Long Inquest Poems
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Is war coming? Are we headed for another crazy cataclysm?
My sons, draft age. Only now can I appreciate the pain
so sharp it drains the color from one's eyes, your reason
for living gone in a spasm of violence to be forgotten
never by survivors. This fear could become real as no movie
is surreal enough to distract attention from the certainty
you did not do enough to deflect man's trajectory.
All could be well in the end but history portends
a periodic bloodletting followed by a quietus
without mercy. What's the best that can be said:
he died beside his friends and buddies. Steady
on to your own inquest and rest. A perfect rest
that improves upon the inadequacy of your efforts.
What solace can be found in the remains of marriage.
So you better fight back now even if that means
war comes sooner. At least you're fighting back, but how?
Take a minute to meditate on purpose. Science
cannot save you, neither can religion. Abstaining
from violence with love, letting prisoners go, detaining
no one at the border, inviting Chinese and Russian
scientists to our shores, defusing your own anger before it detonates,
none may be enough to save your sons.
A war president needs war, whatever. A trained
and deadly warfighter. You become what history wants
you to become. You survive if you're lucky, if not
so what, your old parents will be alive only briefly to mourn.
Then they too go to their good graves and the pain dies down.
In the meantime a new generation builds a new space station.
Since the vortex will be sucking up the poor,
let's not let the rich escape untouched. All go down
together, no one hoards gold or gets away with fiction.
If we have to fight let's make sure we fight as one,
the sons of the rich side by side with the poor's sons
and their daughters. You want slaughter? Then
let every city and back road know the new order.
I would rather watch Lalaland ten times over than have
to write this poem. I can leave home and live
in a tent or bunkhouse, eat dinner out of a tin cup
and drink water from a wooden bowl, give up
music and most of my memories to save my sons,
to save the world and avoid this war.
But that rarely happens. One is lost and found in what happens.
After papa succumbed
to congestive heart failure
October 7th, 2020 yours truly
neglected fulfilling promised score.
I did shirk maintaining bond
with youngest sister
who when a boy especially fond
regarding said sibling
whereat myself and and Shari Todd
played cat and mouse
chasing each other to pond
necessitating both of us to traverse
wooded thicket simultaneously
waving our magic wand.
Boyhood of mine chock full of memories
framing me and most favorite playmate
requiring keen eye to distinguish
one scrawny little lad no one would debate
impossible mission to discern
thirty three month age difference,
cuz we appeared to naked eye
as identical twins.
Flickering images of yesteryear
pepper memory faculty where
froze frieze in time
trigger an errant tear
trickling down cheek,
when impish gonif nsync
with me comprised pair
of inseparable Harris offspring
in sum re: portrayed analogy
likened to everyday idyllically kleer
pitch perfect courtesy
weatherman/woman maker engineer.
Our late father though cremated
would if alive furrow ashen brow
aware how Matthew Scott remiss
and no longer doth bother
(essentially incommunicado between
himself and kid sister
ever since she left home
at age seventeen)
for greener pastures,
which meadow (for success -
defined as transcending
her inherent limitations)
sowed the seeds
of her life reaped with utmost
plentitude of hardihood.
Her sixty first birthday
arrives six days from today
(October eleventh two thousand
and twenty two) - decades spanned
with nary acknowledgement
expressed courtesy sole brother manned
existence floundering like a fish
in treacherous waters
barely gasping breath
as he felt afflicted with chronic anxiety
emotionally whipsawed hither and yon
to and fro across
unwritten pages of his life.
Yours truly attests feeling aghast
once upon a time resorting
to self starvation initially omitting breakfast
subsequently forgoing every meal
prepubescence witnessed absent enthusiast
for livingsocial hence,
my death I chose to forecast
fortunately no coroner
called to perform autopsy inquest
about which severe
psychological suicidal ambition I jest.
Now that only forgotten promises remain,
sounds of solitude are gifts I wish to obtain.
Sentiments are temporary in a world full of change,
affections are wasted in an insincere exchange.
