attire, with veils and with her long blond hair, braided in a single rope, down her back, as she sinks, to her kneels and with eyes lowered and her hands, clasped together, in a sign, of abandoned submission.
So now, after moments, of a pause, I heard, the voice, of an angel, the sounds of, a hypnotic trance, in her words, as she spoke, saying that she, was a genie and that, since I, had released her, from her solitary prison, that I, am hers, to now command, as her eyes, then raised, to gaze up, at me, seeing the tears, course down, her cheek, making puddles, as I, could feel her pain and the lifetimes, she lead, for others, taking nothing, for herself, I then, had only one thought, that came to mind, as I, did not wish, anything, for myself, but with one wish, I granted to her, was her freedom and as, she stared deeper, into my eyes, looking in, my heart and soul and reading my mind, I could feel, her there, as she smiled, then placed, her slender arms, around my neck and softly pressed, her lips, to mine, as she then said, your wish, is my command, in breathless delight.
Hobble Hobble Hobble0
Written for Cedarville Librarian Julie.
Absolutely no pressure on that knee for 6 weeks.
They gave me crutches
Hobble, hobble, hobble. to the door.
Husband waiting for me,
luckily.
I woke at nine.
Felt like , head ache and can’t get over it, Tylenol,
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
Decided to take a shower took more than a hour.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
Half an hour to get dressed.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
Made a cup pf tea and spilled it on me.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
Dropped the cup, it smashed on the floor.
Tea everywhere but mop is by the door
Hobble, hobble, hobble
I’ll use the mop as a crutch,
but I fell on the floor.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
Can’t use a mop for a crutch no more.
But i left my crutch by the door.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
I looked everywhere,
I can’t find the dust pan and broom
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
I sat in the chair, stared at the tea spilt everywhere.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
Dust Pan, broom and mop in hand
But I can’t bend over to a pick up any damn thing.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
So I just sit in the chair.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
Saved by a bell, the phone started to ring
Its on the bed across the room
But I can’t stand up to get the damn thing.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
I reached the phone and they hung up
Why, why why is this happening to me.
I dropped the phone, slipped and fell into the tea.
Hobble, hobble, hobble wobble splat.
The dog came over and wanted to play
I couldn’t… so she dragged my crutch away
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
So, I lay on the floor, in the tea, and the dog
kept licking my face and sitting on me.
Hobble, hobble, hobble.
I had to roll and roll to pick up my crutch.
Time to go to work,
Hobble, hobble, hobble to door.
Five minutes or more fo open car door.
Hobble, hobble, hobble to door.
Can’t use accelerator and brake on the floor
Not too late to stay at home,
Dewi Decimal system awaits.
Hobble, hobble, hobble
Seven-minute drive becomes forty-four.
Cant climb stairs, need help, so ill call.
, I left my phone on the chair by the door
So, I must Hobble, hobble, hobble
For five weeks more.
© london F. Buss 2024.and Librarian Julie
My oldest son,
one of the few Earth-mattering
Earth-shattering
Black lives
I was made to protect
to guide
by eco-righteous WinWin acts
and co-passioning words,
Felt, and therefore was, disempowered,
worthless,
like helpless prey among predators
who listen to the same rap,
same urban Earth writes,
same multicultural performances,
When a gun was dispassionately pointed at his head.
This was only tangentially about an economic exchange
primal, personally and politically, targeted.
He felt violated,
and threatened,
already home and identity invaded,
when forced to hand over his car keys,
and the back door
and front door
keys to his home.
He knows these guys,
where to find them on Facebook,
at the casino,
in the dance and rap clubs
where he invested
infested
while still in high school.
Urban night school, unEarthly,
earthy
darkly sensual.
He does not know where to find them in church.
Gospel music is for grandmothers.
Liturgical dance,
sacred rituals,
are for outside romance
on warm wet wombed erotic nights.
He felt naked
exposed
terrified when they demanded his last dime.
This is his biggest and baddest bully,
his most deeply echoing "LOSER!"
His darkest dirge
speaking of suicidal revenge.
Or prison,
where Earth's great white patriarchal State,
will put a gun to his head
and force him to remove his clothes
and bend over
to assume the even more lost position,
Raped of any future hope
to rest outdoors
after an ecstatic liturgical dance
under a romantic full moon
rapping
and dancing
ultra-violet variations
on a warm wet wombed
bright delight.
Not So Bright Delight
You talk our talk
like Black Lives Matter,
but you walk your own walk
as Black lives shatter,
Brown lives stutter,
Green lives splinter.
What's a-matter?
You want to want
all lives to splatter?
Might hear to hear
RealTalk ain't chatter,
You eat to eat
friends heads on platters.
We taste to see
your fake get fatter.
Your act is tired.
Your allies scatter.
You need to feed
on guns' disaster.
Come on now, Felix,
What's a-matter?
Where's your commitment
to Black Lives Matter?
In the wee hours of the morning
When the owls and imps were upon the marsh
We would take our old pirogue and paddle into the darkness
Our intent was to catch bullfrogs but anything was game
We were two young boys armed with BB guns and fishing poles
Headlights strapped hard and tight around our skulls
We searched the shore and stumps for eyes glowing in the night
Cypress trees towered overhead and occasionally the canopy would break
And we would see the clouds drifting quickly past and catch a glimpse of the moon
The paddles would never break the waters surface, as silence was our friend
Once we spotted our prey we would move in slowly and my brother would creep
Slowly to the bow. He would bend over the bow reaching out many feet in front of the boat and grab the frog behind the front legs and quickly stash it away into a burlap sack
Every catch brought us great pleasure, as this was no easy feat. We could have shot them with the BB guns but that was illegal and not nearly as fun. On occasion we would have to steal them from a water moccasin that was ready to strike. Those moments were like lighting and only steeled our intentions to catch more.
