Long Concealment Poems
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I write my verses in seclusion and solitude,
in isolation, free from disturbances and interference, I write;
once upon a time I kept my poems secret in concealment,
privacy was required for me as I was so afraid of what people would say.
Then one day, I got the courage to share them,
I posted them online, and they became subject to piracy, theft;
plagiarism, pillage, copyright infringements, and plundering,
bootlegger raiders, marauders and thieves of words roam around cyber world.
Those who cannot write will mimic, mirror, echo,
replicate, forge and appropriate, rip off my words and your words;
a total copy cat, or just duplicate random lines, oh the sad pain,
but how does one prove these stolen words are true, bona fide, and genuine.
So, I write my verses quietly in authenticity,
I share them with the world, I send them on wings of beauty;
and should a low down, no good thief steal my words away;
there is nothing I can do to stop them, but never can they steal my soul.
_______________________________________
November 17, 2016
Poetry/Verse/ I Am The Real Thing
Copyright Protected, ID 16-850-914-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest,Privacy is Like Piracy
sponsor, Ironic Zink
Second Place
Wrench the pages from my worn hands as my voice shatters
Leave it aflame as the embers rise, my soul now scattered
Within the bounds of sanity, I try, try to claw and scrape
A restless spector of taunt as I endeavour to escape
Concealment shant queal it, it lingers, never away
Perpetual pulverization, lo, shall the ashes stay
I’ll lay my ash remnants at the poisoned tree
A coiling branch tilt napes, suffocating me
Embed my teeth unto the apple of feign
Was not I told for safe?--now it’s pain
They’ll mock me, an “enduring lost”
I’ll swear to those above at cost
How to not yearn does it feel?
My freedom now to be heel.
Tangled in confusion, a nomadic disenchantment,
Comraderie, we thought it was, is apethic callous,
Yet still exists a languid hope for remants of a promise,
That one day amoretto though absturce and in concealment,
Will find itself exposed to the vainglory of revealment,
Then Philanderous fancy shall alter to enamor,
And our creases of affection will sonor into furrow,
Reconciling want to be's in sorrow of tomorrow,
But once the dream is dared upon will fancy turn to nightmare?
The vicious trend could end of wanting in our recollection,
If nostalgia felt for false could cause feigned memory to be?
What is and what shall never be.
What life is ,is all in drama .
A stage act whereas pain and joy
are the themes in constant contrast.
Pain is for us in stage and joy is for the master who watches .
With his shiny silver rings ,spoiling in rust with blood thirst
and he out in the clear open in concealment of our ignorance,
our sinister nemesis weaves in silence
his hate into ropes his hands of fate .
To direct our course upon his trail
but who's to blame for he our master is lonely and men not smart for company
but with rings and ropes for both hate and malice
men make good puppets & he a great puppet master
and all in trance like harmony ,we stomp in stage the dance of life.
The memory span of the average sprout
Means he forgets why the light is out
If life in a fridge will be life without end
Never forget that the dark is your friend
*
And hidden away in a refrigerator
A brave little sprout needs no invigilator
He’d tucked himself between some beans and a leek
And went undiscovered throughout Christmas week
But now that the trifle and cheeses aren’t there
The fridge is beginning to feel rather bare
The spaces within have become wide agape
With few nooks and crannies in which to escape
He’s watched as his friends were all taken and eaten
But this little sprout was too brave to be beaten
He may be just one single sprout, small and green
But he can be ruthless and ever so mean
He knew that the sound of the footsteps nearby
Meant somebody sharing his fridge could soon die
But he’ll stop at nothing for self preservation
He pushed the leek forward without hesitation
It’s dark in the fridge which should aid his concealment
And save him the sight of leftovers congealment
He thought he’d be safe in the darkness inside…
But screamed like a bean when the door opened wide!
Prince you are and master who traffics merchandise
your ships o're seas do travel market paradise
trade you do in human souls commodity and ware
buy and sell your targets exchange material for our care
You have numbered mankind like slaughter for the sheep
branded their mind and hands your ideology they keep
hazy is the outline your doctrine of their need
veiled by the costume concealment of greed
How many become lost in the glitter of your store
never satisfied with plenty but always wanting more
like idols you make them cannot see nor hear nor speak
boldly feed their vanity corrupt the very weak
Your stock and trade the trap you've laid
you do counterfeit what's True
with commerce shade a new religion made
skilled entrapments pervade the view
Just like the old religions their lusts do you restore
with craftiness you perpetuate avocation of the Whore
Costly is her clothing embroidered veil upon her head
outside painted beautiful but inside is dead
You've sold them an ideal and into they've bought
so many think they're nothing unless they have alot
the emptiness interior with diversion seek to fill
subtle its inception nearly painless way to kill
sources Ezekiel chapters 27-28
Apocalypse chapters 13 and 18
COPYRIGHT © 2010 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
They taught us young, the fine art of concealment,
Threads of ideals tightly woven, hard to unbind.
What is perfection? What is normal?
These are the whispers we inherit, soaked in like breath
From mothers, fathers, teachers, friends,
We’re shaped, folded, pressed to fit the mould,
To wear the mask and play the part,
To “make it,” they say.
But what is this making we strive toward?
A shallow milestone, a wage dictated by others' rules?
Does it fill the soul, this endless climb
To the pedestal society built for the obedient?
The façade of perfection crumbles upon touch,
Yet we chase, so desperate to measure up,
Though we know, deep down,
The mould was never made for us.
Eyes—they are intricate, windows to the soul,
Yet they alone can do nothing, bound as they are
To a restless mind, an untamed spirit.