Some say my words are engraved too deep,
others feel expression is only cheap,
so close your mind and enjoy your sleep.
because if you hear me then you'll weep.
Sometimes we have to forget our hearts visions
Life don't come with any terms and conditions
Forgive me if I seem emotionally challenged,
as I hide my feelings when everything seems unbalanced.
My soul's invisible, your ignorance won't see it crying.
Inquest of a grief stricken heart concludes into spirit dying.
Trauma vibrates like an orchestra of lightning horns,
with fate bleeding thistles in a rose garden of thorns.
In the mourning of seeds that blossomed too soon,
breathless, I wrote my name with stardust on the moon,
but now i wander in a meadow full of nettles,
as the ink of life is a burden upon the sepals.
With silent sighs hidden behind a poetic verse,
I ponder if the quill is a blessing or a curse.
Sometimes we have to forget our hearts visions
Life don't come with any terms and conditions
Forgive me if I seem emotionally challenged,
as I hide my feelings when everything seems unbalanced.
You see...
I'm struggling to discover a reason to survive,
so I stand here screaming at the Grim Reaper to arrive.
He mocks and laughs at the patheticness of my pleas,
whilst inner demons offer my soul no apologies.
I can see cosmic imposters in ebony horizons,
misleading like fake guides sparkling like diamonds.
Reminds me of a veiled star that never forgave me,
who betrayed me to decay in the death of my poetry.
Sometimes we have to forget our hearts visions
Life don't come with any terms and conditions
Forgive me if I seem emotionally challenged,
as I hide my feelings when everything seems unbalanced.
Oh regret, why do you look back with such anger?
Sometimes words are the most toxic form of cancer.
Are these just twilight stories before a prelude of sunset,
or unwritten feelings I've learned to suppress, to forget?
My journey is long
My path is so wide
I've met many souls
In which to confide
I've seen many scenes
I've done lots of stuff
I've walked varied roads
Both easy and tough
I've soaked in the sun
I've cried in the rain
I've basked in some glory
And ached in some pain
I've trembled in fear
And stood solid ground
I've felt human love
When it gathered around
I fell to my knees
At the thought of the end
I raised my hands high
To ask for amends
I've broken the chains
Of the bondage of life
I sought education
And married my wife
I can't say I've never
Looked back in regret
But I keep looking forward
To what happens next
The world is a garden
An orchard. A feild
We must learn to love
All the things that it yeilds
One bad apple
Doesn't spoil the bunch
If it did, we wouldn't
Have apples for lunch
I have much to say
To the world in my realm
My mind is a maelstrom
And I'm at the helm
I think that there's more
To this thing we call life
Some have their fortune
And others have strife
But how would it be
If we could exchange
Could we handle their pleasures
Could they handle our pains
Life is an edict
That's been handed down
The poorest are humble
The richest are clowns
But they rule our world
With their gold coated hands
And expect us to live
By their every demand
With their hand in our pocket
We're held by our throat
They're asking us, "Now,
Just how do you vote"?
We have the right
To choose who they say
Will be voted in
At the end of the day
But where is the peace
And where is the love
Where is the life
That we're dreaming of
Alas poor Urich
The future is here
The day is approaching
That we all must fear
The inquest remains
To determine our fate
Let's hope it's not based
On a world filled with hate
Let's learn to live
And let's learn to love
So we can all gather
In Heaven above
Rockman :-)
(Argument for the Biblical Account of Creation.)
I don't see why some people try,
without reason, to reach a conclusion.
They must haveconceived an end to be achieved,
through pre-supposition already chosen.
They accentuate the positive, ignore the negative,
and, apparently, find comfort in illusion;
to prove a connection they've already reckoned
will fit their pre-supposed delusion.
Yet, steadfast is truth, we find from our youth,
in solving the age old mysteries;
by following the evidence through reasoned inquest
of science, and accurate histories.
True science has shown aging to be known
affected by the rays of the sun.
Bible history attests longevity was best
Before Noah's Ark made its run.
We see man's age decline right in line
with the canopy deluge postulation.
Now, we can't see how fitting this must be
from the onset of creation.