Once we had caught a dozen or so we would begin to look for other prey to catch or harass (we were teenagers and couldn’t help ourselves). The occasional raccoon caught out in the open was always fun to chase but never pleasurable to have in the pirogue with us. We learned that lesson the hard way one night when I pushed the boat into the fork of a cypress tree with an old mother coon eating a turtle. My brother and I fought like hardened sailors to keep her at bay but both ended up in the water and nearly sank the pirogue.
Other occasions found us pulling loggerhead turtles from the depths and trying to dispatch them before they bit off a finger.
We both have all our appendages to this day, but I swear Lord we tried, we really tried to lose them.
I never saw a frog leg jump from the pan, but the old man did make us slice them at the knees just to be sure we didn’t loose a piece of that meat that tasted better than any chicken I ever ate.
Imagination is the natural ability with which every human being is endowed.
Therefore, it is conceivable to say that everything will become allowed
by completely envisioning the unforeseen-yet things, that are going to be wowed,
while the barrier of the impossible, over time, will have been cowed.
Not only is the gist of creativity is one of its settlements,
but also the-spur-of-the-moment inspiration provides movements.
Besides being stimulated by some memory fragments.
All in all, these are all its sediments.
Breeding ground is the mind of whose is a blue-sky thinker
As well as, silent people have got the noisiest mind ever.
By using their illusion, they are like a winged-horse rider,
which flies high to obliterate the adamant never.
Low hanging fruits are not listed in its dictionary,
nor even dare to think about the ordinary.
Because in a stark comparison to the ability for the extraordinary,
this is downright basic and non-visionary.
Every step taken deep into the field of imagination
is like a wide-opened golden gate for a world of creation.
On the other hand, knowledge is inflexible and stuck on the limitation.
Similarly, the boundaries are not transcended due to its condition.
For instance, Einstein once said: imagination is better than knowledge
So, let's bend over backwards to acknowledge
that, by imagination, the General Theory of Relativity was created
And so far, its accuracy has been absolutely unrefuted.
The paramount importance of the imagination in our lives
is the onset of an all-brand-new avant-garde Era that arrives.
Wonderful as It seems, it will be a world full of surprises.
Furthermore, it might be breathtaking outright in our eyes.
The endeavor of imagining is likely to be rewarded for the greater good.
Consequently, there will be cutting-edge cars, technologies, remedies as well as enhanced food.
Not to mention about a thoroughly new sort of other things that will enchant us.
From my standpoint, imagination is a high gift in which will make our world be marvelous.
Old Spencer, smelling of grippe, drugs, and death,
he couldn’t bend over to pick up chalk, magazines,
and failed acknowledgements of stupidity.
He certainly reveled in my foolishness.
“Modern science would still like to know what the secret ingredients were
that the Egyptians used when they wrapped up dead people.”
Funny, how people snub any disregard for my self-worth,
I could always smell a phony.
As if picking his nose allowed Spencer to hold his head high,
my presence was only preceded by three other competent institutions.
Success will overlook a booger.
Failure hones selective pride.
I felt it was important to know where park ducks went in winter.
Mayhap they occupied a posh New York hotel.
I left Elkton Hills for selfless reasons.
Attitudes make me cold.
There must be something grander than academia,
like being a good parent or having a large vocabulary.
It is easy to find reasons for disliking people.
They could be old and repetitive.
They could shake the wrong person’s hand.
They could be sarcastic,
exercising their passive aggressive skills after similar provocation.
It seems living can be a circle of depression.
Growing up is difficult if you’re not in the game.
Hot shots always make the rules.
They have an inside track on linear success,
always elated,
blubbering on about how good life is.
They lounge around in their warm homes dressed in bathrobes,
reading The Atlantic Monthly, drinking their hot chocolate.
You can hear them at the edge of your senses, concerned about your destiny,
hedging their own reputations and possible futures,
shouting in barely comprehensible tones from behind closed doors,
“Good Luck!”
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If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Simply enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.
This "plague" isn't going away anytime soon
we're openly told this is our new normal
to bend over and over without any lube-
There's much to be gained by prolonging the pain
from the made in china masks you're wearing
from the made in china parts that go into Covid test kits.
Always know the communists are dreaming up ways
of pulling the heart of the free world from its chest-
Barbed question marks are thrust into bloodstreams
one vaccine is concocted from cells
of two aborted babies from the seventies...
a boy and a girl given letters and numbers instead of names
like the vagabonds stuffed into Auschwitz cattle trains
(who says pulling limbs from innocents doesn't pay)-
This plague isn't going away anytime soon
for it's a bonanza and windfall for conglomerates
at the expense of the working class stiff..
while they tell us not to gather in numbers
or pay our final respects to loved ones
the privileged gather in scores
along Martha's vineyard sparkling shores-
Let us not forget how they released hordes of convicts
onto the streets to protect THEM from a bug
then yapped to defund the police
leaving the rest of us under the P.C bus.. once again
Let us not forget how they inoculated
nursing homes with imminent death
then patted themselves on the back..
while a mercy ship sat in big apple harbor
fully equipped with a thousand empty beds...
Let us not forget about the covid sword
swung wildly by politicians around election time
sticking their pointy fingers in our minds
numbers kneaded into place-fun house distortions..
Something stinks like the devil and we all know it
follow the money trail if you dare
the opaque becomes very clear
this trail will always lead to the truth
to the echo of the cold stone hearted
and the golden palmed..
let us not forget how they made us bend to their every whim
in a dark pit filled with wet lepers and vipers-