Long Disarray Poems
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Your words, which seem to be my words,
are but footprints on the fen floor of
the white page, echoes of wand'ring lyric loping.
And if, perhaps, the P's that B have blessed,
they click, they crunch, they sweetly rot underlip.
Tearing words from mind, squeezing through that jealous heartspace.
Tearing follows, wetting page after page, piling into a formless stream.
They clatter upon the mocking whiteness, an array in disarray.
A shattered and graphic mythography, mud clots on tile
after a hike. Why do not my hot words summon Leidenfrost?
I love words, no...I love meaning.
I love meaning, I don't love
the promise of words' bringing of
meaning.
It is National Poetry Month and Shakespeare.
died today.* The first time he died today was
four hundred years ago. I am set to write and read
'publicly' (which spellcheck insists and my heart
does not insist is better writ as 'public ally') some
'poetry' while dancers carve the air, in response to,
in love with, in relation to, hand/heart drawn trees
which have drawn, well-
wishers to wine 'n cheese' 'n chit 'n chat
an opening. A gallery.
But Prince died last night.
The artist formerly known as Prince Rogers Nelson,
and formerly known as a symbol,
and now formerly known as Prince. He died.
The symbol has gone and I don't know what it means.
The words are here behind my teeth, within my fingertips,
astride my heart, tickling that lump in my throat.
It is Earth Day, too. I'm supposed to say some words and make
them meaningful. And make them sing. And ring in the hearts as though
my ditherings are one tine of a tuning fork and the other is the spirits
of those dearly beloved, gathered here. Our coils unshuffled, for in our
sleep of life what dreams may come. But we stand upon, today, both
the funeral's grounds and the corpse to be. The Earth. We are meant
to celebrate her life as she withers. Strangled, starved, and trampled. And I?
I can't.
I just...
cant.
-ShhDragon
*He died today but every day we don't give birth to him with our tongue, on the stages of our heart, he remains a fetid, rotting, beautiful corpse. ’Lo four hundred years ago he died, but every day he isn't summoned, isn't animated, he remains dead. The fact of anniversary is our failing, our repeated failings, to bring forth what might be dead.
In Nineteen ninety-six, our son and wife, Majors
In US Army, moved to Izmir, their new base.
As usual, whatever place they were assigned,
We flew to visit them as well as dear grandkids.
So off we went to spend two weeks in Turkey, this
Outstanding country we had never been before.
So much to see at Ephesus—Metropolis
Of Antique Age; The Stadium, the Harbor Bath,
Basilica, the Marble Road, Heracles Gate—
All ruins now. Were sad to see these wondrous works
Of art and architecture now in disarray
And strewn about on fields on which they proudly stood.
Of varied striking sites in Pergamon, we saw
The City Walls, the Aqueducts, Acropolis,
The Temple Dionysus, that of Trajan too.
So many ages, periods had ruled this place,
Artistic wonders, structures turned to ruins—works
Of Persian, Greek, Roman and more, in pieces lay.
Besides the many ancient ruins visited,
We were amazed that many locals spoke our tongue.
They did their best to make us feel so much at ease,
Were gracious in combined Mid-Eastern/Euro style
Of hospitality and types of food they ate
And served, like cheese, tomatoes, olives of all kinds.
Izmir, a city mixed with culture old and new,
Like modern shops and open markets, outdoor stands
With fish and meats on ice, yet weighed on modern scales.
And women with fine bread on plates held up on heads,
Who walked the streets in morning, dressed in peasant garb;
Yet working business women wore more modern dress.
We ventured to the famous city, Istanbul,
Surprised to see the many high-rise buildings there,
And streets so overcrowded with their vehicles;
Large offices and business centers everywhere—
Ladies with fashion boots, purses and western dress;
Big contrast with those living back in country hills.
Such history surrounds this ancient, distant land;
So many varied cultures ruled their sacred world.
Museums filled with artifacts from centuries,
Safeguarded and in view to honor and behold.