The Bible also lists, a pre-flood morning mist
rising to water the earth each day..
Would this not lead to the conclusion indeed
of a water vapor canopy in play?
Then, the canopy fell as rain, quite well,
all the habitable land to cover:
"the deep" broke up making the oceans a cup;
can we logically conclude any other?
Urchins of the sea have been found to be
upon the highest of mountains.
Wouldn't this tend to show proof of a flood flow,
and its ebb into the fountains?
Don't ever pre-suppose a rose, a rose,
if it looks some what a carnation.
If you do, I must firmly assure you,
You will earn reason's indignation.
Reason can surely be a help for you and me,
if not corrupted by pre-supposition.
Think it all through, ignoring the Bible won't do
You'll be found in an untenable condition.
Lionel
The changed wind today,
Blows a spontaneous rhythm;
Endlessly on broken chords.
As every He/She pendulums blindingly,
To blend and bend themselves craving for,
Inquest of a roller-coaster joyride inside;
And ultimately is found to return,
Tuning itself in-wards;
On blind voyages from somewhere to nowhere,
From nowhere to somewhere.
For everyone is found to be guilty here,
Burning in an eternal guilt;
To get born again and reborn again.
Rejoicing on others guilt,
Relying to live on our ancestral Grand Father’s spit;
Whilst, one like me simply gets gone;
Going on blind voyages towards countless destinations,
Tripping to n fro within.
To dive, plunge and sink into,
A private world of our own;
Where we sailingly dream to fulfill,
All the sprouting desires of this mind;
After weighing them on,
Our personal Jesus’s sunbeam.
Frequently chased by so many trillion thoughts,
Innumerable beliefs, relentless creeds and scrupulous dogmas;
Which haunts to finally halt on,
Any ageless question mark to recur all life.
Alas..!!! A self-realization returns,
With empty hands.
To be left alive only with,
A realistic blank vacant and pseudo existence.
Ooh! For we all are fellow-travelers here,
Traveling in the same boat;
Strangely acting to live,
A life in search for some non-sense;
In-quest of a mindless state,
A timeless space
As the living law of life righteously suggests,
That truthfully everything changes to be non-existential.
For we all have emptily arrived here,
With nothing to gain;
And nothing to lose,
Just to have a splendid vacancy in vain; during our return.
Thoughts poured:
Dated on — 9th Feb’ 2011.
Rejuvenating Proof
Counteroffensive cataclysms clamouring for defeat
Apprehensive magnetism that makes you feel complete
Comprehensive pragmatism that can sometimes drain and deplete
Recompensive vandalism that leaves you shocked in disbelief
Magnitudes of profound truths that create wisdom for the wise
Terpitudes that are uncouth and crawl around in unethical disguise
Servitudes that hold no proof but are doomed to eventual demise
Platitudes that contain the youth and distort the facts in front of their eyes
Laying on my back I look up toward the blistering sun
Praying for you to take it back as I feel inclined to run
Saying we’re living in times of lack would be understating the sum
Weighing up what has been in fact a loss of delight, joy and fun
Weaponisation of justice that could have gone for more
Legalisation of an armistice as the world prepares for war
Devitalisation of the harvest while we cannot feed the poor
Dehumanisation of the inquest as we ask what all of this is for?
Calcification of an idolisation that was devoid of substance and truth
Calibrations of animations that are manipulating the youth
Altercations of communications that are needed to prove the proof
Imitations of aggravations that require a detective and a sleuth
Rejuvenating the landscape from the environmental degradation
Captivating the escape route as they apply for abdication
Hallucinating the magnetic tape that restricts the aggravation
Ruminating on the holy saint that depicts the consecration
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
IT’LL NEVER HAPPEN TO ME
What a disgusting development;
All my days are lonely;
I am a street passerby;
All my days are lonely;
Eating wet rainbows;
Uncooked promises;
Devouring sweet alluring mud pies;
While the sun yet blinds my eyes;
Stuck up high up in the trees;
“this it’ll never happen to me”
I’m a displaced child;
In a misplaced guild;
Won’t you give me a ride?
