Long Damnable Poems
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Nation’s Damnable Blight
Black slender man, bent twig on the branch of a slave’s family tree,
Planted in white culture during infamous time of our history,
From seed transported in the belly of those infernal slave ships.
Bitter tears flowing from his eyes; angry words pouring from his lips.
Spent by long days in fields under hot skies of one hundred degrees,
Living in substandard shacks: wife and babes bearing winter’s freeze.
Broken panes breach for frigid wind; shabby roofs sieve for cold raindrops,
Family worked from sun up to dark to reap the precious crop.
Truth is, most were prisoners of the system evil men devised.
Many struggling to be free from what politicians camouflaged.
Wisdom overrules such folly and the proverb is most profound;
Holding one down makes holder as much a captive as one held down.
This nation, “land of the brave and free”, held out freedom’s lamp to all,
Went out one ominous night and over “liberty’s lamp” threw a pall.
Had wiser men with hearts of love been ruled by God’s Divine Light,
Black and white would have been spared this great nation’s damnable blight.
A broken shell, a living hell, and all I'm left with now is my regret.
Better days ahead were a pipedream after our relationship crumbled. Countless arguments. Disagreements. Every day! For my life, I can't believe we stayed together as long as we did. God knows I didn't want her to leave me. How much longer must I wrestle with these painful memories?
I just feel regret, unspoken, I just feel the pain; since she left, my life has been a broken shell, a living hell — I can't believe I let her go; it was foolish pride before the fall the day she left when I lost all — I should have held her closer, I should have made her see the feelings I have for her, what she means to me; I didn't say I love her or beg her to stay, instead, I stood in silence and watched her walk away, and all I'm left with now is my regret.
Justification is an exercise in futility. Knowing what I could have and should have done leaves an inextricable switchblade in my soul. Love's lessons learned too late — love's loss too great.
Misting eyes beseech as memories replay in my head, but they're too painful, and I feel dead. No joy to be found. Oh well, my self-imposed hell. Painful memories open like an oubliette under my feet, plunging me lost and languishing in isolation's labyrinth. Questions left unanswered, decaying in the debris fields of "what if.”
Reflection can be a catharsis for the soul, but it can also rip a hole in it, and soon reality roars from guilt's bottomless pit to devour all hope. Sometimes despair is mitigated by occasional reminders of us. Thoughts lingering on happier times, blessed moments mine to treasure. Until the damnable loop of regret dominates to decimate any respite of joy. Vanishing expectations. Weeping willow's silent wail. Xerox memories fade with time.
Years have passed, and my thoughts continue to haunt me over what we could have had. Zero-sum game — all I'm left with now is my regret.
Whether I'm awake or asleep,
I walk down a diabolical dark street,
heckled by a voice in repeated repertoire
with dauntingly detestable words.
Taunted and tormented is my soul.
On and on it will dismally droll,
leaving me bewildered, lost in confusion
irritated with the infusion inside my head.
It's a plague, a dreaded curse...
a haunting that hovers as I lie abed.
I'm not demented or delusional.
If this is a callous collusion to drive me insane,
I beg deliverance from the echoing refrain
that takes me into the depths of despair,
leading me blindly as though it doesn't care
if I live or perish in the annals of an abyss.
I ask... what damnable deed have I done
that makes me bleed like this?
Is there no hope of suturing my wounds,
or eviscerating my harrowed heart?
If I could expunge the voice from my mind
would that ease the grief caused by the thief
who is hell bent on ripping my life apart?
Accusations spill from invisible lips...
from a tongue that blames me for horrid things,
leaving me grieving and bereaved
as if the voice is a goading gossipy mouth.
It's a conceived conspiracy,
a fallacious fallacy of falsehoods,
madly mocking me with condemnation.
It's branded me by burning my ears
with barbs that leave scars with its jeers.
Charred parts of me that will not heal,
my body is battered and bruised.
I'm sodden with tears as if from a deluge,
while over and over again the voice speaks out
with a commanding presence of clout.
Each tear cuts my cheek until blood seeps
from the crux of my soul.
