Long Definition Poems
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Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael
I'm not the greatest of all-times, but when I'm done,
I'll be an all time great in this lifetime of mine
Like the late great who came before my time
I will breed a new lifeline, that will breathe life like march of dimes
My story lines, will bring truth life; like troops who fight
Overseas, for rights of those who believe that death is life
Now that ain't right!
As the rich is getting richer, eating fillet me-non, while we barely feeding our appetite
Night after night
Survival has waged a war that gave us no choice but to battle and fight
Although, we'll be all right
They say we a dying breed, but that ain't right
Instead we're the light to a lying greed
That will enlighten life to a brand new seed
A man of God indeed
Freed from the Son that bleeds
Like the summer breeze
He's the sum that equals the amount of air I breathe
The air that please
A satisfaction like the birds and the bees
My word's words are the keys
That will fornicate with the mind and give birth to a seed
A seed of social change, that'll change our social economy
So shall our comradery
That will bring comfort to a struggling society
A synonym...similar to a civilization seeking for unity
Unifying the physics of theory
That seeks to explain the synopsis of a dying philosophy
Similar to the Cosby
X-cept my scrip-tic will speak more about our reality
Like life's calamity
And everything else in life that's destroying us systematically
However, I've discovered a system
That can mathematically destroy ignorancy
And turn our state of mind intellectually
I elect that He (God) selects me to be
And be that man who may lead this community
So that they (My Peoples) may commute with me
En-route to a destination, destine towards our destiny
Like we were destine to be
We were meant to be "Great" like the late great that came before we.
Because we are...
The reflection where perfection gave birth to the definition of greatness
Where great means Competent, Skilled, Well Informed, and Tremendous
Our potentials are endless
And only we not even the enemy can put an end to this
So it's time we put a stop to this
The biggest enemy of self
And that's envy and jelousness
Cause after this is Heaven or Hell and that's all there is
A promised made sealed with a kiss
Knowing this
Is the next best thing since "In the beginning"
In the first chapter of the first verse in Genesis!
Your most recent interest in observational truth in laptop monitor
Gave you an ultimatum today.
He , as she, in he, as she again, grabbed you in all kinds of tree ,
remnant there before serenity
What is poetry, in the end?
Thinkable pedagogy, is , for the most bizarre reason, telling you
That this is comparable prepositions, with positionality
And the fruit of loom, or something relatable, there.
I felt a bang , and got a downsizing pounding sound,
Between, Jerusalem, Nazareth and prepaid Jesus to pay
More and more for a daycare say.
For a sip from the cup of the finest exported loose leaf tea
Are you a mere sip there, or you started to travel there, onsite
Creating all kinds of copyright issues, as the illegibility
Never declared you anywhere, in norms, in mother’s winter coat
Exactly how much was fatherly charm there, and how much there was a mere setting warmth
As people learn to happen in alibi as there is no straightforward way to find a definition or vision
Your cat was unthinkably your budget failure key, as they mew and sigh
But they were there, truly, with your most delicate caring try.
I think it is a joking endowment
As it will be a mere lump some .
Your rides and ride share with the knight rider storyteller
Only comparable to Little Red Riding hood
Changing the destined persona too, irreversible and altogether
I do not blame , judge , or juxtapose, there, I never pity too
But Bangla, and exactly 21 years long stay on this territory, with often heavy Bangla
I think I dreamt you last night, where you , as a soul and Clover, in a body
Did happen as the most charismatic duo! With a Zulkarnine monitor truth in!
Licking on the other side for hours and hours in longer duration
Will lead nowhere , exactly nowhere , other than, this, mortal life
Is a conscious choice between claim, proclaim and proclamation
I am a reluctant reader there, trying to look through, even beyond allegory and alighieri
You do not hold them accountable for your compositional hype for a dirge
That does not act linearly with your issue room, tissue room, and culture vulture too!
All you can say should stay there, for ever.
Do not send help reaching out there, never there
Simply a one liner truth for falling short from a papyrus poem, anyway
As this must be helping to internalize, more than anything than that.
