Long Disinclined Poems
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around the palace
walks the emperor
cluelessly clothed in
his birthday suit
goodness gracious!
how can that be?
he has two pairs of eyes, doesn't he?
avert your own, poor children...
look away!
please, look away!
ouch, the eyes, they hurt...
they hurt to fixate;
akin to a staring contest with the sun!
his ever-present minions
couldn't be more disinclined...
to persuade him
to put some clothes on.
since they seem unwilling,
guess who does the honors?
yes, emperor, you're indeed naked!
Up To 20 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Sotto Poet
Date written: 04/30/2023
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
Earthdate/starttime: 11/04/19 01:10:26 AM
Earthdate/endtime: 11/04/19 02:55:46 AM
Poetic snapshot regarding immediate
actual, physical, spatial... environment
pertinent, relevant, salient... yours truly
commenced within fleeting electronic
date/time stamp indicated above bereft
attempts to describe character sketch,
whereat I sit within Apartment B44:
taking immediate lock, stock & barrel
ordinary repeated situation witnessing
garden variety *****sapien imbibing
familiar scenario, while spouse sleeps
near proximity, CPAP machine regulates
continuous positive airway pressure
offsetting sleep apnea breathe more so
she can breathe free and clear preventing
airway from collapsing when she inhales.
Nothing particularly spectacular wee hour
this ordinary moment beckoned, challenged
decided... attempt to focus (laser like) sense
and sensibility without pride, nor prejudice
essentially simply worded still life repeated
predictably, & regularity glossed over other
instances finding impetus preying upon pro-
fun ditties, and expansive vocabulary unsure
communicated printed idea understandable
aware some readers disinclined wading thru
thicket (quagmire) of verbiage, hence eureka
experience to corral immediate circumstance
(think Will Rogers' 140th birthday his home
spun extemporaneous anecdotal nuggets.)
Many occasions embarking upon complexity
aspire to elaborate intricate worded webbed
(wide aye bother) complex edifice ambitious
invariably confounding unsuspecting readers
suddenly sinking within quicksand helpless
against salvation, hence painstaking effort
to asseverate downplaying sesquipedalian
rather toning down syllabification sharing
trumpeting, undulating humdrum existence
verily reporting sleeping on floor - courtesy
restless leg syndrome, which affects the mrs.
Marriage basically no match heavenly made,
nonetheless dynamic linkedin travails values
wifely attentiveness to prepare unrecognized
frying object (best described as pop slop), +
she tends other domestic chore, viz washing
soiled clothes nsync of kitchen, whiling away
(think dervish) stoking chaos within invisible
re: nearly infinitesimal speck within Milkyway.
The American Revolution describes the process whereby one George was replaced by another
Though Jack has climbed his beanstalk,
Saint George his dragon slain,
Gulch-Mammon lives on happily
And myriad is his train
His belly is enormous,
Yet full it ne'er will be.
The moment luncheon's over,
It's time to start high-tea.
Gulch-Mammon's teeth are millstones
Whose grindings rarely cease.
His slightest indigestion
Is menace to our peace.
And every time he sneezes,
Things worsen, though they're bad,
And every time he belches,
The Richter Scale goes mad.
Perchance he bored with eating,
He starts to smoke and fume.
You'll always know his whereabouts.
Just watch out for his plume.
His home is just palatial,
For gold is everywhere.
His rest-room seat is golden,
A thing most choice and rare.
No one knows for certain,
The income that he draws.
Whatever you are making,
It's vastly more than yours.
There on his vast plantations,
Some kine are thin, some fat,
And many laws and statutes
Did little to change that.
Are Jack and George just sleeping,
Or are they in his pay?
Whoso may know the answer
Seems disinclined to say.
Perhaps I ought to publish my position
(as if there's anyone disposed to care!):
I'm not convinced that open competition
is profitable. Poets, self-aware,
and full of self-esteem (as many are!)
increasingly seem disinclined to share
the fruits of midnight labour. From afar
(and I do not possess a crystal ball)
I think that I perceive a lowered bar:
requirements (this is just my judgement call)
to dress one's thoughts in rhythm or in rhyme
do not delight our writers. They appal.
We need not think of strictures as a crime.
Does discipline torpedo erudition,
or might it help us grasp at the sublime?
"Just take this chalk," (so went his talk,
to servants sent before):
"And do not balk. When you uncork
good liquor, mark the door."
This way, the churchman planned to pass,
when pausing for a rest,
fun nights in vino veritas,
partaking of the best.
"So, sup the wine, and if it's fine,
write on the lintel (lest
I miss the sign and fail to dine
there) 'Vinum Bonum Est!'"
Off went the servant at a trot.
