Long Divulges Poems
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He looks at the mirror and frowns at the image
‘Is it the glass or my face that lies shattered?’
Fault lines burrowed into borrowed time
Tim wonders about censorship and cracks
He sees a crossdresser between sadness and joy
A veil of burnt out darkness and shiny spectacles
Quorum of insanity and intense beauty alike
Bedlam carving out a picture of madness
Frowns and scars adorn past vision of duels
Of minds and a sword of common dissent
A freckle hidden under three-day stubble
Shadows of sleepless nights in despair
They say it is the persona or mask of retreat that
Enacts the drama of living enhanced by oozing
Wounds of battles long gone with no victor
But the lonely survivor who he has become
The looking glass reflects upon wrinkles and blotches
Attempting to scratch out disfigured pit falls of thoughts
Discoloured from jagged emotions at face value
Shades of discontent imprinted on countenance
As Tim tries to make sense of deceitful senses
Divulges the distorted prism that he has become
The mirror cracks into mute darkness and doubt
There is no escape and the trap door stays shut
When eternity of his ragged convulsion has passed
He decides that cutting through insurmountable walls
With a razor would only heap more meaningless blood
Whereas accepting containment can be a close shave
He pierces the conception of failure and reassembles
Broken shards into a mosaic of dis-ambiguous beauty
‘I am who I was and will reassign polarity to the centre’
He marvels in ink of realignment and scribes a way forth
01st December 2019
The challenging quests
of my dreams
did not discourage me
from continuing to believe
So I am reverting,
as in my most lucid nightmares
I entered the toxic realm
surrounded by the scent of gore
I could feel ~ I could smell
the ominous presence
of the cryptic marauders
humanely insane beings
who are mindless savages
self-hating socio-paths
whose only language
divulges in deception
their solid fists
and murderous machines
their tongues
have reveled
in humiliating
and consuming
this very Holy
god forsaken place
we call home
I entered the maze
lost and yet confident
secretly revengeful
to place my detoxifying
touch in hopes to erase
the forces that try to wipe
out the entire meaning
of existence
Life,
as I was taught
by warriors of the
same trade, yet wiser
I stay calm, cool
and confident
not to reveal my
identity
this new face
you won't find any
stitches, for they are gone
while my scars are
healed completely
my crystal eyes observes
fearless I remain cautious
intricate deep silence
empty paths are scattered
with remnants of lives
lost and captured souls
remain invisible
the living, the beauty
transformed
now molecules dissipate
the only trace the marauders
toxic unworthy evidence of
human feces
yet there is hope
for there remains the life
of those who refused
to misconstrue their faith
discussion will empower
the hearts who believe
when they interact
with the crystal eyes
who will make it all
complete by the
grace of God.
Copyright © 2007 Kristin Roth-Davis
Unswallowed lumps of lobster immodest
Crustacean returns to pincers persimmon
Waitress whisk indiscernible clears linen
Custom of one equates her eight hour day
Has It All Paul wipes away gourmet residual
Exhaustion frightened by frothy latte
Fingers in pies finance necromancer denies
Bulging funds fail to complete, coins conflict
Periphery rebuffs, enough is finite, endless leers
Goblet of gluttony grape broth overflow inflicts
Victim of vanished virtue, bon vivant declaration
Transmutes rules, outruns consequence
Guidance glued in buttery dough glides rhetorical
Yacht reined in quay quiver, another arrow for Cupid
Entertainment timed to change with shifting tides
Inglots tossed overboard drown in debauch
Drunk playboy Paul while vulnerable divulges
Disdain for greeds' steep scrag, perpetual pursuit
Outdo, prove prowess for those who never realise
Incongruent grapple for further forgets to cherish
Partners relent, resources force caucus to submit
Patronising Paul procures boardroom obedience
Inundating debt retards bombastic boon reward
Promise of association silences indulgent sin
28th June
Plenty Stimulates
Millipede. Multitude. Millionaire damson. When elevation is caused by an unauthorized z code a b could be an m an an m could be a t or an a so please do not throw coats into the weirs. Especially in snow or sun. As yet a vehicular version of a pavement has yet to be classed as a g curve. But planting playing piccolos but a clock timed cluck is as useful as a cartwheeling crab on an ice skating rink. Haha sail nor sink. Division divulges data derisive design. And the smiley smiley cat. Purring. Plentiful. Pleasurable. Xxxx bouncing bopping booming bacon.. And division is neither a derision nor a diluge. Hahahaha and a cake. Hahahaha and a friendly reminder off a pickled caper. A quiff is a quaff in a quantitive quagmire. A tangerine now on a trampoline. Wow. Bounce. Bouncy. Vern Vorster virtue. Xxxxx molecules of molluscs are mandatory minions. And a mandatory man is not a male nor a tan. Ridding riding radio. Xxxx hahahaha and a dolphin donut arch. But no treacle. Just tape. Hahahaha and feel good a fragment. Xxxxx z z z and a p y q and obviously its time and date and correspondences and correctional xxxxxx distillation z
Form:
For years it had flown through dim canyons,
hollows where the mute sheltered in echoing caves.
