Long Confrontation Poems
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Have you ever met those kind of blokes who get upon your nerve,
when they quote continual references that most think should deserve
a threatening confrontation that if they make that quote again,
then the punishment that’s handed out will give them heaps of pain.
A gang of us were working down along the Main Drain stream,
clearing blackberries and willows on a governmental scheme,
and as usual on a Monday morn, weekend glitches are highlighted,
that are full of doom and gloom, and mostly are ‘beer blighted.’
For Clancy, Joe and me, we sort of blessed the doom and gloom,
as it transgressed into humour, and so there wasn’t any room,
for the likes of workmate Charlie who only saw a brighter side,
when there wasn’t any bright side; just a great gloomy divide.
Charlie is the eternal optimist with no matter what is said
in the ghastliest of circumstance even if someone was dead,
and Charlie only had one quote that we’re sure he did rehearse,
and so we heard it every time ‘It could have been much worse.’
So after work one evening in the pub we had some beers,
with ‘it could have been much worse,’ still ringing loudly in our ears,
and with Charlie being absent we devised a cunning plan,
to rid him of that bloody quote and then praying that we can.
We thought that as a perfect subject we would use our good mate Ted,
in a steamy sordid untrue yarn to get inside of Charlie’s head,
and have him shaking in his bootstraps, plus gulping in his throat,
to avoid us hearing one more time, his annoying bloody quote.
And so ‘it could have been much worse’ is about to get the chop,
as we cut and piled the prickly canes, of a large blackberry crop,
so when the time was ready, with Charlie well within ear shot,
Joe babbled out the sordid tale that was really ‘Tommyrot.’
“Did you hear about our old mate Ted, and what went on last night?
He caught his wife with Jimmy Hale, and there was a shocking fight;
he shot ‘em both and then himself!” But Charlie stayed quite calm but terse,
as he rolled a smoke and muttered out, “It could have been much worse.”
“Much worse!” We squawked as one... “How can it be worse than that?”
And the answer Charlie gave us… well it really knocked us flat,
after dragging on his cigarette, he sniffed and quietly said,
“If it had have been the night before, it’s me who would be dead.”
Once upon a time
There was a man
Who lost his job
And his home
And his car
And he slept under a tree.
Simpleton that he was,
He never gave thought
To asking the oak's permission.
But the majestic old tree,
Being wise in its great age,
Suffered the unlucky human
To lie there in grateful repose
Between two of its massive,
Outspreading roots.
And there were visitors,
Unseen and unheard
By the man but who,
For their own secret reasons,
Took an interest in him.
So these playful beings
Found a way to indulge
Their sense of mischief
Whilst helping the man
Avoid further calamities
To his person.
The woods where he slept,
You see, were privately kept,
And others like himself would,
On occasion,
Pass close by that spot.
Well, the man was of a mind
To sleep well past the dawn.
But the toilers began
Their day early, so it would
Be only a short march of time
Before their paths
Would finally cross.
So the task at hand
For the imps
Or the elves
Or the ghosties
Or the faeries
Lay in devising clever ways
Of rousing the man
Without ever revealing to him
Their own true nature.
Once, for example, they bounced a
Large, round, feather-light something
Off the side of his sleepy head.
It felt like a giant nerf ball but was
Nowhere to be seen immediately after.
On another occasion, they directed
A friendly little toad
To land with a thud within inches
Of his horizontal face.
But in other instances
They acted more boldly;
Tickling his hair,
Grabbing him by the shoes,
Or yanking on an elbow.
The only time he thought to ignore
Such a silent sort of
"By yore leave, yer slumberin' Grace",
He only just avoided a confrontation
With some early-morning workers.
But Serendipity finally intervened,
And after the passage of a fortnight or so,
This man's situation changed yet again,
And he no longer had to sleep upon the earth.
But a peculiar thing occurred, you see.
Being accustomed to regular attention from
His entertaining unseen guardians,
The man found himself unwilling to return
To the bland comforts of a regular bed.
And thus it was only by
Withdrawing their favors
That they compelled him to
Quit that place for good.
And then, reluctantly, with yet
Further pointless delays,
I finally said my goodbyes
And left that place as I found it.
Under the veil of twilight, where shadows whisper the secrets of the soul,
A river of thoughts flows endlessly, weaving through the ethereal landscape of my mind,
Carrying fragments of self-knowledge that must be torn apart before I am whole.
The man I know myself to be—the one who walks in familiar shadows—must meet his end,
So that the true man I am, hidden deep in dreams, can rise and truly exist.
The echoes of an old self ring hollow, desperate for the dawn of a new essence,
And in this dance of melancholy and magic, I glimpse the delicate balance of transformation.
