Long Escapism Poems
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*Image of It Begins by Pixabay.
Longanimity
Longanimity stretches a sowers grit for CROPS
actuality, albeit, can likewise be ones, calm, cool,
collectivity as the bounty of the reapers' CHOPS,
sublimity achieves nature advances as its jewel.
TESTS question one's prospect of forbearance
while tackling the crisis giving an appearance
BEST'S a favorable triumph of transparence
file away any despair entitling perseverance.
Impassiveness spread an outlet of snug DOORS,
abstractedness harps on focus, hard to fathom
jaggedness being unclear like peace and WARS,
disingenuousness, apathy, or idle our phantom.
POWER inspires valor to meet jeopardy, fortitude
being such intros a key to the crux, bid latitude,
EMPOWER one's gut to safeguard, ne'er subdued
freeing tribulation via best beliefs as its prelude.
Stoicism, Hellenic integrity of pleasure or PAIN,
prism of sorts to veer a beam or invert an image
schism hence lacks objection, curiosity ABSTAIN
escapism from reality treats a sublime vicinage.
ACTS of noble goals, confront peril, magnanimity
breeds one's bigheartedness forward, generosity
MAX the merits as concerns swamp, equanimity
seeds grounds to endure, merciful re longanimity.
2022 March 05
*1st Place*
Pick-A-Title, Vol 29
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 March 27
*NOTE: The Triple Lento form I used above is known as a CROSS LENTO, formatted as; 1st quatrain, start rhyme, aaaa, end rhyme, bcbc; 2nd quatrain (CROSS) start rhyme dede, end rhyme, ffff, 3rd quatrain (CROSS), and so on. A Lento has (2) quatrains, Cross Lento can only be used in double (4), triple (6), or chain Lentos (8 or more).
I don’t usually talk about a club, in the club
but last night I was chattering breathlessly, at midnight,
about how right the club had gotten its atmosphere.
I’m never quite sure, design-wise, what’s ‘now’ and what’s retro nuance.
My bf Peter said the design was “Warholism,” whatever THAT is.
I gave him a puzzled look and he said. “The Factory?” Like that meant something.
Why is he so much smarter than me? It’s unjust.
Lets wax poetically..
The drinks were priced like artifacts
but we ordered them like essentials.
A club is a machine calibrated for pleasure.
Similar to real life, but with much better lighting
plus their decors are tuned to optimistic escapism.
Last night’s club, was all chrome and blue light
making us feel like we were on a spaceflight
Clubs hit escape velocity around midnight
when everyone’s having their own garish moment
- crowds roll in on the vibe, and things warm up.
When moving on the floor started to feel like work
we escaped the ordinary for the cooler mezzanine
We arrived as our drinks were being freshened up
I tip well and they’re happy to manage my money
It was a good thing. Our generation doesn’t know
how to wait without looking like we’re waiting.
BTW: Don’t you LOVE anti-spiking drink covers?! #justbrilliant
ok, now it’s Saturday morning
My head is pounding, as if someone were striking it,
every thirty seconds or so, with a timpani malot.
“That was the LAST time..” I moan, but I was being ironic.
I know it’s not true, Peter knows it’s not true, I know, he knows,
I know it’s not true - but he gets my meaning - that’s irony.
Peter never seems to have a hangover and at times it pisses me off.
“How do you feel,” I ask him in my smallest voice - lest I awake the timpanist.
“Fine,” he says, with an enjoyable sense of righteousness.
He sips his coffee as if he has not a care.
“You’re only fine because your head is empty,” I lash out in a whisper.
.
.
A song for this:
Can't Tame Her by Zara Larsson
Tears by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
.
[E] = Explicit lyrics
The kettle sings, the windows rain,
the evening folds around the pane,
And I can slowly let go of my shame.
I curl beneath my fraying throw
and leave the world I used to know.
Through forests deep with silver fae,
where dragons scorch the skies to grey,
And ancient beings begin to decay,
where elven voices rise like streams
and pull me softly through my dreams.
The house grows quiet, dim, and small,
Mum’s footsteps fading down the hall,
yet kingdoms bloom beyond my wall.
A lamp becomes a lantern’s light,
my blanket armour for the night.
For stories stitch what life unwinds,
they calm the storms inside our minds,
And quiet strength within us binds.
And though the world feels hard to miss,
I find my peace in borrowed bliss.
Corpus Christi in the southern region of the United States
Named by a Spanish explorer, Alonso Álvarez de Pineda, and mates.
As he discovered the lush semitropical bay, an American city
on the Western Texas coast; Christian feast day of Corpus Christi.
The city’s name means, body of Christ; a place of my birth,
A coastal city in the biggest state of Texas on this earth.