I’m an unused clone;
Strip of my shoes;
No place to walk to;
On your hopeless horse;
Don’t let me die in inquest;
Dreams are far to worst;
Riding right on course;
It won’t be my turn to cry;
Won’t be my turn to lie;
Won’t be hard to try;
It won’t be my turn to die;
What a disgusting development;
All my days are lonely;
I am a street passerby;
All my days are lonely;
Eating wet rainbows;
Uncooked promises;
Devouring sweet alluring mud pies;
While the sun yet blinds my eyes;
Stuck up high up in the trees;
“this it’ll never happen to me”
Where can I direct the truth?
Inside my mind is bruised;
Can I peer through brick covered windowed walls?
Eating rainbows devouring sweet adoring mud pies;
Blinded by the light of the sun’s rays;
I’m a displaced child;
In a misplaced guild;
Won’t you com b my hair;
Come taste the poison leaf;
Dying filled with grief;
It won’t be my turn to cry;
Won’t be my turn to lie;
Won’t be hard to try;
It won’t be my turn to die;
It’ll never happen to me…
7/09/70
Written words by James Edward Lee & arranged music by Alton Adkins ©1970, 2019
FROM THE SHORT STORY PLAY
“It’ll Never Happen to Me”
https://www.youtube.com/edit?o=U&video_id=9tWlUN0pFp4
DORA'S CURSE
by Don Johnson Queensland, Australia
What was that curse thou did rehearse, just ye and me and him?
How 40 sailors went to sea and not a one could swim.
And yet he said that they were dead, his memory of it dim.
And ye agreed as such with me, most drowned except for Jim.
A storm was blamed the hurricane, hid the evil dreadful sin.
For yet we knew just me and you, life boat's let the water in.
The owner Fred "God strike him dead". "Swore the boats as
good as new."
But ye and me and Jim could see, beams, daylight shining through.
Old Dora wallowed o'er the waves, her timbers cracked and creaked.
Her bilges full of briny swill, and the pumps they squawked
and squeaked.
The inquest said of good old Fred, that his ship was sound and true.
But ye and me and Jim agree, t'was rotten through and through.
The wind it blew and blew and blew, there came a clap like thunder.
The mast came down the helmsman drowned and the crew begin to wonder.
I tried to speak and Jim did shriek and ye was in a huddle.
We can't agree not ye and me and Jim sat in his puddle.
The sea came in where the pitch was thin,
And the planks they gaped asunder.
The Captain frowned as Dora drowned,
her worn out planks went under.
The Judge he said of good old Fred," His Captain made a blunder."
Won't hear what ye and me have said.
Why the rotten scow went under.
A bad dream I remembered and wrote down....
I get a severe case of ghetto epilepsy
when it goes skin dark at night
Get a bad reaction ... very violently,
to any rearview flashing lights
Hear the loud siren behind,
see the shiny badges moving towards me
Fear gets cuffed to my mind —
Being black at night ain’t the color to be
Always ready to recite the blue uniform mantra
from the “Black Survivor Guide” handbook
Smiley face attitude, too often just ain’t enough ...
Racial profile consider this a suspicious look
Flashlight come tapping on the window,
it’s time for a minstrel rehearsal
Give an automatic lip involuntary flow,
just be calm ~ no mood reversal
Keep the eyes down,
keep the voice low
Raise the hands high ...
do it very, very slow
Speak to the officers respectfully,
say: Sirs, did I do something that was wrong?
If so, I didn’t know ... believe me
Hope their trigger finger ain’t an itchy bone
If sweaty hands get fidgety on the gun
don’t give ‘em any nervous firing notions
Still in doubt about the final outcome ...
politely repeat those same exact motions
Keep your eyes down,
keep your voice low
Raise your hands high ...
do it very, very slow
Suddenmovements will get you shot
by the brave, “Serve and protect”
Resist pleas will buy you a burial plot,
from a coroner’s morgue inquest
I hope you don’t suffer from a bad case
of ghetto epilepsy, my night time skin affliction
Or have a dark mood like my black face
If so, then you can expect a code blue condition