I wander through a labyrinth of metaphors, where each corridor leads deeper into the fog of introspection,
Where the walls are adorned with pale portraits of the past,
And every turn brings a moment of reflection, a confrontation with the shadows of an old self.
This man I have known, a tapestry of familiar fears and comforts, must perish,
So that I can lay him to rest in the catacombs of forgotten dreams,
And rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn at dusk, unburdened and pure.
It is in this crucible of self-destruction and rebirth that I find the essence of who I truly am,
As I walk through the valley of my own soul, unweaving the fabric of the past,
I understand the necessity of erasing the echoes of the old man within me,
To carve out space where the true man can breathe, live, and flourish.
The old man must die, his spectral presence fading into the night,
For only then can the dawn illuminate the contours of the true self.
In this mystical journey, where melancholy kisses the edges of hope,
I surrender to the flux of consciousness, a current that carries me toward the horizon of becoming.
This dissolution of the known self is but a necessary prelude to the symphony of rebirth,
A metamorphosis that transforms the chrysalis of the soul into the liberated butterfly,
Wings unfurling in the gentle light of twilight, where magic and melancholy intertwine.
And as the twilight yields to the night, and the stars paint the canvas of the sky,
I stand on the precipice of my own becoming, the old man laid to rest,
While the true man steps forward, a vessel of possibilities, a testament to the beauty of transformation,
Embracing the melancholy of loss and the magic of renewal, in the ever-flowing river of consciousness.
Written with admiration for Tom Cunningham ~ a gentle poet
maligned by one who really casts an aura of darkness
My smile is genuine and reaches to my eyes.
I do not wear a mask, nor a cloak of disguise
and I post poetry in my given Christian name.
From the hand of one it was written in a claim
that I cast shadows of dark energy around me.
Should I assume that I'm thought of as beastly?
Someone thinks that my spirit has gone awry.
I have to shake my head in disbelief as I decry,
"If you liken me to a sinister, malevolent being
I would ask what movies have you been seeing?"
Call me rude names if that makes you feel witty,
but each shines a gleaming light on your lubricity.
I'm not insulted by the sticks and stones thrown,
nor do I write anything that I would ever bemoan.
I will champion myself, my friends and my nation,
never seeking battle, nor in fear of confrontation.
I am not a troll, a gang member, or wolf in a pack,
so don't falsely accuse me. I won't take your flack.
There is no darkness surrounding my aura, I'm sure.
It may be that your malicious thoughts are impure.
You struggle with defining what's right from wrong.
Is there anyone with whom you can get along?
Friendships are important and you would be wise
to recall that poets should be a coalition of allies.
You're entitled to your opinions, and I am to mine,
but if they are different, don't moo like a bovine.
"Spiteful words," you said, my friends and I write.
Well, in this case I'll say you're absolutely right.
I've been told that rebuttals are a waste of my ink
but not a drop is wasted if it makes people think.
Think of the insult to a poet belittled by another.
One who treats everyone as a sister and brother.
Tom wrote of the bloodbath Putin draws in Ukraine
then selfish comments were made that left a stain
on his words that were written to ring out in truth.
Don't sling mud on other poet's by throwing a stone.
Give voice to your beliefs. Write one of your own.
And now, you're thinking, "You just slung mud."
Yes, I did, in hopes that it will land with a thud.
I don't relish penning negative lines of contention,
but sometimes things are in need of attention.
I'd rather write about Santa and Christmas cheer,
than calling out snide people who taunt and jeer.
What do you do when you have an audience
with a man intoxicated by power and control?
What do you say to a man
who has no heart nor a soul?
What do you tell the man
who continues to oppress?
How do you articulate
when delivering your address?
Do you have the courage to stand up
and boldly speak out loud?
Or maybe you need some supporters
and a favorable crowd
Do you cry out about the
Brokenness and all the pain?
Or do you just shuck and jive
And act all lame?
