Long Jaundiced Poems
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This is a true, but amusing tale,
Hope your laughter does not fail,
'Tis a saga of a cockatoo,
Of life, he held a jaundiced view,
At the going down of the sun,
Cocky embellished his own fun,
And at the rising of each dawn,
Cocky's catharsis our ears did adorn,
The parrot kept talking, none listened to he,
Cocky had such a vivid vocabulary,
All starting with "F...ing C...'s"!
We heard his morning matins, you see,
His vespers were hard to believe,
'Twas sociolinguistic acquisition, prithee,
His jaded look at society,
Swearing is cathartic, but so lazy,
Yes, old cocky had such a vocabulary!
It's not like children wearing color glasses,
Or like the spectacles protecting our eyes;
Jaundiced eyes are Like carnivorous glances,
Everything seems like preys in many a guise.
Isn't every human a true image of God?
Am I to reduce or offend anyone?
Didn't Jesus love even those who were a fraud?
Sacrificed his life for every frail human?
The Sadducees and Pharisees with their jaundiced eyes,
Thought themselves, caretakers of the Judaism;
They found Jesus was a man with no bias,
Yet, they threw on him mountains of criticism.
Though my eyes are jaundiced by my upbringing,
I have the freedom to change my perspectives;
I need to feel the goodness in me springing,
And end all disdain and intolerances.
I am given this life as a gift herein,
Using it or misusing is my judgment;
I know that the fullness of my life therein,
Will be the outcome of my true commitment…
Let me hearken to the call of the Spirit,
Lovingly embrace each brother and sister;
Look at them with eyes with no bias inbuilt;
Just like looking through the eyes of God's glister.
“Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life” (Proverbs 4:23)
21 June 2021
Jaundiced Eye Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
We Think It Free
We sought our independence from oppression.
Have we won our freedom from an oppressive ruler
only to become subject to oppressive rules?
We elect common citizens to represent us,
to champion our causes, speak for us,
whimper when they cave to special interests,
become millionaire, lifetime politicians.
We sought our independence from – to be
unburdened by the needs of distant demands
for our money, our youth, our blood,
to backbone an army of the wealthy
seeking to protect their interests.
We fought to ensure our future, to ensure
our children might live in peace,
build upon the foundation we left to them,
pray to whatever god they chose,
dance to whatever music moved them,
sing whatever song gave them strength,
speak freely of that which they believe,
walk freely in search of their dream.
Has the cost of such freedom become so onerous
as to devalue its worth? Have we installed an
aristocracy of the elite; a continuum of complacent,
connected, political royalty to rule us -
A government of the politicians, by the politicians,
for the politicians, perpetuated by the erosion
of our freedoms? A flag that is now tattered and
torn by those whose freedoms it protects,
rights that are diluted to appease those who
seek special status under the cover of freedoms
they will not extend to others.
Have we become so jaundiced to the cost of freedom
that we think it free?
John G. Lawless
6/30/2015
With jaundiced eye affected by my heart
I do pray for enlightened vision glow
radiating truth of Scriptures’ rampart
toward perspective against falsehood blow.
Confessing personal biases’ blight
with jaundiced eye affected by my heart
I seek God’s pardon from arrogance-delight
gripped by hypocrisy and conceit’s dart.
Aware of preference right from the start
I do admit own vested interest
with jaundiced eye affected by my heart
thus, trusting the Lord’s guidance is still best.
Respecting others through Christ’s love in view
my spirit reaches out for grace impart
resolved never to wear empathy shoe
with jaundiced eye* affected by my heart.
*Psalm 88:9 Mine eye mourneth by reason of affliction: LORD, I have called daily upon thee, I have stretched out my hands unto thee.
June 22, 2021
Edited on July 11, 2021
1st place, "A Brian Strand July 13" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 7/12/2021.
Me.
I think about myself most of the time,
My strengths and weaknesses; things
To support my moods, thoughts of crime.
Self indulgencies, hatred and sufferings.
The world which seems to offer dimes,
Cents but though not fully an intellectual
I do have an abundance of what you call
Common Sense and this I treasure more
Than all the tea in China, all the pastas in
Italy and all the noodles from Singapore.
Mind tick tocks with thoughtless motions,
Clocking up the seconds, minutes, hours
As time passes, watching the movements
Of humanity, it's weather vane of showers
And sunshine co existing. One wonders
Who the aliens are. Perhaps humanity is.
Perhaps I am. Perhaps you are. I ponder
These things frequently and perhaps it is
Why I am tired so often; my mind needs
Rest from the endless naggings of doubt
And interior brush strokes of colored sin.