This trip shall always hold such special, vivid thoughts
For us to cherish and remember for all time.
Of course, this one-time trip was many years ago;
We're happy we had ventured then instead of now,
For times have changed; such unrest grows within our world.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Memorable Vacations
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: May 8, 2015
Iambic Hexameter
Hostilities
hate
& hysteria
world full
of
platitudinous
pandemonium
perceive
acute
sufferance
forbearance
of all
existing
behind
conflagration
& commotion
cupidity
& callosity
searing
sweltering
to
heal
hearts
by
drawing
love
& empathy
betwixt
beelzebub
& mephistopheles
painting
pugnacity
instead
of
horridness
poltroonery
sculpture
Isthmus
shielded
by
reverence
&
lionization
to
embrace
shades
of
rainbow
&
relish
silence
How
sensuous
Is
a tree
without
wind
blowing
through
its
branches
where
hidden
sun
wants
to shine?
& how
sensuous
mountain
clinging
falling
echoes
or
homeland
in search
of
its
home?
how
sensuous
depends
on
gratification
of
what’s
desired.
Written: May 05, 2023
A Brian Strand Premiere No 1214 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE::THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' (intuitive cadence)& so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
(***warning ungapatchka language ahead***)
Flush with rage the spouse will become allied
if reference made how she buzzfeeds disorder
altercation especially likely if divorce blurted
making me wish to experience (immediately)
bartered bride, when mine pointed finger doth
nonverbally chide markedly appalling untidy
predilection she blithely exhibits woeful scant
interest to maintain can-do spirit affecting plea
zing aesthetic humble abode ofttimes slacking
off cleaning trail of abomination, which talent
includes unwittingly cultivating qua primordial
soup possibly duplicating conditions when life
originated (bajillion years ago) on planet Earth
witnessed courtesy think gummy, groovy, gooey,
gloppy, (nippy, nap, noopy) protoplasmic slimy
oozing blob (starring Steve McQueen) amoeba
like swallowing small towns with names such as
Chester Springs, Downingtown, Phoenixville,
& Royersford hungering, hinting, and hankering
to hasten home hearing Harris harridan hooligan
hoopla conniption purportedly linked into order
issued courtesy board of health for hen pecking
wife to hustle & make house beautiful for Biden
(accompanied with hit parade) announcing (yea)
at long last Republican administration overhaul
which fête yours truly slated to host determined
(weeks ago), thus necessitating legally wedded
counterpart to apply elbow grease in tandem to
render spic & span where unsightly food scraps,
soiled clothes, scattered papers, et cetera strewn
helter skelter, the disarray the culmination of 4+
years occupying these digs in Schwenksville, Pa.
Upon being told "get the place in ship shape order"
she went ballistic like bupkis fired out me gluteus
maximus, (whereat I couldn't help but think ICBM)
yea, an incongruous thought as she rattled vitriolic,
colorful expletives coarse language enough would
make sailor blush shutting his yapper uttering before
he even uttered "shiver me timbers," hence clatter
and din created cacophonous noise as my fair lady
affected one woman siege warfare as pots and pans
flew pell mell thru air while I took refuge in fallout
shelter unused since total mortal kombat destroyed
major swath of webbed wide world, global debacle
our dear leader triggered (when in pensive mood) he
lobbed weapons of mass destruction after being axed
to "go back home" meaning his mother planet Uranus.
Chains, hay forks, knives, and a hollow whisper,
become more true and sinister.
Halt in the middle of the moon light,
and a waver image soon is no delight.
Voices run a muck in the head,
so not calming you wish you were dead.
Gushing blood through the eye
not an image that you would rely.
Nails stuck on your neck with such pain
so your paralyze just little life sustain.
Hoodlums terrorizing people running a muck
did not really know they are in luck.
More dangerous beings are out their
to commit such act and with sinister stare.
Laughing with haunting echo's through
is an aspect of fear can imbue.
