Long Competency Poems
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Water rains the philosophies of mums each morning plying jeer can with tough
faces because the taps have been experiencing months of loneliness in it
gush.
The waking of sleepless mums gluing their hope to the taps gush, merely
believe this city certain to save the mums from slavery of their own. Owed
the boredom drenching in strings water to the songs of birds close the
window to the windmill.
The nights become longer to the size of river Nile wishing the night to
swallow the day, their pace can be heard in parliamentary to the voice of
the kettles rumbling in the morning
Their sweat determines the pain they have been through to ignorant of the
truth the pipes are like dead snakes on the roads biting us with fear.
It gushes no water that too melancholy on milky tooth of incompetent man
hovering his wings to the nation and attribution regretted.
She colors her behavior to spit the crowded of women around the well to
the crisscross that wills the nation to notion active only by the title of
competency if imagined.
The cascade of the city to scent of village with tantamount hope boiling no
interest to glue in city that with no sign of before, but backwardness
rumble to the dumbbell in the morning to mothers cry.
The dampness of their clothes to the scent of cockroaches well being, the
fake manifesto entertains poverty and glue the water collectors to
colloquial gossip in the morning hoping to ram the messed up and the big
mistake ever nation has cried that circulated in short saga.
Dumb in parliament to the palatable junks of protruding stomach shining
gown to the shake of lizard to the fall of Julius Cesar by the sword
And by the oath of power to the pointless of being a President to the
resident overdue of coalition of poverty is fence of blunders on the frying
plate
by then the imagination of mums fetching the tinkling of water enshrined
them each morning to months of lamentation
They rallied you to paint their faces with hope of impregnated oath to
breath of thief with heavy sombre spell diction's where we must defend to
the arrival of Jesus by jumbling solutions to fix broken ideas to the
weight night.
qu'ry this:
a chivalrous charlatan, I
dareth feign to pen thy prop'r aspect?
aye, f'r thy legitimate contours art
yet ov'rwhelmingly stagg'ring to the gazeth
and if beheld by the ingraft
m'rtal, thus, wouldst rend'r those
folk stunn'd to reticence …
such provocative p'rfection f'r a
prop'r prose pedestal doth now standeth
thy outlines …
if 't only the ink of mine own quill
flow'd with the langu'rous liquidity of
thy libidinous limbs -
w'rds danceth off the wit
at but a glance of thy exquisite epid'rmal embodiment
w'rds liketh touch, tickleth, tease, tempteth …
coequal the wisest of w'rdsmiths
wouldst strain to holdeth nigh and effectual,
the phrasing of the
diaphanous d'rmal dialogue that elucidates the
sultry "esses" yond thy shadow paints on
the walls and flo'rs …
only those bless'd as i, without pure
sight of the eye, art accomplish'd enough to
appropriate a competency of fair and
f'rm'd appreciation and charact'rization of
the voluptuous p'rtions that
composeth thy physique …
those such as i w're b'rn to the burden of
the darkness, but also bless'd to
the bearing of the tactile and touchable -
mine own pen is the palm,
the fing'rtip, the soft application of skin-to-skin contact,
the int'rpretation of v'ry tiny ‘lectrical impulses
from ev'rything integumentary
and the und'rstanding of all that
keen inf'rmation being convey'd to the brain …
o beg, my love -
alloweth me readeth thee anon,
alloweth me putteth tactile "pen" to the pages
of mine own soul and psyche,
alloweth me writeth a st'ry th're upon thee,
alloweth me knoweth with mine own fing'rs and carpus
the wond'rful w'rds that describeth thee
in all thy immaculate, sublime consummation,
alloweth me abs'rb the text of thy
curv'd and faultless f'rm,
and lighteth the darkness of mine
own blind w'rld …
transf'rm this beshrew into mine own blessing,
alloweth me beholdeth thee
as nay oth'r ev'r shall -
as a st'ry,
as a biography, book, tale,
aye, as an adventure …
without end.
How many times does it take,
Before death isn't seen?
Where this wave of rampant shootings,
Will open minds that can convene.
