Long Detract Poems
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It's cold and it's windy
But still that crowd meets
To stand with respect
At the top of Sharp Street.
The Bearers stand at attention
As though shrunken by age
Since those seventy years
When they occupied a world stage.
Now they stand, booted and suited,
With their Medals on display
To pay their respects to
Victims of an earlier day.
Their banners are lowered
As the tribute silence starts
For the living and the dead
All played their similar parts.
The shrine is unveiled,
The names on display,
The heroes who fought and
Died in those long past days.
The Sharp Street Pals, one hundred
And forty two died from this street
Marched off to Belgium
And the fates they would meet.
Kitchener said they were needed
And they didn't let him down
Joining those Pals from
The other parts of other towns.
History has judged harshly
The causes of their fate
But the judgements of history
By definition are too late.
And nothing can detract
From the courage and the glory,
The Sharp Street Pals, and this little
Street shrine tells part of their story.
The Standards are raise as
The ceremony ends
One hundred years after the conflict
Started for that battalion of friends.
The people disperse
And the solemn mood is gone
But for just a little while, in
Memory those Pals lived on.
Modern Consternations of Lament
Contradictions and formulations of thought that bridge the edges of time
Benedictions and combinations that evolve into the refined
Jurisdictions and innovations that are galvanised by crime
Crucifixions in the courtyards of those who draw the cursed lines
A damsel in distress crying for all the loss that cannot be expressed
A shadow of progress dying while the youth look unimpressed
A moment of redress that’s logic-defying as it leaves me thinking I’m depressed
An ancient cultural head dress with colours electrifying a people that cannot be suppressed
Curious children at the gates of a billionaire peering out among the harems door
Spurious wills then hate the artist lying dead upon the floor
Furious villains berate the terrifying dread then perpetuate the horrors but what for?
Injurious killers negate the life defying leads that impact as they infiltrate the peace of the broken and poor
Acrimonious alimony for the wife and children while the fathers left to bleed
Sanctimonious sermons in the alley and stadiums of evangelical greed
Ceremonious services in the galleys of a political theorist bought down to his academic knees
Non-harmonious melodies causing sonic felony’s as they try to control what you see
Commodification of the spiritual as they sell toxic positivity
Solidification of the chemical as they try to buy more than just market productivity
Transfiguration of the polemical as the mood broods for civility
Modification of the heretical as we kneel down before the Nativity
Fastidious retention of a fact to prove a point that needs verification
Insidious inventions that detract from the joint venture of innovation
Mysterious momentum of a contract the won’t endure the effusive commendation
Odysseus intentions redact as the mention of epics make me cry out in lamentation
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
Bianca my niece
Was spring cleaning the house
today
And came across a box of all
our old family photo albums
pictures and momentos
And found the poem my Father
wrote for Kayleigh my niece
her elder sister
And the reason I myself began
to try and write Poetry of my
own
So here it is
Kayleigh
Kayleigh is mixture of beauty
and beast
Barefoot and bareface but i love her so
The stature of a cat with all its agility
A fiery gaze and the finesse of a raging bull
If rebels are born the she on the list
Disasters beware she'll make you look tranquil
All innocent of course with no more malice
than a gentle breeze
A natural attraction to the bizzare
Lets no transgress nor detract from
this beautiful enigma
At the blink of an eye her face becomes
a treaure of pleasure
Eye's like entrances to heaven with an
alluring smile
You'll be entranced by this bouquet of beauty
Why, why, why? Is all I ask
Do you send these folk my way
They're not the ones I'd choose myself
But I attract within hooray
You must have plans to work me Lord
Have I really gone astray
I try so hard to be polite
You send me those who groan
From trials of life
Crying painful body drones
But I face a war continually Lord
Spine crumbling pained bones
I questioned much over the years
Of those you sent my way
But each one has had effect on me
What will I have learned today
I want to tell of things you've done
And why I've learnt to pray
You sent me counseling to help
Through things wrong in my youth
Then church fellowship did help me through
When marriage went down sluice
A teacher friend taught me much
In assertiveness and truth
You sent me someone kind and true
When I'd thought life was gone
A friend of a friend a neighbors brother
Turned out to be the one
Who'd bring me home and settle again
Protect me and my two sons
You showed me work where I did learn
The skills to pull me through
In kitchens I did learn to cook
In schools help my children too
The staff within were pillars and rocks
In illness helped me do
You send others now to my house
Now I can't go out all alone
I used to sit and ponder sorry
I couldn't do things on my own
But now I have found new waters
I can swim and write a poem
I help others through my charity support
When I can get to phone
I can help in ways that others cant
And control load with able zone
I listen to those there struggling
Look at positives not moan
So I'm thankful for those folk you sent
Though I don't understand your process
But each time one has helped me to
Understand and cope it's noticed
So send someone to help I'll pray
And I'll listen as perfect hostess
Author's notes
Okay, so I realize as it stands it needs tweaking, but at the time the pen flowed and now it
needs some TLC... any ideas welcome, although I do not want to detract from the
meaning/depth. Any idea of rhyme was not originally intentional so please forgive I know at
present its dreadful!! Help please?