Keeping my mouth closed for sake of kin
Spread through argument; riotous shout
Of disapproval, chagrin the food of malice
And deceit. Oh! how my dear heart bleeds
For solace and peace. Filthy dark chalice
With words filled to brim and overflowing
With gall and contempt, spilling into the
Crevices of my spirit and soul. My view of
The world is as you may well ascertain;
Jaundiced with detremental well being
Of self and humanity in general. However,
I shall always scale the Holy Mountain
Of forgiveness and repentance seeing
As I always seek the goodness in everyone
I meet and this attitude grants me a stay
Of execution regarding myself and others.
Mercy, mercy and thrice mercy. The Three
Amigos have their say and will always pray
Where there is hope there lies a new day.
Myself.
I agree with Me.
I.
I agree with Me also.
Fallow ground waiting for a fruitful love long overdue
Furrowed heart lined with unrequited, silty residue
Mounds of decaying dreams my cultivating hopes askew
Jaded weeds have smothered my desires anew
Last season your virile plow sowed seeds of promise in a heart so true
Sprouting passionate stems in the early morning dew
In the noon day heat your warming affections grew
Your tenderness a nuturing romance did imbue
By afternoon your watering caresses caused my tapped root to spew
Eventide, your cold hands from my writhing tendrils withdrew
Next day, scouring winds of change o'er your truant mind blew
A calous blight made you my fawning sprigs rue
Your cultivating hands no longer tender touches did strew
Your fertilizing succor no longer my bleating pods did cue
Now shrouded by cares no suitor my stalk to hew
Withering on the vine of rejection; emanating a jaundiced hue
Choking thorns around my jilted psche accrue
A fragile frond paying it's unrequited due
I remember fitfully,
Those verdant fields their
Yellow brushed cotton tips,
Gyrating, swirled to beauty,
sighing, undulating minute blades
infintesable allure wafted
on those white wattle nights,
even drained of sustenance
it still motioned to flower
as I am drawn to nigh.
Jaundiced paddocks replace
the suppleness of earth, where,
once green strands laid
like laurels on the dawn
Rich red particles of death
now pepper the ether,
unwonted limbs litter lanes
original ground now fallow
Trans morphed unholy Gaia
sits cackling next to Azimuth,
sons of the fathers, follow
the false prophets online
As their hands are filled
with knowledge of the world,
their heads are lackluster
gazing today after tomorrow
Good intentions are twisted
in a government mainframe,
planet earth screams succour
and only God is left to hear
but I'll ever remember,
viridescent pastures
millions of miles long,
breathlessly beautiful
before the tech triumph
life's last gasp of gorgeous
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the jaundiced
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.
Roses were glazed red
My fertile heart to woo
Cankering jealousy did spread
Bright petals now jaundiced hue
Violets were silted blue
Noble ambitions to thread
Blossoms with intemperate juices did stew
Now mildewed petals cloak our shallow bed
Tulips were glossed yellow
My cerebral chords to cue
Anon, savory tips did mellow
Now stale cortex in dark milieu
Carnations were flossy white
My purer instincts to hew
Your waxed petioles lusty suitors did invite
Now browning leaves on tendered stems accrue
Now barren soul rimmed by bland fescue
Heart heavy from chilling night's dew
No garlands around glib psyche to strew
Only drab, dense weeds to bid me adieu
On threads of wispy air,
in breathy undertones of political wind,
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the quiet ruination of our commonwealth.
I can hear the sleepy madness, turned avalanche
between my ears.
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the whispered words of terrorists,
guttural phrases taunted as political incorrectness,
flaunted vacuous nihilism fomenting insurrectionism,
the quiet convulsion of our self-rule.
I can hear the sullen invocation, turned torrent
within my mental models.
On threads of wary air,
in stealthily vengeful murmurs of pretenders,
I can hear the casual, softly spoken demise of justice,
the grim sabotage of governance by principle,
and with it,
the slow dripping blood of all those who died,
all those long forgotten.
The fading ink on parchments spelled out ideals
never attained or practiced in a nation’s history of enslavement
and genocide.
Yet can the people’s ambit even begin without the
enshrinement of these principles for all?
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the reckless, feckless conmen concocting hallucinogens.
Conspiracy contagions so easily playing upon, confirming
the jaundiced eyes, so easily validating the invectives of the addicted.
On threads of wispy air,
in breathy undertones of political wind,
I can hear the quiet catastrophe.
Are you listening?