Long Infuriate Poems
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Reheated road
Reheated road retired by moving pandemonium,
Altercating, bitching, clamoring and demanding
sluggishly set forward
Birds and flies dispersed towards different directions
Their infuriate cry overspread the moving commotion
Against the riot the power standing
highly fortified, uniformed with stars
Attentively antagonized, barricading with iron bars
behind the fuming
Uproar reached closer
and disagreement sparking
Bottles, stones, whatever touching hands took wings
High torn and overfilled emotions animated
in place of confirmation, coordination, and correlation
flushing water, smoky gas and rubber bullets
find way to reach a peaceful solution
tears, vain juice and screaming
flowed without win nobody
Road reheated seeking solution treatment!
Jayaratne Weerakkody
Absurd situations amuse me; they get written into poems.
Foolish generalizations about groups of people infuriate me;
they also get written into poems.
All Irish, all whites, all English, all red-heads, there is no all.
It makes not a whit of sense.
But the one thing that has gotten my goat faster than any other thing?
“All women over forty are dried up.” Yes, I know. It is crazy, but I heard it.
When I was forty-four, twenty-two years ago, and it still irritates me.
When I think of it, which is not often, I relish in the thought that the man who used it is incarcerated now, using all kinds of other silly sayings,
that probably get him whooped daily.
He loved to generalize groups of people. “All men in their twenties,
all Swedes, all people who wear overalls, all women who wear gloves…”
I soak myself in friendly waters, not worrying about this stuff usually.
Tonight I slathered my worn-out self in a luxurious lavender bath when I thought of it again.
It is weird how the most random stupid things will pop into your head, irritating you at odd times.
I stand here in front of myself, yelling, stop.
Loudly, authoritatively, sometimes meanly.
Because I know the damage I can do with an angry face, or a disappointed demeanor, worst of all, an “I-hate-you” stance.
Releasing myself not in the least, standing here, holding myself back, forcing myself to take another look at my body language. I could cause an acapolypse by simply showing that I am enraged, outraged, hurt or disappointed.
So I stand here, in front of my true real self, with both hands out, holding fast. Fingers straight up, palms out, slowing my “I am so mad” side from doing the emotional damage I know I am capable of doing.
I am a teacher, a school counselor, a role model to children who are hypervigilant, smarter than many of the adults they are saddled with, and miss nothing. They watch my actions and reactions all day long.
They have to know that I love them every single second of every single day, and that I have their backs, and I appreciate them and respect them no matter how diabolically mean they behave, no matter how their actions and reactions can completely infuriate me.
This is why I stand here, in front of myself, holding my reptilian reactive brain back behind my thinking brain.
Written 10-06-2018 Contest: I Stand Here
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Forget all stupidities,
even these pitiful follies...
while raging thoughts
agitate and infuriate us!
Give up madness,
use logic to end quick solutions;
learning together does wonders!
Show willingness,
accept imperfections as faults
and take the road of delights!
Forget all stupidities
that made us shout angry words;
no time can be restored to minds
not fond of memories!
We tried and failed,
and now, we regret
our foolishness of children;
we should have guessed
what the future held,
not being stubborn
in our narrow mindset
and saved much sweat!
What can two lovers
do standing at crossroads:
split or stay together,
forget all stupidities,
reject all disparities
or try to get better?
Can one remain calm ignoring violence?
Can angry words have the power to infuriate,
or change minds while they are searching
for those answers too uncertain and chilling?
No quest more alluring than this has plagued
me more ardently since the beginning of doubts;
is fairness another will to be desperately contested?
Is patience a burden or a belief nobody holds?
We all worry about tomorrow and the events it will unfold,
nobody can rely on men's promises; they sound good
until they turn bad swiftly diverging from the right path;
hold a steady grip on your convictions without being a wretch!
Flags aren't banners to settle matters on your behalf,
scream louder and make every wall shake
stronger than a devastating earthquake:
they will hear your plea unless they are deaf!
In the depths of the mind, endless questions dance like shadows on the vast and silent sky,
Who am I, what am I, a speck of dust merged with everything, a fragment of a lost dream?
I am nothing and everything at once, an echo of the universe singing its endless melody,
A current flowing into the great ocean of existence, where time and space dissipate.
