Long Infiltrates Poems
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My ideas are in hiding
Afraid of the secret police
For they are in Kansas City
My poems are not wanting to goosestep
I hear glass breaking
It does not wake me up at first
But when it does I am in Minneapolis
And my poem is standing on a man’s neck
I am screaming for it to get off
He is yelling that he cannot breathe.
Terror infiltrates me as I realize I am paralyzed.
I can hear my heartbeat; double-time now.
My ideas are in a fetal position, lying under benches.
Visualizing concentration camps
Oh, excuse ME! Internment camps.
Mexican children being torn from their mother’s arms.
Crying and wailing. Cages. Dirty rotten government men.
My poems are turning themselves into stories.
I am no help. I am paralyzed. Cannot stop the thoughts though.
Swastikas are swirling around which is not comfortable.
Now the Klan! Are you kidding?
I am being marched out by chicken shi.....white hooders.
My writing is holding its breath, lying in wait
Thinking I will return. I may never be the same.
This new development has me buckling at my knees.
Someone cracks me across them with a whip.
Someone speaks Russian at me.
Craph! I barely know English.
That’s a good one my muse says, making a note.
I try to wake up, but there is someone sitting on my neck.
I cannot breathe.
I struggle,
I scream
Nothing comes out.
My worst nightmare, and of course it is three a.m.
The time I always have to go to the bathroom.
Something big is sitting on my neck and my head.
I give up, not caring about anything except breathing now.
It’s the Covid 19, my muse says. We are obsessed with it
I am so irritated, for it might not be my muse.
It might be another personality; I have plenty of them.
I sit quietly, waiting for the urge to write to pass.
Unfortunately, it never does.
Tall trees growing in the air, flooding the atmosphere with fear, while courage from the sun, infiltrates the sky with guns, you cannot tell what is going on until daybreak mingle with dawn and hope from the sea fill our hearts with dignity.
Its Sunday, isn’t it? But everything is still and the hard-working men are grinding at the mill. The trees are not moving, the bells are not ringing, and the people are not singing. I wander around the square, searching for something that was worthy to open the gate to glory, but their hands were all messed up and their hearts were corroded with dust. Forced smile color their faces in two and a minstrel emerge from the back of the square, that have heightened the fear.
Let the wind blow and let's begin the show, let the wind blow and destiny will lead you where to go. It will set you on the path that is right and it will break the dry spell before midnight, the rhythm is in your feet, and it will help you overcome the challenging feat’ you will walk with your head high and your ambition buried in the sky. The morning will greet you with a grin and at evening time the heaven will make you sing.
The roses in the spring garden with fragrance spreading all the way to Normandy beach with white sand and hollow shores, a surprise awaits you at the door; “naked” children running about in nature in the sand, covering their shame with their hands as they dive in the endless games that nature proclaims, while brave hearts that know nothing of where they land, but the solemn wind gives them a helping hand.
Let the wind blow in the direction that it wants to go, you must get the people in line and start doing what is fine, there are no shelters in the streets but camps at the back where everyone meets. I will wait for you there, for there is so much to share; we will walk around the brook and examine the shallow creeks and observe the aquatic life rolling in the street.
When the wind blows, it will speed up the show, let the wind blow, it will take you where you should go; meet at the creek at the backside of the street, the wind is going to blow so get ready for the re al show.
Let the wind blow
She was too narcissistic and opinionated to be popular
He was too popular and secretive to be trusted with power
So beware of power which tends only to corruption, and
Corruption infiltrates the very soul of its victims and like
A wild fire creating its own weather, it metastasizes like cancer.
And cancer is so common, but cancer cures are a rarity. And
Any signs of cures among humans is a breeding ground for greed. And is not greed among the seven deadly sins? Avoid Such sins
like the plague, because plagues tend to be rapidly invasive, tends to spread rampantly, and are massively destructive.