This basic legal premise, has
Evolved with little in its wake.
As states control its usage,
While a nation suffers heartache.
There's no simplicity to an answer,
Only a convoluted complexity all around.
With a range of, 'more is better' to
'Less is needed', to keep all safe & sound.
While its constitutionality is firmly entrenched,
Can ownership be somehow reserved?
Where common sense won't trample the NRA,
And they can live with those most deserved.
Because if we look at the simple facts, this
Powerful group cares nothing of law, only sales.
While manufacturing the love of the 2nd amendment,
With little time spent on murderous details.
So what solutions are possibly out there,
That may aid in this time of distress?
Such that real progress can be seen & measured,
And senseless killings become truly, far less.
Causal roots have been unearthed & discovered,
Yet rarely acted upon with a firm resolve.
As time tends to add to forgetfulness, and
Other distractions add more to dissolve.
So it is here I'll propose some ideas, where
Common sense is the road to be used.
With a goal of increased security, while
Liabilities can be reduced and recused.
Starting with age as a common thread, the
Age of 18 or 21 is constantly bantered about.
My thoughts involve complete licensing,
Certifying their competency to own, with less doubt.
Secondly, the securing of these weapons needs to be
Addressed, so they're not lent or stolen, back & forth.
And with bio-metrics to add responsibility,
This can lessen those fears, south to north.
There are surely more ideas that can be
Discussed, and lead to compromise.
Then maybe some actions would help to insure,
That lives were saved, in those youthful eyes.
Qu'ry this: a chivalrous charlatan, I,
Dareth feign to pen thy prop'r aspect?
Aye, f'r thy legitimate contours art yet
Ov'rwhelmingly stagg'ring to the gazeth,
And if beheld by the ingraft m'rtal, thus,
Wouldst rend'r those folk stunn'd to reticence.
Such provocative p'rfection f'r a prop'r prose
Pedestal doth now standeth thy outlines.
If 't only the ink of mine own quill flow'd with
The langu'rous liquidity of thy libidinous limbs.
W'rds danceth off the wit at but a glance
Of thy exquisite epid'rmal embodiment,
W'rds liketh touch, tickleth, tease, tempteth.
Coequal the wisest of w'rdsmiths wouldst strain
To holdeth nigh and effectual, the phrasing
Of the diaphanous d'rmal dialogue that
Elucidates the sultry "esses" yond thy
Shadow paints on the walls and flo'rs.
Only those bless'd as i, without pure
Sight of the eye, art accomplish'd
Enough to appropriate a competency
Of fair and f'rm'd appreciation and
Charact'rization, of the voluptuous
P'rtions that composeth thy physique.
Those such as i w're b'rn to the burden
Of the darkness, but also bless'd to the
Bearing of the tactile and touchable.
Mine own pen is the palm, the fing'rtip,
The soft application of skin-to-skin contact,
The int'rpretation of v'ry tiny electrical
Impulses from ev'rything integumentary,
And the und'rstanding of all that keen
Inf'rmation being convey'd to the brain. Alloweth
Me readeth thee anon, alloweth me putteth tactile
"Pen" to the pages of mine own soul and psyche,
Alloweth me writeth a st'ry th're upon thee, alloweth
Me knoweth with mine own fing'rs and palms
The wond'rful w'rds that describeth thee in all
Thy immaculate, sublime consummation,
Alloweth me abs'rb the text of thy curve'd f'rm,
And lighteth the darkness of mine own blind w'rld.
Transf'rm this beshrew into mine own blessing.
Alloweth me beholdeth thee as nay oth'r ev'r shall.
As a st'ry, biography, adventure, book, a tale ...
Without end.
ACROSTIC ODE TO SINGAPORE
Urge strikes a feel and flow of obvious appeal,
See a tiny red-dot enroute to places,
Embracing the path of economic will.
Bestow on this land of many dear faces
Use of timely ideas and productive strides,
Yield to our people fond smiles and fine graces.
See this island nation in Asiatic tides,
Immersed with multi-racial community,
Now living the modern age with bustling pride.