The wind changes direction to smother
the echoing sound of laughter.
The panicking state that you are in
soon drives a knife within.
Blood rushing out of your vain
a crucial part of your life dropping like rain.
Running without a destination
you will never reach anyone of your relation.
Sliding your body on a wall
keeping your fall in a stall.
Red eyes you can see it at night
is soon devouring you with little bite.
Changing your belief with tonics of relief
and it is to late to turn a new leaf.
Ears start to deceive the animals sound
eating limbs are chewing around.
Slowly your red eyes steadily getting heavy
is starting to take your life with a levy.
Dropping down with no attitude
and your life force slowly loses altitude.
Breathing comes not so easy
smelling flesh seems so beastly.
The change comes a desire
with frightening red eyes of fire.
Comes more lethal than the hoodlums
your heart beating like drums.
Your hand becomes all fury
claws come out and your howl with furry.
Trance your in with no one to blame
a rage thats hundreds of centuries of flame.
Rising from a slumber of long lust
a animal instinct that you can trust.
Tearing things apart with no meaning
is a trait that is so deceiving.
Red eyes at night you see in a window
like a poisonous black widow.
Keeps you in attack mode of insanity
that takes all your vanity.
Ferocious emotions eating away
the soul that you had once betray.
The echoing sounds of loud thunder
breaks away the armor with sunder.
You fall once again to torturous agony
the feeling of one self is so lonely.
Shaking in the corner you are found
with blood soaked skin you drowned.
The night becomes day cruel in some way
your memories go in disarray.
The hunters with torches and sinister look
had parted way their hands shook.
We're in the midst of trump times and
We need to understand
That that individual in the White House
Is not a righteous man
He's all about division, discord
And disarray
And when a domestic terror act occurred
He did not have much to say
White nationalists staged a rally to keep
A confederate statue in place
No regard and no respect for any other
Ethnicity nor any other race
A group of anti- protesters were in a
Peaceful march as well
Until a nationalist in a car mowed them down
Causing utter hell
We're in trump times the country's
Moral barometer has done a reverse
We're in trump times trust and believe
It can only get worse
Threats against the North Koreans
Who are launching potential weapons to kill
Instead of using diplomacy
Trump wants to assert his will
On the precipice of what could
Possibly become world war 3
What should we do?
What are our spiritual strategies?
One, we would do well to accept
The invitation from Christ our Savior
To worship, witness and walk
With a Christlike behavior
We need God to remind us
That we are not alone
And never ever forget that its He
Who sits on the throne
God is in charge He's still in control
Hopefully He'll work on presidents
Trump and Kim Jong Un souls
Two, we need gather together in
Remembrance of He
Jesus the Christ who died
To give us the victory
To eat of the bread and drink of the wine
Remnants of His body and blood
To examine our own hearts
And acknowledge His unconditional love
To stay in touch with reality
To remember our past and our pain
Of the slavery that is still on American
A badge of shame
Let us never forget
what has come to pass
Let us never forget Jesus
and the love for us He has
For when we remember we reestablish
All truths and how they came to be
And no tweet will erase nor change
The true reality
Trump talks about fake news
But free press will prevail
As only free press stops a nation from
Becoming a dictatorship from hell
Spiritual strategies for trump times
We need to realize
We need to stay united
And keep our eyes on the prize
Let us never forget the blood
That was shredded and the sacrifice
Let us never forget that for our sins
Jesus gave His life
Let us look past skin color
And ignore race
Let us remember God
Who gave us His infinite
Mercy and Grace
You never cease to amaze me with your powerful, awesome poetry
It fades away my depression and anxiety as my fretfulness and fears dissipate
You never please evilness and malice in your words of peaceful liberty
You throw shades at negativity and uplift with your positivity with your words of shameless love and no hate