It comes wrapped up in clear mylar,
like the ones comic people use,
insides faded, creased and yellow,
big red letters boast of the west,
small rips and tears from ancient hands,
and the collectors before me,
does not detract from the image:
Cowboys in bold, pulsing colors,
pistols blazing, horses rearing,
sweet girl taking cover behind.
Inside the paper, yellow-brown,
brittle and has a smell to it,
cheap newsprint, never meant to last,
disposable, all this stuff was,
but inside endless stories roll,
some from greats you still recognize,
others from folks long forgotten,
coaxed to life when you read their words,
their thoughts reborn, blended with yours
as your eyes scan the old pages,
our only immortality.
The images scattered throughout,
like comics before the comics,
black lines build up a lost world,
that only lived within out dreams
Ads for cigarettes and liquor,
columns with words from old cowboys
who actually lived through the age;
marketing for correspondence:
How to build your own radio,
How to write things down in shorthand,
You can look like Charles Atlas!
The TV of its time and then
you finish and feel bad that you
are in the present day again.
Do you think they’ll read our scribblings
a hundred years after the fact?
(As Galileo left the session of the Inquisition
at which he had been forced to deny his own
discovery that the earth orbited the sun, and
had to "admit" that the earth was static, he
murmured, "eppur si muove" ("but it moves").
It's hard to live in Lilliput, I find.
I have to cross my fingers, play their game.
Their billing, filling, drilling daily grind
sits ill with me. They all trot out the same
tired cliches. Passing a painting, never fail
to comment on the squareness of the frame.
Unprofitable, weary, flat and stale.
You can't earn prizes here. These fools prize earning.
No sweets to eat. It's one long dreary tale
of condemnation, disapproval, spurning.
The Sunday supplements determine taste,
all tearing down, forbidding, banning, burning.
They're sealed in heavy metal, concrete-cased
austerity. They put the "die" in "diet".
What will survive of them is nuclear waste.
Denounce, detract, dismiss it and deny it.
Don't look for clover - look for cloven hooves.
Excoriate it, flay it, vilify it.
They'd love to let life lurch along in grooves,
the gauche, perverse, unruly human mind
trapped tidily in aspic. But it moves.
Everybody believes that their fate is
written in the shiny stars, I disagree;
it's an untruth conceived by belief,
everything mediums say is a bluff...
it runs in the blood of evil pedigree,
but what does God say about this?
The interpretation of your birth chart
is done by assumption: a false divination;
should we believe in them or detract?
Will we experience peace or tribulation?
Entrust our fate to the concepts of modern astrology?
Isn't it wiser to entrust it to our God whose words
warn all of retribution in consulting these demons;
Only He can foresee the future and fulfill a prophecy!
“May I fondle your gluteus maximus milady?”
“Why you certainly may, my good sir”
“A bucket like yours with such voluptuous curves
Starts me tingling and me motor to purr”
“Let us meander behind that tree over there
We can let our sweet passion flow
Bid a farewell to our inhibitions so to speak
And share in the light of love's glow”
“Now my kind sir, may I ask you a favour
I wish you would progress a bit further
The way you fondle I find quite exhilarating
Can't help myself yelling bloody murder!”
At that very moment a small crowd did appear
They were clapping and cheering us on
So we sheepishly pulled up our pantaloons
As our moment of passion was gone
The moral of the story is really quite simple
When fondling a lady's glutimus max
Make sure you're alone and don't gather a crowd
It can certainly detract from the act
Galvanised Atmospheric Innovation
Urban atmospheric galvanised creatures
Turbans that are stratospheric turning into teachers
Burdens that are esoteric and one of my personality features
Certainty that is generic as you’re hiding from the preacher
Stacks of written words surrounding me like an army of white confessions
Hacks that have been heard among pleas reaching for heaven
The exact and the absurd combine to form an episode of regression
Detract from the conserved and you’ll find a place in the recession
Renegade observers of the globalised extortion
Serenade reserves of the nobalised contortions
Parade of preservers combine to culminate a fortune
Charade of community creates a new social contortion
Wondering through terrain reserved for someone more emotionally robust
Pondering on ethics, integrity, morals, hope and trust
Sundering onward without knowing that your dependent on the physical laws of thrust
Plundering the earth with greed, deception, fame and lust
Multi dimensional landscapes that defy 6D comprehension
Conventional borders that correlate around the suppressed retention
Intentional reasons to confiscate the technology from the children
Presentational permeation that deny the attempts at prevention
Recollection brings a firm debate of colourised convention
Predilection for one to consummate the end of their detention
Introspection sometimes obfuscates the clarity of invention
While circumspection can just eviscerate the purity of one’s intentions
The End
Drawn to a scent that has appealed,
innocent heart lowers its shield
but betrayal sees trust shaken.
How may our broken heart be healed?
When we feel as such, forsaken,
it’s time for us to awaken,
rising above clouds of despair,
tranquil, blissful and unshaken.
Judging not, we become aware,
that those who did not with love pair,
came to teach, as of soul contract,
to forgive and for all souls care.
The code of love, in this way cracked,
we forge with God, a lifelong pact,
relinquishing expectation,
letting not lower mind detract.
Silence as our meditation,
our heart pulsates with elation
and so we flow, as does the breeze,
each life breath, soul’s celebration.
Free from overthinking disease,
our wounded heart thus heals with ease,
for within us glows flame of love,
witnessing life as but a tease.