Glimpse beyond the struggles of democracy,
Align the prospects of resolute progress:
Pursuit of excellence and competency.
Opting to serve the world via business express,
Reaching outwards and upwards through ample trade,
Exploring better ways and means to progress.
Join our contemporary lifestyle parade:
Open minds that make ordinary things great,
Yes we embark on a quest to keep our grades.
Now and here we gather our wits to greet fate,
Open our hearts to make lifelong learning fit,
Willing to work our way to wealthy estates.
Give all we got to spur progress more discrete,
Employ our best efforts to niche steady bits,
Trust in the truth to live our national grit.
Make what you will of our solemn choice of wit:
Echo our song beyond scenarios that pit.
(Notes: This work is an Ode written in Terza Rima. Each line has eleven syllables throughout for the tercet verses (3-line per verse) and for the final couplet of 2-line verse. I have also added a new part into this Ode: an Acrostic element. This is just an idea to make the composition more interesting and offer another perspective to the reader. This acrostic fit is definitely more cumbersome but well worth the wordplay and effort. Tell me what you think if you have a comment to make. Thanks.)
-------------------------------------------------
Leon Enriquez
06 Mar 2014
Singapore
fatty deposit usurped
my washboard physique
I can no longer lay claim
as pencil necked geek
mute tinny utterances futile
to write and/or speak
as recourse to cope with
displeasing body morphology
tis good n plenti humor I seek
to offset feeling morose, and
regular exercise regime to tweak
objectionable physiognomy,
would offend classic Greek
aesthetically lean body mass index
even lions, tigers, or bears,
would consider yours truly a freak
actually never in mein kampf,
as lovely bones creak
acceptance of physical,
(nor mental) self e'en as pipsqueak
wrought intimations just short
re: abominable mortal kombat total hate
me snow kidding man plus
loathing mine anatomical trait
invariably pitched mental
health in dire strait
I haint shy stating greater part
of life (mine) where fate
found me beset with feeling morose
inner dialogue tête-à-tête
attributed to more'n
one countless reason
sunk teeth into anorexia
as pit iff full adolescent date
even now chief among
reasons with rhyme, aye lowly rate
being adipose fatty deposit usurped
washboard physique long ancient history
no surprise competency not great
passive withdrawn demeanor set precedent
concomitantly plagued with
submucous cleft palate being risk averse,
in tandem being diminutive height meant
easy scapegoat target leant
convenience and regularly meant
chased, mocked, taunted...
by bullies helped rent
psyche asunder during impressionable years
nonetheless acutely cogent
whatever that might be worth, this gent
laments good n plenti
centsless opportunities got misspent
finding empowerment thru writing only recent
endeavor to cope with
empty nest syndrome event.
There is a great epidemic
sweeping across the land,
that convinces foolish minds
they are bold and grand,
convinces them mere existence
makes them legendary,
I’m talking now about the cruse
of unearned self-esteem.
You see it in the young folk,
most still under twenty-five,
taught all their life they’re special,
Into this line they buy,
proclaiming their own greatness
by texting friends endlessly,
call them out, they take offense
thanks to unearned self-esteem.
Then there are those women
who think their lady-parts
make them special people
with no stink to their farts.
But being one of every two
is nothing noteworthy,
no different from those before,
save for unearned self-esteem.
And who can forget those people
who say it’s about tint,
who demand special treatment
because of their pigment,
those who say your life is just
criss-crossed ‘identities,’
skin-color is not an accomplishment,
ditch the unearned self-esteem.
The worst of the infected
are the terminal PC-crowd,
the group-think of raw emotion
trumpeted out loud,
convinced that they’re enlightened
while mouthing malarkey,
they’d rule us with with an iron fist,
blame the unearned self-esteem.
Real esteem is something earned
by facing weighty truths,
it’s built up as you navigate
the ravages of youth.
It cares not for fame or fortune,
its end is competency,
when you master the task at hand
you’re then worthy of esteem.
It’s not some trendy label,
or a group you are within,
real esteem is built up slowly,
from win stacked upon win.