09162019cjPoSoup
We once carved our Gods out of stone,
life was harsh, and prospects were grim.
But we felt we were not alone,
though the odds of that seemed slim.
Seeking guidance outside of self,
God filled the gaps that made us whole.
Yet, faith is oft placed on a shelf,
for no one likes to bear their soul.
When conflicting truths drift apart,
arrogance and ignorance thrive.
And as doubt infiltrates your heart,
anger ensures scorn's kept alive.
God's presence is hard to explain,
He's the embodiment of hope.
And His perfection purges pain,
so that imperfect souls can cope.
Religion recruits the pious,
worshiping God in many forms.
But their beliefs hold a bias
oft rejecting accepted norms.
(Quatrain)
11/30/2015
The subtle serpent’s not a tale,
conceived by one who drank strong ale.
Wise, with wings resplendent in flight,
a perfect ploy in Satan’s fight.
Its charm disarmed the woman Eve,
as Satan’s sinful snare was weaved.
Its pleasant words like poison darts,
pierced and polluted her pure heart.
The subtle serpent still beguiles
with winsome words and well-spun wiles.
He infiltrates his victims’ minds
with thoughts that titillate and blind.
Throw out restraint and have your fill
of whatever would chill and thrill.
After a while the stuff you crave,
possess and make of you a slave.
Live for you and yourself alone,
put number one upon the throne.
Then when years of life have flown
you end up in a zombie zone.
Burn your candle at both ends,
run wild, chase after all the trends.
Make it your goal to earn and spend,
and upon your wealth to depend.
The wily foe is still disguised,
his stratagem he’s not revised.
He always works behind the scenes
employing surreptitious means.
Beware of the subtle serpent friend,
his way leads to a deadly end.
He wants to rob you of God’s gift
and between you two create a rift.
While rummaging, mining,
and distilling me gray matter,
stoking mentality activates
oft time surprising me,
where unexpected novel
cognizance never abates,
I experienced becoming
linkedin with cosmic fates,
sans collective unconscious
soul of the universe,
and chanced to espy,
(albeit only a trimmed speck),
the spirit of William Butler Yeats
considered one of the foremost figures
of 20th-century literature,
where elan suddenly accelerates
though immediately abruptly stops
dead still in figurative tracks
utter disbelief accompanied
by shell shocked shyness accentuates
to remain stock still
suddenly feeling inadequate, inferior
immovable, insignificant...self doubt actuates
internal tussle, while
wise counsel within adjudicates
unable to convincingly
brush off devil's advocates,
which in no way, shape or form
successfully bolsters cockamamie idea,
floats and navigates fan to see, alternates
with bold prospect an emotional
paralysis immediately aggravates
anxiety as cowardice accumulates,
nonetheless pesky needling aggregates
maximizing far fetched optical illusion,
despite what must be hallucination,
this laughable wordsmith appreciates,
though many wildest dreams of mine defy
explanation, a feeble attempt articulates,
how dreamlike hypnotic stance captivates,
thru cosmic haze quantum matter assimilates
aura, charisma, enigma
rippling ethereal tore'n shroud
sensing, nursing, imbibing...
indecisiveness capitulates
wavering seduced mooring
temptation assertively celebrates
nonpareil genius among pantheon,
whose Eire rush grandeur circulates
thru time and space infiltrates
stimulating within mine off kilter crown,
where reverence circulates,
for long deceased Irish poet laureate,
his unseen presence amalgamates
vibrant tendrils of late
August author's grandeur effectively percolates
within and illuminates me with inspiration.