For the heart, wild and unruled, pulls in another direction,
Craving something true, something real.
The heart sways, despite the eyes, despite the mind,
Yearning for connection, raw and sincere,
Unmoved by the weight of societal disguise.
We are told: the perfect waist, the flawless skin,
An endless checklist of “enough”
A body to fit the bill, a face that pleases,
Yet none of it matters,
All illusions crafted to drain us dry,
Leading us further down a thorny path,
Where every step bleeds,
And at the end, we ask—was it worth it?
Why try to contort into shapes never ours to hold?
Why chase the mask when the heart only wants truth?
Why not let the beast within bloom,
Like the beauty in a tale of a rose and a spell?
Let the path be yours, unmarked by another’s hand,
And see the wonders it holds, raw and wild.
Break free, let the mask fall,
Let the shackles clatter at your feet.
Let the eyes see the world as it is,
Cruel and bright, terrible and beautiful,
A race not meant to be run, but to be savoured.
Be free, like a butterfly loosed from the chrysalis,
Not perfect, not ordinary—just real.
As my youth goes yonder her beauty says to me yet, bet, yea,
in my mouth the word beautiful becomes a flavor of valor,
she likes to whisper moments of sad love & tender tragedy
into the ears of quiet poets as they trace the perfection of the Present
with quills dipped in the tails of comets destin for drama,
as you walk wantonly along trails her melody invites
she'll scorn with a question of why are you here with her
then the nails she sharpens with teeth of nurture
will attach One to a cross of commitment, a relic of costly consumption,
because she must have you
as a shadow must have a soul to follow
within the humiliation of Light,
as an owl finds comfort in the concealment of night,
so subtle in admission of affection
although profuse in protection of the Ones she charms,
sensitivity she cannot escape, always hurting to be an angel,
born to be a Princess with feet in mud and eyes on the stars,
deserving dreams of diamonds cast on diadems
while living to endure harsh humanity
an adequate lover her timeframe will accept,
quotes from adolescence she repeats romanticaly,
'Love me in the heat, love me on the ice,
defend me from the cheat, define me despite the price',
alone in her desire I am the champion of her fire -
J.A.B.
August is ending with a heat that gives no mercy to the land or man
so intense that the air swelters off the river into the tree tops,
looking ahead, its as if we are passing through the gossamer of summer's spector,
Private Shanon has been missing for six days
although, we believe he is lost, not captured or deserted
only God knows where his feet have taken him,
evidence along the riverbank indicates that he is alive and pursuing us
perhaps mistaken and disoriented, thinking that we are further up river,
Old Dorion is seeking him now like a clever wolf,
Shanon was seperated from me while stalking a coyote
a most mischievous animal that is entirely foriegn to us except in prank,
a bottle of whiskey goes to the first man who can lay a coyote down,
yesterday half of the expedition went hunting the prarie dog
a critter more cunning than a cat and jumpy as a log spark,
after several hours of scrambling around like lunatics
Private Sheilds has finally caught one with pork bait and a twig basket
the poor rascal squieks like a cheap violin,
eventually I will send it to Washington with other novel specimens,
President Jefferson and the Philosophical Society will be good guardians,
the men and I have been refreshing ourselves on the jewels of soil
the wild grapes are so succulent that the Italians would believe
Bacchus himself had seeded this earth with a secret serum
and the plum groves cuddled in the most unadulterated coves
invite the mind into Eden's shadow,
on this journey we have observed migrations of pigeons
that have rivaled the stretch of storm clouds,
crowds of squirrels so numerous they have canvassed the ground with a sea of fur,
and now the mighty, mythical buffalo walks before us
a legend amongst beasts, monstrous in girth
with hooves that peel the Plains and horns shaped by vengeance,
as they graze we seize the prize of their offering with thanks in our aim,
not having horses strategic concealment is critical, they are reknown for retaliation,
we dropped seven of them in a great pandemonium of panic
the gun smoke, field dust and perspiration meld into a fragrance of sacrifice,
our sustenance is secured, their lives feed our future,
J.A.B.
Moonstruck
Many moons and seasons ago my five children
inquired where I was heading to on my journey
I replied ‘to the moon’ and to how to get there
‘with a ladder’ to astonished faithful suspense
Turned downsize up and ascending again and
once more over and above I should get there
so I took them along flights of innocent fancy and
smiled when they suggested a ladder from heaven
Then darkness descended in lunar concealment
little did I know do I know now for certain how
the fairy tell princess came to savour the pathway
Time place and place-time ventured departed
into vortexes of void switched on in the clouds
Somehow and only the Universe holds answers
my soulmate and lover emerged into the rays
‘I would fetch you the moon on a spoon if I could’
and she ladled lunar surprise to my orb of the night
Soul minds physical spirits union beginnings sprung
into the fore pushing and pulling mounting the stage
Spoons fetched celebrations of life passion wilderness
oceans overflowed wetlands of love and a lighthouse’s
coloured glass windows went embracing the rungs
Since those moons struck together just the sky was the
limit still plenty of riptides spring floods torrents abound
and whirlpools droughts desertification flickering lights
breathing shadows unfolding distant horizons untold but
The pushing and pulling oases spinning spoons
mooning spoons spooned mooned up together
lick orbital salts crack creviced valleys of life while
the moon struck home onto love and compassion
Many moons and seasons ago my children knew
of my journey much better than I and raised in
their question the meaning of life at the crossroad
and it does not matter how they knew that ladders can fly
17th July 2016
Written many moons again by the Universe and still writing all over, above and beyond...