In the search for perfection, I find myself caught in the subtle game of old pride, a piece without rest,
I try to climb the peaks of morality and art, but discover it's all just a contrast,
A shadow play, where my success is nothing but a step on the path of others' failures,
An illusion spinning endlessly, a spiral of desires and fears struggling in silence.
If you wish to overcome the feeling of ego, ask yourself sincerely why you seek to escape this fight,
For the desire to reach spiritual heights is just another mask of pride that keeps your path broken,
The ego, a falsehood pretending to be authentic, is not the free center of the soul, but a foreign mechanism,
Implanted by the world, inherited reflexes that make us dance on invisible strings, in a predetermined fate.
When the ego relearns to be a victim in its own play, it divides and mimics helplessness skillfully,
"I am just a bundle of reflexes," it says with unspoken guilt, like a shield against any judgment that comes.
But we too are puppets, with souls tied to the same strings that carry us in the dance of the world,
Why shouldn't this lie, this shadow play that pushes us toward abysses, infuriate us?
In the end, the ego is nothing but what it pretends not to be, a wall of defense around another wall,
A labyrinth of illusions and appearances, a closed circle in which we lose our steps and get lost,
And in the center, the mysterious nothingness reveals itself, a hidden truth in the heart of a shadowy universe,
Where at last, the truth emerges, like a star piercing the darkness, singing its eternal song.
In this game of life, we discover ourselves, layer by layer, until we reach the essence,
And understand that we are part of everything and everything is part of us, in a harmony without pretense.
We are nothing but echoes of an infinite song, where every note matters, every whisper,
And in this dance of existence, we lose and find ourselves, in an eternal and magical quest.
In today's modern world we've become cloned dreamers
Yet when it comes to whatever we soon release streamers
Do we ever take time to look around and allow mind radiate
Seeing what we've seen, it's a world leading to blind infuriate
Common true News now becomes saturated by minutes
Filling, bloody filling, but simply throwing down empty throats
It's when we become lemmings that we enter blinds door
Then it's when we are, we that we, then ask us escaped goats
For in today's modern world when we release said streamers
We are no longer in the position to be, now singular dreamers.
The great hands of fate have squeezed their grip on this infallible date!
Make way, fermenting 7th, for the intolerable October the 8th!
Far, far away the lone lemur leaps with joy to celebrate-
The great, insoluble, improvable, October the blasted 8th!
D.W, dear, with quirks and beauty that torment and infuriate,
Can you not see my flippidy- floppity- flimsy- fedazzled state?
See how my nerves leave me prostrate on the coming of this most magical date!
October the phone a-flippin, Charles J. Dickens, Squawking chickens,
Sexy centaurs strippin, heart sta-ricken, danger dippin' -
October the infernal 8th!
The best I could hope for was a lame or weak animal,
limping along, not able to catch up with their tribe.
My cubs are hungry, and they like fresh blood meat.
A young antelope or gazelle would be perfect!
As I glance through the African grasses, I consider different scenarios.
The old ones often fall behind, but their tummies are not tasty.
There is more gristle, sinew, and splintery bone than meat.
The last time I brought home an old one, we could barely gnaw through.
A herd of kudu came leaping through, graceful, confident.
Hunting a young healthy one would certainly spook the pack
They might invariably change their feeding path after a fear like that.
I lick my lips, waiting for young ones, but maybe they are unborn.
The hyenas came past my grasses next with noises that infuriate me;
“Supper?” my bravest cub asks me, hopefully. Soon, I say with yellow eyes.
I am proud that my hunting prowess has kept them alive so far,
My cubs and I sit down to wait, not as patient as we were at day’s beginning.
stop looking at Me!
how could you look at Me?
you are the purest form of evil.
standing not even ten feet away
you spout flames from your razor-filled jaw
burning My freedom, My happiness
your reptilian eyes coward Me
cause Me to cringe
pleasuring from every sign of My infirmity
your melodic words strangle Me.
chain Me down.
infuriate Me.
and then He comes.
Someone I don’t know
Someone I fear
Someone I have seen thousand times
I’m paralyzed by horror
as I watch this Stranger
protect Me in the most foulest way
it is as if I am in the cinema
having no control
as to what may appear on the screen.
He attacks you
blowing smoldering kisses
that causes you to metamorphose
you are no longer that nefarious scoundrel
but a quiet, scared girl.
choking on the poison filling your ears.
I look at the Stranger once more.
and this monstrous Stranger is..
no Stranger at all.
It is Me.