A still sleepy house
Creaking pipes settling on cold night
Floor boards whisper quiet comforts
Yellow curtains caress worn floors
Ordered pairs of shoes by the oak door
Framed smiles of the past line the wall
Cold petrichor in traveling wind
Ravens awaken ruffling in trees
A quick departure
Leaves breaking from arms of loving branches
Whisked away from home
A crack in silence
Sudden strikes in a hazy sky
Clouds cry heavy drops
Winds cary thousands
East to west
An end of peaceful rest
A still house
A bellowing storm
Creaking oak
The smell of cold wet dread infiltrates the hall
Footsteps panicked down the stairs
Old weathered stairs of support hold unsure
Electricity lingers in thin air
Cold concrete and still air tense with suspense
Hiding from the storm fighting its way in
An intrusion of sacred security
Holiday decorations cower in corners
Summer awaits in boxes for warm sun rays
Labored sounds of effort groan from the frame
Reliant beams anchored bend and snap
Fraying from inside splintering out
Sharp points stab and protrude
Never ending clamours downpour
The howling of terrorizing winds
Sturdy foundations cracking
Safety fading
A bellowing storm
A forsaken fading house
Memories displaced and nowhere to go
PHRASIS V1
How different the voice,the tone
this tendency,sceptical despondency
only too plain.Wild hopes,extravagant
impatience,decided preference made
manifest,turns aside from the world
and thinks pity,pathos and pious
resignation.Privileged invalids,such
moping minstrels,utterly unhappy
‘cradle to grave’ see only their superior
sighs.A wave of disillusion,of doubt,
misgiving in abstract wisdom permeat
every utterance and infiltrates every stratum
of thought ,in this sorrow of genius.
From Alfred Austin- The Bridling of Pegasus
Listen to me recite this phrasis on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro
Poetry often feels like paper-cuts,
your emotions will sting with each letter.
A belief writing will help you get numb,
at times that is not how this process goes.
You have to bleed out the happy and sad,
with each cathartic word you are centered.
Pulsating feelings now clear and centered,
still you are left with painful paper-cuts.
All you want is to no longer know sad,
becoming estranged with every letter.
That unexpected direction prose goes?
The next twist infiltrates leaving you numb.
What remains is a temporary numb,
it’s really the shallow type of centered.
Not in control of how the ink flow goes,
rushing poets end up with paper-cuts.
You can predict it down to the letter,
it’s as cliche’ as calling them all sad.
Very few words are as fruitless as sad,
maybe ‘fickle’ can back it up or ‘numb’.
Starting to write and dropping that letter,
makes it hard for a verse to stay centered.
An impromptu break leads to paper-cuts,
altering where the writer’s fervor goes.
The ability to change where stress goes,
edit your mood and say goodbye to sad?
Is worth one hundred million paper-cuts.
With a final stanza hands become numb,
but oh that luscious poetry’s centered!
Emotion’s such a fine cursive letter.
There’s no need for a translated letter.
Fluent in how exotic language goes,
dialect sits strategically centered.
Immersed in an accent who can be sad?
Confluence emerges and you are numb,
blind to the multitude of paper-cuts.
With every letter a little less sad,
your last tear eventually goes numb.
An envoi of heart centered paper-cuts.
"Order, Order, All rise"
The voice echoes like an aftermath;
Bringing a chill to the Atmosphere.
As the highest in authority infiltrates the inhabited chambers.
to the commoner, I am known simply as Magistrate or Judge;
To the elite, Adjudicator, Expert Connoisseur.
All walks of life situate themselves before me with one thing customary ILLEGALITY!!!
With the aid of my two abettor solicitors, whom have rehearsed their part in this cavort.
One to vindicate the appellant,
The other to arraign arbitration without plausible dilemmas.
listening to the monotonous rigmarole, on and on and on,
Mutter, mutter, mutter:
The thrill of just banging the hammer, interrupting the nattering and shouting:
" LIFE IN BONDAGE, OR TO THE GALLOWS OR HANG HIM TILL HIS DEAD!"
Appeals to my better nature.
For I see it, who so ever stands before me should suffer maximum punishment;
Be he innocent or guilty, he should not have got caught.
But, alas, the cat has to give the mouse a sporting chance,
Then I will make my judgement swift and quick.......