God hears our cries
and God sees our plight
God understands that
we need His guiding light
First, just remember it was God
who sent you on this mission
And you need God's approval
and God's permission
For to be bolstered by the power of
the Heavenly Throne
Is to know that God's stamp on your passport
will surely set the tone
To be sent is to be dispatched
to be ordained in place
As an invite is a gesture
for someone who's desperate to embrace
As God's truth has to be sent
to address evil power
And an invite is for weaklings
to come at a requested hour
As the only expectation
for one who's been dispatched by the Lord
Is to stand strong in the face of evil
armed with the Spirit of the Sword
Two, never forget whom you're there
to represent
To never forget the people
nor the precedence
Now don't get it twisted
you need to understand
That its not about you
but about God's plans
And don't think that the reason
why you're at the table
Its not to become a celebrity
thus making you unable
To accomplish the task for
which you've chosen to do
For its all about the message
and not about you
So don't come walking in acting like
you're attending a gala or a ball
Its a confrontation where you might have to
flip over some tables and smash some stalls
For its not required that you be nice
As you didn't come by an invite
Now transformed in the presence of God
when He sent you on this mission
Now fortified by the Holy Spirit
in order to fulfill this commission
Now to speak truth to power
talking with the heart of God
To call evil what it is
and that's how you should start
So when you have an audience
with a pharaoh you need to comprehend
That you're meeting with oppression personified
towards all men
Unsettling premonition kickstarts fiendish abomination
Consider the following
dogmatic, enigmatic, fantastic,
idiotic, jargonistic, kimetic, linguistic,
narcissistic, opportunistic,
poetic, quixotic, rhapsodistic,
scholastic, transformistic,
universalistic agglomeration
as an abbreviation
overactive imagination
wrought demonic manifestation
unaware reading dictionary
could engender garrison housing
Century 21 ghostly conjuration
paranormal shenanigans this
Lake Wobegon resident
grudgingly attests perturbation
disembodied spirit betook
(analogous to Casper
the friendly ghost)
"FAKE" spooky introduction
primarily cause ethereal
phantom of the opera mine
diaphanous doppelganger actualization
forcing agonizing confrontation
blindly highlighting spectacular illumination
constituting undeniable declaration,
whereby stagnant existence
aligned stark juxtaposition
courtesy faux charade, escapade, facade...,
gimcrackery literary affectation
yielded (still does) negation
to befriend prospective logophile,
essentially begetting immediate amputation
as posited a posteriori said acquisition
regarding, kneading, experiencing...
inclusiveness feeling reviled discrimination
foisted linkedin with nonestablishmentarian
progressive, liberal, agnostic Unitarian
paradigm upbringing birth parents
decreed ideal articulation
to foster independent cogitation
among yours truly, and his two sisters,
at one time felt veneration
marble lustrous bead
felt towards (guess who) second born
only brother gifted with affliction
diagnosed recent as
schizoid personality disorder,
a mental health condition,
whereat emotional affinity
toward kin folk sundered
buzzfeeding self cannibalization
predicated on inchoate
in utero causation
insync with adaptation
(actually Putin on Ritz key conspiracy
incorporating Russian collusion)
in tandem with basket of deplorables
little rock and rolling
witnesses regeneration
frothy heady windblown
dyed in wool Taj Mahal size
pompadour toupee coronation
ego freezing troll defies decapitation
barley bubbling within hopscotching
mucky swamp characterization
capital hillbilly Phoenix
resembling archeopteryx alights
shrill screeching, digging lame talons
into trumpeting paunchy underbelly.
When the 21st century stepped into its third decade, the major tone of the world sharply switched. Internecine confrontation, cartelism and calumniation snaffled the high pitch, while comprehension, cooperation and cosmopolitanism, like ill-adapting burdens and nuisances, are inexorably pitched out of the era's finickier and finickier register.
The last 4 years, principally accountable for the bend toward such trend, has a clear pattern.
Since the moment that pussy-grabber grabbed the oval office through foreign fix, everything seemed to have been predetermined.
Needless to argue: just as a train steering along its normal route suddenly swerved into an appalling aberration under multiple symptoms of systematic failure, poped up a chain of bizzare behaviors: a row of willful withdrawals from multiple international organizations and treaties, barefaced dunning over allies for protection fees, capricious veer of trade vanes highlighting haphasard jitters of tariff rates toward countries of utterly different natures and qualities, pussyfooting pace toward putin and patronizing pose before pals as well as other unpredictable hitches and glitches in the making and implementation of policies or even nondescript whimsical whistles that had perplexed many politicians, publicists and observers who believe U.S to have relapsed into isolationism, that is, paying more attentions to or becoming exclusively occupied in its own business with less or without interventions or concerns upon external matters. Many uttered criticism over this phlegmatic position, pointing out it was the isolationism that had connived at the fascist aggrandizement and caused the inadequacy of vigilance in the pearl harbor incident before it finally gave way to requisite engagement. But I have to say the wording of isolationism is simply unfitting nowadays. One can prove this by drawing a comparison between the degree of globalization of recent times and that before world war 2. As we take a glimpse back to the period around 1940, we can find that oversea entities and links were relatively meagre and the corresponding influence and leverage upon other countries relatively negligible. At that time, pursuing isolationism was more or less of a certain venial aspect.