Would we were in his shoes!
To earn our pay, we play the sot,
by "testing" all the booze!
From bar to bar, he wanders far,
obeying that behest:
but "Vinum Bonum" starts to jar:
He shortens it to "Est"!
He sips this wine, he guzzles that,
and if he is impressed,
he makes a holy concordat,
and marks the doorway, "Est!"
Down through the Alps the servant wends,
to tread Italian soil:
so many blends, to greet as friends!
Unto his task, stays loyal.
Both white and red, their bottles bled,
are flowing like the Arno:
by destiny, the servant's led
to Montepulciano!
Volcanic slopes (some are the Pope's!)
make wine that's heaven-blessed:
and, titillated as he topes,
he chalks up, "Est! Est! Est!"
Some days elapse -- a week, perhaps.
Beneath the tavern's eaves,
round Bishop wraps the sweetest of traps --
he arrives, but never leaves!
The wine is fine -- almost divine --
Soft, like an angel's breath;
To toe the line, he's disinclined --
and drinks himself to death!
And though this tale's beyond the pale,
a moral you may wrest --
each holy grail's adorned with nails --
go slow with Est! Est! Est!
In the midst of vacant hours, echoes of expressions on opposite ends
are something of the same. Ruminating on questions; questions about
thy and questions about thou intertwined
with the then and the now. Thoughts
prelude to other thoughts of
thoughts emerging to
many thoughts.
Consulting and
considering
the death
and birth
of us; is thy
disinclined
to shed the
events upon the
ground transformed
from a dream out of a
dream to this dream only of us?
A coherent argument it is, that the
memories back on yesterday brought us
here today...But, when thy and thou bodies
meet and descend upon each accreting to the singular; occupancy
quickly overcomes vacancy leading the thoughts of many thoughts effaced.
(Sigh)...Thy and Thou love bolsters all the more today than back on yesterday.
Pace, G
INK-U-SCRIPT
12-11-2012
The furniture clatters around me.
An illustrious barrel of a goodbye.
The sweater feels like a prop; a famed memo to the stage I subsist on.
A famed memo to the audience I secrete from.
A famed memo to the veracity I refute from.
I soar across the stage, each cry an offering to the void of my shrouded forbearance.
Its crestfallen crumbles stroke the silver of my scars.
Its impeded hamper caresses the gold of my dune.
Its incumbered burden engulfs the bronze of my bane.
Each string pulls at the silenced span of my limbs, a muted call for mercy.
The ignominy of their vigour sings a melodic turpitude against the evil of my imitation.
The potency of their strength strips me until I dress with nothing but the disinclined humiliation of my lingering obedience.
Each relic of their excess sadism carves a carnage into my eternally dissipated flesh.
The sapped vex of its chafe stamps restated stains of a sinful hein; a wound of my forever domination.
Blots of blood pool onto the stage, a sacrificial submission to the performance of my moulding stupor.
The decay of my illumination pulls at me.
A distinct elucidation to the corruption of my core.
A puppet bound by her own vein-stricken strings.
If We Try To Ask Why
It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins …
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.
E. V. Wyler
Never write a poem about the sky,
she says,
that blue and blue and blue
interrupted by shape-shifters,
squawking crows, grumbling
aircraft.
It’s been done.
Besides, the day is tranquil,
disinclined to fuss.
The porch rails studiously etch
the sun into diagonal slats.
A silver spider practices ballet
across them
A chickadee chirps predictably.
If you could breathe and
see and know, she says,
all at once,
the glimmering line that bisects the air--
the one the spiders left behind--
the absence of wind, of wings,
of words—the morning itself,
woken with the slurp of ripe pears
and the ashes of a dream--
that would be your poem.
she is so crazy,
sometimes lazy,
also naughty,
and many a time knotty
she laughs when someone's sad.
I get embarrassed and go mad,
and tackle the situation by saying"laughter,
the best medicine" and I perform like a best actor;
She cries when someone's happy
Again, I feel very crappie
and say"He he...It's happy tears"
Oh!Her craziness gets worse every year
Her iniquity plays at her peak,
especially in the exam hall,when I ask
to recall the answer for a question,
She starts humming film songs
When I am disinclined to converse,
she starts speaking verses.
when I am inquisitive to speak,
she keeps mum and makes me freak.
When I decide to see good in bad people,
she recalls the things done by those evils.
When I awfully hate someone,
she evoke their good things done.
At the end of the day, she complains,
"You did nothing today, no gain,
You are worthless, nothing"
And I say: "You are responsible for everything"
She never hears me
and she never agrees
because,
she is so crazy,
sometimes lazy,
also naughty,
and many a time knotty