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
When I’m with her everything changes and I start to notice life in different phases, like the man on the moon
Her beauty is written about in praises
Even though she sees nothing but imperfection as the mirror gazes
But all her imperfections are the definition of perfection to me, if only she could see what my eyes see
As she brakes my limitations to joy, her gentle soul molds my concrete heart
I now find life within death
When I hold her, she feels safe with no cares in the world but wonders if she should still care just a little
Like I want him to know I care but I don’t want to feel as if I’m reaching
She looks at me and asks how could I be so lucky, and questions if life is even real
Even though she wakes up every morning to pinch her skin with no changes, so this must be a little real
She jumps not knowing where she might fall
With all the proof in the world she still asks how much will this cost every time he says I love you
This is an example of genuine actions being stabbed by the doubt her past created
Leaving us to learn the little things matter just as much as anything else
That’s what I notice every time I noticed you
Like the smirk you get right before your dimples bloom each time I would see you
The way your baby hairs fall down the side of your head right before I brush them behind your ear
The way your freckles sparkle beneath your eyes like stars in the sky
The way the holes in your outfit match the holes in my heart
If only we realized we are always in his hands and even with the holes in his hand he would not let us fall through
I used to be so guarded with life because of my past I hold on to but when my reflection is in your eyes I am never afraid to let go
And as I fall I notice the atmosphere around me
Everyone wears a crown but sometimes we want the thorns instead, don’t you remember we already have a king
Every rose has a heart so I give it to you on your bad days when you just can’t find the beat
The clouds roar louder than lions
And in the rain, you can see the future within tears from the past
Too many times do we complicates things making relationships so vast
When all we need is God to be first and last
When we are together the feeling is always mutual
p.s. I wrote this about you knowing I feel the same way too…
"Men die by the hundred thousand"
Just like that, with one command
As if we're discussing grains of rice, or sand
As though there's no need to expand
When in truth every one felled
Can mean more than
The cause and the effect
And the circumstance and the consequence
And the situation and the solution
Of war itself
But that's not War...
For there is no nobility
Or elegance or beauty
Of any kind
That any mind
Can fathom
Or any conscience
Can stem
But that's not War...
They die for honor.
They sacrifice for valor.
They die for country
Fall like sentry
Which makes it alright
Because apparently
Heaven knows their plight
And therefore justifies their fight
But that's not true,
And that's not War...
Because there's no decency
And there's no excellency
In this kind of death.
For even Death himself has found
That he flinches at the sound
Of the blood splattered ground
Shaking around him
But that's not War...
It's gotta be money then
That's gotta be the reason
It's gotta be the definition
Of what war's all about.
Maybe it's the dying children
Maybe that's what they call treason
Nope.
THEY FIGHT FOR PASSION! FOR LOVE! FOR PRESERVATION OF RIGHTS! FOR ANTI-
TERRORISM! FOR WORLD PEACE! FOR SOMETHING RIGHT?
Nope.
For you can't label
This grotesque industry
Because it's impossible
To apply it with morality
Because war
Isn't deep
With massive gore
It's shallow and steep
Because war in itself is the greatest example
of human extravagance put to the test and pushed
to the outer limits of vanity where it can ironically
pretend that it stands for anything more than what it is.
And like all of the greatest and most celestial human epiphanies,
it comes without justice and reason. Because once we've stooped down
to the point where we can tear each other apart... nothing really exists
Politics fades
Justice waves
At your facade
And criminals
And lunatics
And judges
And presidents
And doctors
And lawyers
And corporations
And reporters
And heaven
And hell...
They laugh at this charade.
Tricked you again. Because
That's not War.
No.
War is when a homeless man
Dies of hunger without a plan
Because justice has put a ban
On letting him simply take what he can
To live.
This is War.
What Holds More Resplendent Gifts Of The Great And Vast Beyond
Seas of poetry orations, I once took my swims
being strong in spirit, stouter in heart and lithe of limbs
What dread had I of illness or passage of Father Time
when great beauty of verse sang so deep, dancing in its rhyme
Waves of its amber grains, its sandy beach, its great pleasures
stirred heart, pleading soul in immeasurable measures!