Once upon a time I saw night like day
Having no fear from absence of daylight
Sun or moon, I enjoyed both in the same way
Loved the coming of stars in the twilight
Peaceful became dread like the greatest sin
Fearing not the dark but what lurks within
Hidden well from sight are those beings that wait
Existing between the folds of darkness
They are not obvious, made dark like hate
They invite the warmth to leave for coldness
Truly frightful to meet one yet sublime
Creatures of night never seen from daytime
Hardly ever felt at night, so beware
The shadows held no secrets once before
But one dreadful night, I chanced upon it
Ghost! Might sound ridiculous I admit
Yet it was as real as the moon lit dime
Glaring from the desk, like a great comic
My hearth skipped a beat for the first time
My brain urgently forwarding logic
I could not focus on its form on first sight
It stood in the gloom capturing no light
A presence which started out as a blur
Hairs stood on ends at the ghostly figure
Stillness became my only objective
Confronted by him I could not believe
The apparition was there yet not there
Seeming to take form within the darkness
Seeing through him like glass, he seemed harmless
Spirit or ghost I did not know for sure
Scared witless as I was I could not say
My only thought, how to keep him at bay
The specter was then kneeling near my feet
We stared at each other for a long time
To have seen him almost felt like a crime
As if we were never suppose to meet
I could make out his figure very clear
Sadness filled his eyes, removing my fear
It seemed to be pleading, but not with words
A Cheever ran along me like a sword
Are ghosts unable to make any sound?
He seemed ready to howl like a hound
Suddenly, a hand rose towards my face
This disturbing movement hard not to miss
My eyes strained to follow the fathom hand
As it swooped towards me, unstoppable
Ghosts can’t be stopped; it’s the law of the land
To make him gone, I felt incapable
I hid under covers for protection
Shutting my eyes from this confrontation
Uttering in my head, be gone, be gone
Until morning light chased away the dread
I never saw a ghost ever again
My conscience being as heavy as led
In the shadows of a fractured consciousness, where words fall like shattered glass,
The man, unable to articulate, to express with clarity, retreats into action.
His thoughts, like wild horses, gallop through the vast and tumultuous plains of his mind,
Yet his tongue, bound by the chains of a limited lexicon, stumbles, falters, and falls into silence.
In the theater of existence, where every gesture becomes a desperate cry,
The vocabulary of action is tethered to the body,
Each movement a scream, each breath a prayer,
Yet the silence of true understanding hovers, vast and unmoving.
When words fail to bridge the chasms of human connection,
Violence erupts like a wild, primal, and relentless storm,
A language of fists and fury, born of frustration,
The man's body becomes his voice, his weapon is his extended lexicon.
In the bleak landscape of limited expression,
Weapons become the dictionaries of the inarticulate,
Cold metal and sharp edges writing sentences of blood and pain,
For in the heat of conflict, the unspoken finds its violent release.
Men tread shadowy paths, their souls burdened by the weight of miscommunication,
The frustration of unspoken words etching scars upon the fabric of their beings,
Seeking solace in the harsh clarity of confrontation,
An incomprehensible lexicon that speaks in echoes of fear and aggression.
In the swirling depths of consciousness, the storm's fury continues,
A symphony of silent screams and unspoken desires,
Bound by the fragile chains of an inadequate vocabulary,
Eyes that ask what can't be answered, hands that seek what can't be grasped.
Yet in this maelstrom of silent agony, a glimmer of understanding remains,
A hope that beyond violence, beyond primal cries,
There lies a place where words can heal, where silence gives way to connection,
Where the fragmented pieces of the soul can unite in the harmonious dance of true expression.
For in the heart of the storm, in the eye of the silent tempest,
Lies the possibility of finding one's voice, of breaking the chains,
Transforming weapons back into words,
Reclaiming the language of humanity, the melody of understanding,
In the perfect blend of hearts, where silence no longer reigns.
Courage comes from facing your fears
•We fear tomorrow at the expense of today
•Fear can confuse the mind; fear can paralyze the heart
•Fear about tomorrow costs us the joy of today
•Fear can conquer evil; fear can falter in its own shadow.
•Fear causes the “fight or flight” conflict to arise
•Fear can cause cowardness in the face of danger
•Fear can make the danger seem greater than it is
Courage comes from speaking truth to power
•Whether that power be political or ecclesiastical
•Power can confuse knowledge for truth
•Power can know a problem but offer no answer
•Power can see pain in people but seek no cure
•Power can seek to eliminate its adversaries
•Power often seeks domination and manipulation
•Power can see need but be blind to want
•Power corrupted is power wasted
•Power can see people as fodder for its use
•Power can become immune to compassion and care
•Power can lie without feeling moral accountability
•Power often wants admiration rather than confrontation
•Power can do good; power can do evil
Courage comes from trusting in God
Proverbs 3:5–6: "Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths".
Psalm 62:8: "Trust in Him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to Him, for God is our refuge."
Joshua 1:7–9: "Be strong and very courageous.
Psalm 91: 1-2: Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”
John 14:1. 1 “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me.
Matthew 6:25–27: “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you, by worrying, add a single hour to your life?”
In Jesus, we don’t have to be afraid, for perfect love casts out fear