Poems shifted loose and gearless.
Words darted for cover as if caught
in an empty bell tower.
On tongue-chilled days it would croon inarticulately
as it sang beneath jawbone rafters.
Then one drunken night I felt it clearing its windpipes,
coaching a squeaky organ into yawps of utterance.
I can see it now, a raw unlovely thing,
a creature hammered through gurgling fissures,
grown stark with a transpiring clarity.
I would mislay it like a lost penny,
go crazy to find its untrod trail again,
then it would return like a tramp begging at my door.
I hear it knocking now – a homeless angel
eager to shed the next paltry revelation
in a foundling language.
No longer is it a chance sighting,
no longer a luminous flutter on dark walls;
it is red of lip,
a painted vowel in my unbolted mouth.
A mouth that now divulges,
and sometimes in a dull turning year
may say something worth transcribing
for the ears of other madmen.
Oh, my wondrous winter rose!
I live to see you bloom in all your charming chilling grace.
Awaiting your pearly presence to embellish my arctic stance stilled in mystic motion,
where my frosted saccharine soul craves only your ethereal embrace to cast a spell of life.
Although distance divulges myriad of yearnings in vacant vermillion veins,
yet I am willing to weave scintillating seconds in a rosary of tears upon my eyelashes,
till I see you glistening at the edge of every silver splashed storm.
I long to press velvety warmth to your glacial glazed petals with my devoted touch,
as I know how I can comfort pink pastels present somewhere deep in your snow-kissed soul.
Lost and found in each other's gaze,
you and I would tango upon twilight tinted tundras for winters to come.
I dream of us together wrapped under the blanket of icy indigo nights,
where our jasmine scented saga would hymn in our rhyming dewy breaths pouring in majestic monophony.
A Magician never divulges his secrets
So how he managed to break my heart while already broken
I’ll never know
It was not viable,
Then again, any trick can be duplicated, if remembered correctly
Rewind, replay, on my mind
Was it a slight of the hand?
The flick of the wrist
Or the abandonment of all disregard
To society, to pride, and to us
In those caramel eyes
That hypnotized me
Into believing his illusions of love
Which left me awestruck
Doves and Roses
Hidden underneath sophisticated overcoats
“Baby, I’ll never do it again”
Pulling promises out of thin air
Magic, I suppose
Complicated locks and bolts
Flashy Velvet, sequins, and gold plated cages
Lead me to believe in mystery
Of Romance
To have faith in in miracles,
Even reformation, perhaps
Oh, but Baby you made a fool of me
Devoid of all machinery, intricate backstage knots
It was a simple trickery
Disloyalty, behind a locked door
That broke my heart
Creativity given to a pen
moved by a thoughtful man,
divulges ideas with a steady rhythm...
not minding noises, just writing what pleases him.
Find him dreaming on a deserted island in the Adriatic Sea,
laying on a soft blanket woven by patients hands;
see him wearing classic, dark shades seen in a famous movie...
implementing thoughts too sober for pretense.
Creativity given to a pen
guided by his swift fingers in constant movement
composes another poem with a new arrangement;
why is he a prisoner of his own den?
Have a conversation with him on a breezy noon,
share his favorite drink, which is a burgundy wine
made from local grapes dangling on the vine...
he will explain the realistic tone of his lampoon.
Creativity given to a pen is to express
with artfulness and astuteness each mode;
read his works and try to unlock his code...
you' ll be amazed at what you'll find in your quest.
Puzzled folks be shocked
by my irony---
the emphasis is
on morality.
*********** sells,
actions movies do too;
curse words abound--
a lucrative trend.
Society divulges
free sexuality
without any shame--
lustful affections.
Sue me for libel,
and I will appeal
to the Higher Court;*
the pounding gravel--
a dismissed case.
If Star Wars excites
you, think of fiction
as something too real--
disaster coming.
No, I won't mention
" Armageddon " now...
to frighten you too soon-
events will shock all.
Humankind's desire
is to build one race;
all traditions die,
transforming good values--
such false culture.
Shield hard-earned money,
shun deceitful men;
their aim is more green--
plague of vanity.
Written on 1/ 16/ 2016
* Higher Court: Heaven
Yesterday death said in passing...
“Someday it will be your turn,”
Always from dark mood harassing,
Never master, just intern.
Days awaken sleepy idler,
Death’s chill lost to summer breeze,
Autumn’s leaves show hidden color,
Spring’s joy melting winter’s tease.
Nature’s cycles run like clockwork,
Hum with sound of rushing birth,
Evolution’s crowning bulwark,
God’s true plan for fledging earth.
How in life’s ecstatic clamor,
Has death even got a prayer?
Time unwinding without stammer,
Endings really are not there.
Life unfolds as God would have it!
God is dead?! Death has no voice!
Sleep in peace for morn will come yet,
Master’s plan divulges choice.
Brian Johnston
February 8, 2016