If tired, I cast myself upon lands flowing true and fair
seeing magnificence in Earth, Life, Nature- everywhere
Before dawn, before slumber flees this soul's poetry dreams
of paradise shores, poetic thoughts, soft cast golden beams
Winds of change and sublime words to describe and thus to match
castles of hope, beauty's grace and golden eggs- set to hatch!
Fearing not of, high flying fancies and heavenly flights
of lost romantic desires, cast adrift on stormy nights
Or that of abandoned ships left behind in gleaming seas
for poetry gifts its love and blessings of granted pleas
Bountiful harvests of word-seeds so pleasurably sown
are but summer days sending cool winds so gratefully blown!
What holds more resplendent gifts of the great and vast beyond
than poetry, its powers, which poets are so very fond
How its paintings, colors memories one sweetly recalls
of life, living and flames of hot-romance youth often falls
Beyond poetic seas of white-cropped waves and foaming foam
may this old poet's soul, in death, forever gaily roam!
Robert J. Lindley, 12-03-2018
Rhyme, (Inspired verse) (Poetry is Life and Treasure too)
Note- I dedicate this poem to my very good friend Susan Ashley and her wondrously inspiring new poem that inspired me to write this today.
Her new poem titled, The Red Leaf- set me to thinking of its beautiful poetry
and life. And how much poetry means to so many dedicated and in love with poetry poets!
I sat down and this flowed right on out, early this morn.
Note: Use in my poem of "white-cropped" = "white" for good, "cropped" for "appearing unexpectedly".
Thus translated- beyond poetic seas of = unexpectedly good waves and foaming foam.
Definition of “crop up” - English Dictionary
American
English
“crop up” in American English
See all translations
crop up
-pp-
— phrasal verb with crop US ? /kr?p/ verb [ T ] -pp-
?to happen or appear unexpectedly:
Unlike natural humane organisms,
like toad
and squirrel
and goldfinch bodies and brains,
Spiritual humane organisms,
like toad
and squirrel
and goldfinch matters and minds,
remain unchanged
by my perception
reception of them v us
as separate,
even laughably autonomous spirits
rather than One EarthTribe Holonic Laughing Spirit
Of interdependent integrity
with win/win
left-dominant/right-prominent
west/east
north/south
ego/eco-politically good-humored intentions
for multicultural empowerment
against monotheistic disempowerment
of all these natural
and spiritual
humane nature/spirits,
unseparated.
Natural bodies
do not share this uniting equity
between separate embodied perceptions,
merely sober secular,
and One disembodied unlistening God
stubbornly refusing to open ZeroZone Original Soul
of interdependently uniting re-creation
without uniformly uninviting
reduction of humanity
to win/lose violently inhumane capitalists,
Evolutionary devolutionary
inevitable mortal soul lose/lose terrorists,
anger inflamers
fear-mongerers
suffering blamers
decay re-arrangers
degenerative fragmenting managers
of separately supremely un-natural
absence of peace history.
Spiritual matters and minds
uncover no natural body and brain differences
in-between One radically Sacred EveryWhere and Time
and No fundamentally secularized timeless place in NotParadise Hell
Interdependently re-articulating
this perpetually changing,
growing
knowing
discovering spiritual mind as rational matter
and natural brain within neurally interdependent bodies
Integrally open, not industriously closed,
Organic, not just technologically useful,
Refining health, not so much defining materialistic wealth,
EarthTribes spiraling synergetic ZeroZen
Holy Enspirited
Win/Win Soul,
West/East dipolar co-arising Anima Mundi
fundamentally EitherRight/OrWrong RightWing
and evangelically BothNatural/AndSpiritual LeftWing
gospel multicultures
living together, not apart,
for GoodHumored MotherParadise,
Natural systemic healthy/wealth purpose,
inside spiritual polycultural communicating communion,
polypathic
polyphonic
polynomial Zero
Zone of nature/spirit heuristic separation
with not quite so much LeftBrain dominating demand
for embodied definition
through nature v spirit segregation.