Every drop falls at my feet in a scarlet flux.
Wracked with sobs, prostrate with weeping,
still the hissing voice berates me,
leading me further into silent shadows.
My head pounds from resounding jeers.
"I'm not guilty," I scream, even if it's a dream.
A vortex of eddies swirl at my bare feet.
I'm a helpless babe left alone on the street...
breathing shallow, but the voice will not fade.
Cold fingers reach for me
but no comfort do they bring
for the obstinate voice in the obsidian darkness
will not release its hellish hold.
When comes the hour of dappled Dawn,
I plead that she may take palpable pity on me
and touch me with golden rays of warmth.
I will linger as she softly whispers my name,
desperate that she can rid me of fear
and make the vilifying voice in my head disappear.
Don't you dare call my home,
I have no time for you.
Instead, our information we give out merrily,
To Google, Facebook and others unseen,
Of these...there is no lack.
Worse, we don't care if our cell phones
follow our tracks.
Nor hundreds of ad clicks, those monkeys
on our backs.
Clack, clack, clack.
Add the government who
follows your keystrokes.
And cameras taking our
pictures like paparazzi.!
Google filming your home?
Sometimes I feel like we
live in the land of the KGB
or Nazis.
But bent out of shape are we
by robo calls?
And never a thought how equally
robotic are we,
When we cannot leave our
own voice, God gave us on own
our phone.
So relatives can hear that
damnable robot message voice.
Hardly,a chance to rejoice!
As humans are replaced more
and more,
I helplessly try to stop this
and find it a joy to talk to a
human in any store.
If you can find one, not on a cell
phone,that is,
That's hardly a call for yet more
technological fizz.
People still need to earn a
living, robots do not.
The list is long with those
out of jobs,
As we have become such
technological snobs.
Oh~ my God!
Panagiota Romios
3/4/2019
God Is Faithful
Written: by Miracle Man
1-21-23
Sometimes when temptation has teens bound,
they must control their emotions to get a grip.
The quietude many seek can’t seem to be found,
and days become another extended guilt trip.
All this is the result of being tempted to sin,
and Satan is adept in making sin look good.
Temptation leaves minds filled with chagrin,
Satan is a purveyor of damnable falsehood.
1 Corinthians 10:13
“There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.”
~ NEGATIVE MINDSETTED NIGEL~
Alas~he only can envision the hopeless!
With nary an answer ahead.
His land is for him,only of the following feckless,
With no soulful breath, as if he wishes indeed, he were already dead!
For breakfast he searches out spoiled jam,
On a moldy Brioche, to be sure.
Then, Nigel, the poet and eater declares in untruthful agony as best he can, mam.
That on this planet human life cannot be endured!
The TV set or radio is turned on, bleating like sheep of riots, COVID and such.
He goes to his cabinet to roll a fat joint to quell his mental agony!
Nodding in his non-thinking media mind constituted of negative media mulch.
That God's world is entirely terrible and
loaded with perfidy.
Then, in stained plaid housecoat, onto his computer this poet tragically travels,
Giantic mug of coffee in his poetic hand,
To quill a verse, with his still unshaven, stubbly face.
To repetitiously write the damnable media notes damning and anxious to
declare to us all~ that life itself, is imdeed a is disgrace?
And we sit as innocent as new robins,
Eating his banal poetry so joyfully?
Squeamish, naive, robins we are!
Ever so gleefully, eating untruths, voraciously.
Unaware, that for us, life right now, is as grand as
living on the most glorious,brightest star!
June 22, 2020
1:30pm PST
POEM # 1303
Elden Hewett smiled at the sight
of Gretta Coburn moving his way,
she had worked here at his saloon,
ever since that dark, tragic day.
He pinched her as she walked by,
said,”Now I think it’s time you see,
you got no husband left to help you,
you’re gonna need to make real money.
“Let me make you one of my girls,
you’ll have your own room upstairs,
you will make more coin than waitressing,
and you’ll have money for all your cares.”
Gretta pulled herself away and said:
“I have told you this all before,
I got no interest in being your ‘girl,’
I’m not working as some damnable whore!”