Your state of mind is extremely, purely surreal and beautiful
You’re a poetess of plenty of wise words from high above
You never hesitate to shine bright, straight from your precious soul
You’re a progress marked with unconditional love
These teardrops are meant to fall, but all and all,
They fall away just like my disarray and dismay this shimmering May
The moment I saw your words, I stand oh so tall
Your unique forgiveness is a shimmering sea in my mind’s eye today
These torn-up teardrops were meant to fall
The moment my silly, foolish heart fell almost apart
But, sorrow from within faded away after all
You restored grace and hope to my verses from the start
I weep rivers of radiance, rolling around in the deep
The afternoons and nights spent with me, reading your lines of poetic passion
I cry away the tears of hopelessness that I do reap
The tunes of heaven’s heights couldn’t get higher the moments I witness your compassion
These teardrops were meant to fall, I’m meant to stand tall and all
And rise up like the sun-drenched sunrise minutes after dawn
You turned my grief into happiness and made me tread the hopeful hall
And I will climb mountains and roam forests to move on
You never fail to amaze me with your play with words so clever and sweet
You never make me feel disappointed and deceived by your poetry’s pensive, positively provident beat
This is my delightful dedication to your poems of peace that diminishes the chaotic dread
This is my inspirational, motivational words for you to be hopeful and happy for what lies ahead
Thank you for all you do by sharing your genuine, genius grace
It’s awe-inspiring, jubilant people like you that make this life’s race
Worth running for, worth keeping my steady, yet swift pace
I can’t help but adore this everlasting joy in my heart and it’s like a much-needed, family-fervent embrace!
- this poem is dedicated to my awesome poetess friend on Facebook, Lora Lee, who writes wondrous words in poetic form. I wrote this poem at work today.
Except My Hugs
Written by D. W. Breidenthal
You think everything's passionate and sincere
Except my letters, texts and hugs
You think cats are warm and friendly
You think dogs are dependent and full of positivity and vitality
Except my heart, kisses and hugs
Oh, how it bugs me to death
I can smell a stench of lies in your breath
You're lying to yourself - last one to lie is a rotten egg... I guess you are the creator of lies
(it's in your insidious nature...don't feed me lies now)
You appreciate your friends and family and you love their rare embrace
Except my hugs (and that really bugs me to death)
You think everywhere's a place of rest...
Except my shoulders...except my fatigued hugs (tired of not hugging you another day)
You think you are the best out of the rest...but I'll try my best (to think not dismay...not to sink in disarray)
To not be infuriated by you...
Though you accepted people's gifts
Except my hugs...you refused them...long ago...(and that really bugs me to death)
You're heart's as hard as boulders...where's your prudent glow?
Who knows...
Where your twisted wind blows
Only you know...you're as dark
As a midnight crow...
Cawing before the dawn...
And yet, I must drive on...
Must move on with life...(now that's a big must)
Though I'm living with unbearable, vexing strife
(my family tells me to wipe off the dust
Off my boots and bust
Some moves...just cause I don't want my dancing skills to rust)
Oh, how your pride drives me up the walls
Graze in your own maze... (It means"mind your business" - get my drift) You never answered my calls
(I won't offer you a lift and ill just watch you drift...
Away on a ship...with a small rift.
Hah!)
I'll watch you fall
And laugh at your calamity
Hah!
Because you thought
Everything made you feel like you belonged
Except my hugs
Except my hugs
Except my hugs (and that really bugs me to death)
('Sorry' won't cover it - now that really does bug me to death)
You made me draw my last breath...
And I felt like I kissed death...
Literally
Just accept my hugs
But you loved everone and everything,
But my bear hugs. . .
Except my hugs...
Accept my hugs...
I beg of you
Why do you make me
blush blue?
I guess I'm left with 2 mugs
"Let me have a refill of bear please?"
Asked James Dunk.
Maybe a shouldah prayed on my knees, thought he...thought he...now he regrets getting drunk.
Where‘s The Bull?