The Philosopher is a single long poem, I apologize for the inconvenience of splitting it
into 2 parts.
He pushes aside the weathered curtain
The colourless tub, the bland tiles, his grey glazed sight
He looks over his shoulder and invites her into his mental fortress
The King philosopher’s decreed writer
Her sole existence is to write his thoughts and greatness as the ideas arise from the
ashes in
the furnace of his mind
Invisible revolutionary phoenixes, a wonder never seen
The writer is a woman, beautiful, his fantasies rule with an iron hammer
He feels nothing for the imaginary woman
His dreams told of respect, of falling in love in its truest form:
The caesarean of his mind, and she would fall in love with the thought burning society
within
So she sat there, somewhere, laptop in hand
The philosopher closes the curtain, undresses, the water is warm
It caresses him like no lover ever has
Unlocks the rusting, fading Iron Gate within, this water that stirs the slumbering giant
within
his flesh
He closes his fragmented eyes
The distorted images disappear and his mind kisses his wounds better
He sighs
In his mind she waits behind the curtain, it must be awkward
He does not smile, but his lips part, and he sighs the heat away
The water cools
The philosopher sits
The small tub is a tight fit, he looks down
The flaws of man so bare before him
He sees them in many a light, riddled with the protruding edges of perception
He tucks his fragmented eyes away
The philosopher looks down on the folds of his flesh again
The hair, the child of nature and god, an unholy affair
His hand runs over his thigh, the meaningless hair, the soft fat
His fragmented eyes see the flaws of society
A misguided shamble of enterprises, the idea of destiny a delusion
His misty eyes see a cripple
He dictates his poem
She writes
He looks up at the curtain, the veil separating him from humility
And he sees its transparency
He sees the inadequacy of definition, of documenting his emotion and the ideas of his
furnace
He realizes the chaos of his being
He looks down again
He sees a handsome man
Thin, fit, comfortable sitting in the tub
Society in acceptance of itself and the reality of its situation, a philosophical utopia
And behind that lie, he still sees a cripple
© Samir Georges 2009
1
i know the world enough to where i can walk through forests &
dodge each blade of grass, defy the likes of definition & let my breath
just pass. magic is meaningless, tricks & illusions based upon the
trick of the eye, the human factor, the inevitable blink. magic transformed
upon awakening, realized itself contradictory & sulked back onto the
shelf. the need for entertainment has (at last) been relinquished. adults
have had their skulls picked apart by the young, each undesirable portion
tossed away. there goes [war&worry&work&waste] in the name of
simplicity, in the name of Taste.
2
it's humorous how you rely on the movement of picture frames from one
corner to the next, doing the same things, saying the same things,
never leaving anything to question. ignorance is bliss, little miss-
i took Their dirtynailed hand & let Them lead me, sure They'd know
where exactly it was i was supposed to go. despite growing weary
under the weight of hesitancy, still the hand pulled me on, dragged
my breaking body as it cracked with each step.
3
this is maturity, this is guidance, this is something i you we all go
through-- & if i don't? --then you'd be one lost lost little girl, wouldn't
you? i know my god never said that freedom is a sin, that choice is
wrong. his words are lyrics that formed the every alternative, yet you're
reflexive refusal is drowning out his song. no wonder the innocents
have ceased to dance, have remained seated in silent penance for a
deed they can't recall.
4
it was something offhand in the beginning, without logic, almost but
not quite insanity- this continuous idea/phrase/thought that was said
by accident. (do you remember how words really sound?) bombarded
by the repitition, hammer on the head, death without dead- (watch the
welt rise & turn red). i'll just say i understand, even though i don't.
5
elevate each bone in the skeleton until each one points up, focus
on the relinquishment of order as you spread your eyes wide open.
the lids roll down the kneecaps, & fall back to the dark side of the
skull, exposing the body in its most gruesome beauty. the pupils
fuse to one & dilate to envelop the heart. exercize the foreign
concept of patience & go through this pain to achieve this pleasure.
upon acceptance of self-noself, nirvana is grasped.