Elden shot up quickly to his feet,
said,”I’m right tired of this here game.
If you want to keep on working here,
you’re going to do what I say!”
Just then the front doors broke open,
and a male figure paced on in.
The whole room gasped as Red entered
with two guns and a chilling grin.
Gretta stammered,’R-Red, h-how?
How can what I see be true?”
Elden’s blood ran quickly cold,
“Y-you’re dead…I-I saw to you!”
Red just grinned, and said,”Am I?”
Then strode over to them rather bold.
Elden said,”Yes! I know that you’re dead,
I saw your god damned funeral!”
Elden’s grin faded, hand moved to his gun,
saying,”I know your people bushwacked me.
You’ve been eyeing my wife for a long time,
I should just put a bullet in thee…
“But I’ve never been a violent man,
murdering you is a step to far.
So you and I will both settle this,
sit on down, and deal out the cards.
“We’ll play one hand, the winner takes all,
if I lose I’ll go far from this place.
But if I win you’ll pay a great price
for trying to bring my wife to disgrace...”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
JOHN MICHAEL MACMILLAN
What do they call you in heaven, John Michael MacMillan?
Are you still the "Baby-Baby", that player from the past?
Sometimes I try to catch you, somehow to hold you
Long enough to know that your ship has safely docked.
Can you read the poem alone now, John Michael MacMillan?
Did God allow you the small, simple pleasure
Of having a deck on which to bleed, a place in which to read,
A room that owns a door?
Sometimes I miss you, John Michael MacMillan.
Sometimes I miss the hope we had.
Sometimes I wish I had gone with you.
Is that why I try so hard to catch you, John Michael MacMillan?
Would I know you, as much as I knew you then;
Or will I merely remember the haunted story of your past?
Your brilliant, blasted brother shot down in your place;
Your sanctified vengeance and your holy justice;
The penalty imposed on a child.
That terrible, eternal loyalty impressed in blue ink
To ‘Mama’ Katherine: that damnable necklace of maternal tribute.
What of that, John Michael? Did God heal that pain?
Do ‘Mama’ Katherine’s walk His streets
Holding hands with twin baby boys?
Do you still wear her name, John Michael?
Or have you forgiven yourself for the rejection
Fostered out upon you and your brother.
Have you learned to believe that you were worthy of love?
That you deserved a better life than the one you stumbled upon;
Than the one that stumbled upon you;
The one that stomped you; the one that ate you up.
If I knew the right words to bring you back, John Michael, I’d use them.
But you left too soon; left me behind holding the ghosts of your life.
I wonder if you ever look down and just laugh
When you hear me calling for you,
My serious voice repeating “O Captain, My Captain...”
Sometimes I try to see life with your obscure humor,
But mostly I listen for the slow, silent tread,
Aware your spirit is passing over me.
And I know, I know
I cannot catch you ever again.
For you are gone, John Michael MacMillan,
Oh Baby-Baby, you are gone from me
And now dwell among the dead.
[To John Michael MacMillan. Rest in peace, Baby-Baby.]
On Learning To Become A Guru...
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
https://www.strategypage.com/htmw/htsf/20160301.aspx
Beneath the rubble of the Ocean
Where Panoply Swirls Decadent
Memories of Jupiter
Before the Flood-Omega
and, retro-spect, the turn of Archimedes
Poseidon in A Rage
Prophecies the Doom of the Titans
The Rush of the Nightengales
In the Dark of Obsidian Night
In the Cool of the Shrouded Dawn
Whom Fell to Earth
Without Hearkening the Runes of the Sibyl
Or Gilding the Armor of the Hoplite
"They Came Only to Procure the Heat of Day"
Poseidon proclaimed to his Daughter Ocean
Or Complained,
Perhaps
In Damnable Rhyme
With the Flow and Beat of Her Tides
Steadily Plummeting Above
"Yes, And I Love Him For It."
>Venus^< Demurred Coquettishly
"His Day is the Urge That I Hear,
---In the Night."
Quietly, she returned to her Lonely Merman