A few years ago at the close of the morning worship service in the lobby of our church, a young teen greeted me with the words, “How are you doing Mr. Curtis?” My reply to him at the time was, “I’m hanging in there.” This was a time when the nation’s economy was in disarray, and my personal finances were not much better. Some weeks later I saw him again in the same area of the lobby, and he greeted me with the words, “Hi Mr. Curtis, are you still hanging in there?”. I almost answered him in the same manner as before, because things had not really gotten any better. However, I caught myself and replied by saying, “No, I’m not hanging in there. I have the bull by the horns, and he’s going down”.
I believe that the 'Bull statement' triggered something inside of me that made a big difference in the future outcome for my life and circumstances. No, my belief system did not change, but a “God Moment” came to the front and overpowered me to overcome any attitude of doubt or negativity that had existed in my spirit. A fresh fire was kindled, and a ‘knowing’ within me was born that in essence said to me that I did not have to ‘hang on’ or ‘hang in’ there for dear life. The fresh fire enabled me to stop hanging on to the tail of the bull to be slung about and around wherever the bull desired.
The bulls of life are always on the loose, and bulls will do what bulls do. We must decide and take courage to do what Christians do. Our bulls of life will never go down as long as we are fighting at the tail by hanging on. It is when we take on the bull by his horns that we are enabled to bring him to the ground.
At the time of the young man’s question, we were in a season of life unlike any we had faced before. The seasons of the year can be defined and generally described, but they are never the same. We know that they are coming and going all the time, but we never know the character and the magnitude of their impact. So is the case with the seasons of our lives.
So. What is your bull’s name today? Where is he, and where are you positioned in relation to the bull’s movements? The bull’s movements are always strong and are designed to destroy us. We must not be content with simply hanging on for survival. Because God is with me, I can trust him in the stormy seasons of my life.
10022014 cj PS
(Part One) The first few hours.
I was just a ordinary man
caught up in the unruly throng,
The mob jeering and ranting
insults on the road along,
I pushed and shoved my way
through all the furore
to see what all the fuss and melee
was all about at the fore.
My heart shrunk as I eyed
in total dismay that ghastly sight,
From what befell my eyes, that Friday morn
befouling that dawning day with blight,
Was a Man sparsely clad, and bloodied soiled,
And about fifteen and a half hands tall,
His nut brown shoulder length hair
now caked and matted in disarray.
The way His hair and beard
was parted in the middle down
i knew that Man then
was belonging to the Nazarene Sect,
And brutally entwined upon His head
was a brambled thorny crown,
What more torturous and bestial
torment can a naked body be subject,
His body oozed and dripped sweat
all mixed with blood and grime,
And even more the gruesome
was the criss-cross lashes mark,
So visible, as He staggered along
on that arduous path that morning time,
Dragging a fifteen cubit long sycamore
torture-stake on His shoulder, bared stark.
His back bent and racked in obvious pain
bearing that one and a half hand in diameter log,
Then when, He stumbled in His stride
and before the Roman Centurion Him wanted to flog,
For that Man's wretched agony
and pain, I no longer could bear to stand,
Then in haste that Man to help
I shed my outer garments and tossed it to another man,
I stayed the Centurion's hand
and hoisted that stake upon my own broad back,
For I was Simon an Grecian man from Cyrene
and favoured arduous labourous toil,
When that frail worn-out Man turned
with blue-grey eyes and looked at me,
I saw in that look, relief and gratitude
then I knew, I did just right,
He sadly smiled as He said these words to me,
"Do you too now drink from this bitter cup?",
And added, "You shall indeed sip
its rim with Me to the end of time",
I knew Him then no ordinary, man could be
His voice so gentle and mild,
And I truly then wandered who this Man could be?
to suffer so cruelly, in the hands of man,
When He lightly placed His hand
upon my shoulder, I felt the load lightened,
as if I walked with a feather
on my back, and not His gruesome burden no more,
As we together trudged, on that path
that road, to Calvaria, that place of death,
I then knew that Man at my side
Was a Holy-man by His touch alone.