And when your self is mastered,
it’s plain for all to see,
you’ll have no need for illusion,
you’ll have earned real self-esteem.
We are quarreling over a graveyard of great ideas
Wandering under skies filled with flying political spears
Ideas are rotting under the soils dug by the unscrupulous
We buried our true identity and our mourning is pretentious
The commoners with good intentions are called riffraffs
The undereducated with concerns are labeled bellyachers
The elite have a sense of entitlement that exceeds their competency
The clergy have cloaks covering hands reaching out for the treasury
When Jesus tells us to pray in private, that’s when we fill up stadiums
Or that “Lord! Lord!” won’t get us to heaven, we still climb the podiums
Our inaction disguised as faith and oblivious to the endowment of freewill
We are blind to nature's blessings and God’s delegation of power for us to realise his earthly will
Amidst the vastness of our resources, blossoms a narrowness of minds
If challenges delay our goals, a compromise sprouts, as success gets undermined
Our failures don’t roll up our sleeves for more efforts but for belligerence
Our tongues have become viperous easily inciting division and violence
We are guilty of killing the messengers
We have silenced voices that threaten our favours and status
We prefer fellow tribesmen and forego what statesmanship seeks
Distrusting progress of shared thought and embracing the selfishness of cliques
More deceit continue to deface our identity
Take heed of the manipulation of verities
Individualism is not selfishness
Patriotism is not self-praise
Salvation is not prosperity
Electability is not authority
Our leaders are just a reflection of society
Changing the mirror won’t cure their corruptibility
O’ Word
O’ word, for my Bibliogenesis
‘My Dolly’
You are not fatherless
That I love you in the
Mouth of dear one Aesthesiogenically.
I feel you in my Parthenogenesis veins
Like an unfertilized egg
With the traffic-jammed
In my polluted blood.
I Streep teased my desire
That breathes in your mouth.
The world is made up of things-
Things do not speak but have
A language and a reason for being.
I think of the silence of
Your lips I visit to form embryo.
Make me wet with erotic desire
To gratify erotogenically
And mold you in good shape
With the vault of your mouth
So that the world around me
Can hear you in the heavens.
*********
10th place win
Contest: Stream of Consciousness sponsored by Debbie Guzzi
===========================
* In March 1996, the news of the birth of a fatherless sheep in Australia affectionately
named "Dolly" shocked the world.
The possibility that human beings could be cloned too - long the subject of jokes and
science fiction - began to awaken an inner fear. The scientific question should be
answered by human embryologists, the scientists who have the required expertise and
competency. At what point during the cloning process does a human being or human
embryo physically come into existence?
Aesthesiogenic - producing or causing a sensation
Embryogenesis - induction of sexual desire; production of arousal
Erogenesis - erogenesis a production of desire
Erotogenic - producing erotic desire or sexual gratification
Parthenogenesis - reproduction by a virgin or by means of an unfertilized egg
Bibliogenesis - production of books
Go out and get it we told them
And I have seen mothers wringing leaves for tears of tea
I have seen fathers striking stone
And cursing the prophecy of water from the rock
And I have seen them day after day like sheep
Staffed and rodded into an obedient flock
Defering Saturday matinees and Sunday evening games
Taking solace only at the edge of flesh
The new pilgrimage of the driven age of youth
But it did not deter the goal we set
The balloon of dream in their head
That their new skill and competency will us richer
And that for that we will sit as family laugh
Like days too old now to remember
And after the strain
For balm the fractured cohesion falls apart
Family like glass splinters in the heart
I read about, know about it, felt it like the hammer at my grave
But we cannot deny that despite all
They went out to get it
But cannot come again.
In libraries whispering smothered discontent
On facebook drinking the anesthtettic of spurious arguments
The heart tweets, and tweets
The disparaging malajustment of the world
No vacancy sign littering our babel trembling
Where are they to work
What shall we do with all this genius
Stagering from place to place?
I went out with them until I was old
I am returned again to build
With them, but instead collapsed into a discourse with our eyes
We meet the wasteland face to face.