Corpus Christi of North America, is known as the "Bird Capital,"
A city that has a humid subtropical climate, to some very unvital.
North America a country of the free and the brave;
Fifty states surrounded by an ocean coastal waves that voices rave.
Beaches almost paradise that brings joy, semblance of normalcy;
Just feels like one can breathe from all the abnormalcy.
In time for a very hot, very immunized summer rhythm,
Oceanside of much-needed thrilling escapism.
With cold drinks, toes scrunch in the sand;
In a beach day with a lot of laughter and getting tanned.
5/31/2023
'Glorifying your birthplace/country through poetry
If Your Birthplace-country was a poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
*Image of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde poster by Wiki.
That's Close Enough
Shapeshifters, and or, shapeshifting ... preps our world always,
A speck sans a cavass, ... materializes a work of art,
At spans of reckoning, ... outlandish evolve viably.
Simplistically, ... caterpillar, cocoon, butterfly,
The explanative being ... the effects of metamorphoses,
Influence of changing, on the surface ... ain't exclusive.
The aspects of human versions, ... do we possess ourselves?
Phases absorb one's absolutes, ... escapism amuses abstracts,
Misshape is needless, ... our character assassinates us.
The docile Doctor Jekyll ... and ominous Mr. Hyde,
The tale tells induced chemicals ... freed the latter temperament,
Stevenson, a mixed decrypt breed, ... Woolf faults, Hemingway hails.
The Picture of Dorian Gray, ... Wilde's graphic inward peer,
Retorts pundits, ... proxy masques wickedness, textured facades ethics,
Books ain't moral or immoral, ... they're just well penned or naught.
A star radiates ... cast hither, trimming and grooming 'rounds,
Revolving amazeballs recasting orb's landscapes, ... picturesque,
Bubblegum pops as its meaning ... is clearly intricate.
Brief spells also have an effect, ... ravenous bears slumber,
When pushed or at risk ... stimulates safeguards that ensure their species,
The game plays out who's game ... prey or predator lives or dies.
Transformations constants about ... subtle yet definite,
Persona exploits cellular structure ... registers vividly,
The former's substituted ... the latter assimilate.
2022 June 01
*11th Place*
Shapeshifters and Shapeshifting
~~Anthony Biaanco: 2022 July 04
*HMS: 14,16,14 syllables x 8 stanzas
Stained glass child, I see your window every day
A picture of innocence, purity being portrayed
Can’t tell if happy, such an expressionless face
As my black soul passes, this once sacred place
Thy stature diminished, thy name is desecrate
This window screams at me, you abandoned faith
A symbol of times past, the masses came to pray
Forsaken by doubt, and my religion went astray
Lost without direction, I attempted another route
Trees where stripped bare, of low hanging fruit
Can anyone be sure, what dwells beyond demise
Out of reach answers, high in the canopy reside
So the stained glass window, gives nothing away
No sadness, just indifference to a divergent sway
Inscrutable indecipherable, a picture froze in glaze
Enduring illustration, of our past ecclesiastic days
Later life offered, more than reflection and prayer
Leaving surreality, stumbled upon a hedonistic lair
A craving for escapism, morphs to delusional need
I descended into oblivion, an atheist in the weeds
Now searching amongst theories, some I embrace
Seeking out some creator, in the medium of space
From quantum to infinite, amid macro micro waves
Alas reality of life, may only be found down a grave
Stained glass child, with the halo above your head
Embedded in a window, framed with softened lead
Watching you as my life, inexorability draws an end
Have I missed the point, where you my only friend
Soul Betrayal Poetry Contest
I'm a clothes addict, my flow's magic
8 miles underground to choke rabbits
Nose habit that grows when I overdose
But speak truth so it shrinks like Pinochio
Take lines a pony won't, stay unstable
Experiment, opperate and lay on tables ..
These tricky statements fold, into quick replacements for the old
To begin they're scorching cold, but then turn into more to mould
I think with thoughts I stole, and feel my mind's out worn its roll
A brain damaged and strained stands in the way of former goals
Never pushed to measure up just taught to absorb your faults
So for the folks who enter escapism I'll be the corpse with bolts
If I launch this boat it'll be almost swollen til I've torn it open
And I appreciate appreciation exchanging nothing for the token
Just your normal poet only with a mouth that pours the ocean
Floating words travel motions that suggest the oars are broken
I hope the world absorbs the notion so this floors not soaking
But I had to make it evaporate so these dam walls are smoking ..
Foundation.
If you could escape this world, would you take that risk?
Escapism
As if cursed by the son of perdition
As I go about my new life's mission to gain admission to her realm
With Aphrodite's dead ringer who whispers songs of exquisite rendition
Praying a lone arrow from Eros bow will strike, drawing gasps from the angels watching
High in the midnight sky
As I breathe in her sweet aroma and passion filled scent, like pure oxygen
And feel regal like a king
Like King Solomon
As her aura captures my soul like a moth is attracted to a flame
So now all dark nights appear so long and so black
As the shadow people slowly advance
Whispering my name
For they know I have been changed by someone so radical.
As I entered the Fifth Dimension one strange night
Looking to finding a love so sacred and magical
But that's the magic of searching for the fantastical
For as sure as winds seduce trees by subtle caresses
As the world wakes each year in a new spring and fresh life begins
I write this before I go to the Hidden Forest
Where the White Ash stands
Where green ivy hides the entrance to her lair, and other slaves play music, while chained to metal stands
With the smell of incense on patrol in the electricity filled air
Ready to invade lungs and take control
It's ten to two in the morning and I have to appear at four
So if I don't come back, I leave this for you to know I'm fine
Keep the house
Car and money
For I'm going to a new place where fear no longer exists
A place I hope welcomes me in
Just pray for me that I don't
lose my soul and become just another flesh slave
Chained up playing music in her band
A prisoner trapped forever in her cave
As she sits or stands
On her golden throne singing with her crimson red lips
You're now mine
Now get in line
Your time will come play
For now, you're caught
And can no longer run away
For you're now just another one of my familiars
One in a trillion
No longer a civilian
All this I know for a German called Schiller
Told me over the internet
Told me to come over
Told me I'd be a member of a wolf pack serving a queen in The Great In-Between
So here I am
Pray for me
Ma ***
Forever yours
Your son
Jimmie 0
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
GROWING UP THE PAST RUNS DEEP
Growing up in the village..
days before electricity arrived
when i used a kerosin lamp..
as i browsed through volumes..
volumes of literature..
Till my eyes would turn dry..
and i would feel dizzy...
for not changing my reading poster
screaming nerves accussing mi..
i stood accussed of abuse
by my own senses..
Sweet sleep would fall over me..
the novel dropping..
from mines limb hands
dreaming of strange lands..
Oh the joy of addiction..
i was hooked to good stories
Evading peers to catch up
on a book.. didnt i love escapism
negleting schoo work... now thts dumb..
negleting sports and exercises wasnt i hooked
the past is deep i spent a lot of time..
reading make believe stories
Moving to the east coast town..
after finishing forth...
i fell in love with movies
and became an enemy of the books
a great movie i watched..
robbed of my immagination
Rushing over meals
running to catch a new movie
my brother michael...
sneezing allrgies of the polluted cities..
i was missing village life..
Strange swahili culture..
christian, muslims, arabs africans
strange foreigners,, i have this-
against them most of them didnt seem
to love clothes.. yet the others
covered to their eyes..
Mwadhini calling the faithful to prayer
christians holding week long crusades..
here the battle was for souls
or was it the offerings
strange swahili culture..
drinking strange palm wine..
such was the life at the coast
New friends trying to revert me to islam..
elders remmindim me not to forfeit..
the wisdom of our people..
borrowed clothes dont fit well..
and customs and traditions..
are the mirror of society..
No where were my beliefs challenged more..
they called me almukafirun...
i retaliated youre a zailim..
didnt we love the enlightening debate
softening of stands..
proponent and opponent reached common ground...
The bond of friendship and culture
breakin down- them
cultural religios barriers
friends and gal friends from all religions
people at the coast are very freindly
and salaams greetings a way of life..
Stories of jinn and black majic
we knew not to give much-
credence.. there of the disbelivers
we believed in the onness of the supreme..
debated on tenacles of faith..
for the bond of love runs deep
and the past is deep..
by lewis k nyaga
I am giving up on poets for
a day – not poetry! just needing a break
from Communal Escapism: I mean, it is
nice to write of meadows and bird songs –
of the past, how things were; of the future,
and how things could be – of dreams, we
imagine and wish were real –
but to exclude the paramount present,
what is now, society's rapid descent to
a place where no writing will be permitted
unless sanctioned by party-peers and
Fire-breathing Government-censors, is
a damnable offense against the God given,
autonomy loving, soul of man – refusing,
I am, to be relegated to pleasant rhymes and
entrancing, hypnotic patterns, dear as
they are to my musical heart – I refuse
to end always in a place where
I must always start – I would refuse
the sun, moon, stars and air, if only to be
lighted and then floated away – far
from my source and being; I resent,
daily fleecing, forced to protectively fleeing;
daily stripped and raped of free-will, which
my creator deemed sacred, divine
and inviolable – I reject this profitless
game of seek but never allowed to find;
clean morals and values smeared over
by slick salves of scripted paste, eye-candy
for deceit – so, not from poetry but
from poets do I retreat, while still partially
mentally unshackled, using my blessed
feet.... Gone fishing.