Long Judgemental Poems
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Wailing, screaming, and keening were things I was not
familiar with, until I got the shingles in a very tender place.
Then they became my go-to-noises. My husband had to wear
headphones, because it was so loud, so guttural and horrific.
He could not take it, and frankly, neither could I. I had never made
these sounds before, I did not know I could, but I did.
I have new medicine that means I no longer wail or scream.
Weirdly, I am also no longer able to stand upright and walk without
almost falling down. I am not alarmed because I had twelve
kinds of pills before a doctor prescribed something that kept me from
spending my whole day screaming, wailing, and keening, begging for death.
I am now stumbling around in a fog, but falling back into bed is better than what I had been doing for the past seventeen days.
Every once in a while it feels like a tiny devil with a pitchfork puts gasoline on
it, and lights it with a campfire and shoves it up my right hip,
This is preferable to the fifteen minute intervals it had been
happening for seventeen days in a row. These new meds are
keeping me down, because I am afraid to get up, but I am
snoring in a very comfortable deep sleep, which is so preferable
to running around screaming, shrieking, wailing and bawling louder
than I have ever bawled in my life.
I am a rag doll, only wincing in pain once in a great while rather than
every ten minutes. I am understanding drug addicts much better now;
maybe they started out just wanting their pain to stop. I had no idea what
level of pain a person could endure before this affliction grabbed me and stabbed me and burned me and kept me keening, wailing, and screaming. I believe I will be better at my job now, more empathetic, and less judgemental toward people who wisely decide to reduce their pain.
It is a relief to hear you speak...
Knowing my feelings got ahead of me,
Seeing now the differences in our mentality,
Breaking free to see reality,
I ask myself was it a mistake to care so intensely,
But then again sometimes God uses our hearts and prayers of empathy,
To feel for someone else yet also for our own clarity,
No longer do I feel intimidated to speak, or to question my intelligence and worth,
That my simple way and my heartfelt words are more than enough on this earth,
And how amazing it feels to be free,
Free to be me..the beautiful person God has made me to be,
Without judgemental analysis...or worries of what you might think,
I put you on a pedestal, because so many others did,
They rubbed off on my idea of you, and intimidated me to hold my tongue,
Now I see you as my equal, all of that pettiness is
Gone!
Over here in an Emotional plebiscite;
Knowing it's do or die
Sparked by emotional suicide
These feelings linger like a pesticide,
While I'm trying to go overdrive.
Finally asking myself why!?
Why?
Why does this feel like emphatic repetition,
Being manipulated by my perceptive premonitions,...
Is this fate..
Or is it just intuition
Oh curse these feelings of judgemental superstition!
How I wish for cognitive bliss;
To escape from my eternal cage of undue stress.
And elope with my loving mistress or rather a damsel in distress.
What is my definition of happiness?
What am I to be? Elated or saddened by trivial destinies pursued.
It is said that those that live in the past remain unamused;
But I refuse to listen!
Am I wrong for reliving moments from my past to feel contented;
or am I just another demented Soul.
Haunted by my unconscious consciousness;
Justifying my 'skeletons in the closet ' as assimilated heirlooms..
"Oh God! someone pass me a broom!"
As I sweep my past from my conscious and fumigate my overflowing closet,
may these feelings of promiscuous intentions and cognitive dissonance be purged from my unwilling conscious!
Copyright © Emmanuel Nyeko! Year Posted 2019
A WORLD WITH NO HATRED, ONLY LOVE AND PEACE
NO NEED FOR JAILS FOR THERE IS NO CRIME
DISEASES AND ILLNESSES THAT CAN ALL BE CURED
A WORLD LIKE THAT WOULD BE FINE
COMPASSION AND CONCERN FOR THOSE IN NEED
THE OFFERING OF GENUINE SUPPORT
TO FORGIVE AND BE NON-JUDGEMENTAL
THAT’S OFTEN WHAT’S REALLY SOUGHT
NO POVERTY OR PEOPLE WITH NO PLACE TO GO
NO HOMELESS NEEDING TO SLEEP ON THE STREET
A BED AND ROOF OVERHEAD FOR ALL
A PLACE SOMEWHERE SAFE TO SLEEP
THE MISUSE OF DRUGS OR ALCOHOL BY SOME
IT’S A MECHANISM FOR THEM TO COPE
INSTEAD OF PERSECUTION AND BELITTLEMENT
POSITIVE ENCOURAGEMENT DELIVERS WELCOMED HOPE
WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO LIVE OUR LIVES SAFE
WHERE EVERYONE WORKS AS A TEAM
DIGNITY AND SELF RESPECT
EACH NIGHT THAT’S WHAT I DREAM
Tranquility is the wisdom
of listening
and not talking about self
it is letting go of the past
it comes to us when we
accept ourselves
and decide who we will be
and accept that life always changes
it never stays the same
it is not in yearning for the impossible
it is not in being judgemental
it can only be reached with a quiet mind
face life with your natural mind
not your conditioned mind
tranquility is not created
as it dwells within us already
it is a garden where your soul
can grow ...
_____________________
March 15, 2023
Poetry/Verse/Tranquility
Copyright Protected, ID 03- 1531-682-15
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
In the land of the free
What has gone wrong
From the thirteen States
Where is the song
The song that united
A people so free
From the land of so many
In downward spiral spree
Of resources so vast
In lands so spread
What has driven this nation
To tomorrow dread
Employment is so important
As it allows families to grow
They may not become rich
But in their garden, they sow
In this modern world
Where we are in chemical shine
We have to look after our health
Not just yours, but mine
The People have Spoken
----------------------
We must reduce our Nuclear Cause
Because its not right for us
We have to be loyal to us Americans
For it deters us to cuss
We must look to our neighbours
If we can sort out the above
Pat each other on the back
Then we no longer shove
We must look to tomorrow
And reduce conglomerate gain
Because in our free America
They increase our strain
We must look to foreign policy
For we are a nation of mix
Our talking starts today
For our future fix
We must look to the White House
As we elect them in
We must never be judgemental
On their colour of skin
We must look to the future
Through the most beautiful of hues
Our future is our health
Or is it Down Payment Blues
We must look to the heavens
If we are religious or what
We don't want to look on our past
As forget me not
Listen to the People
--------------------
Inspired by AC/DC's " Down Payment Blues "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/america-2.php
When results are not in, the night the polls close
It gives rise to the lies from all those we despise
From those who the liars all hope that we chose
The ones who dishonestly seek to depose
All but buyers of liars, wearing emperor's clothes
No longer a virtue… if it ever was
You can search at the church but it won't likely cause
Plausible deniability to not rule the day
Which now has its sway
In whatever endeavor for those who will pay
It's our terrible two's so we elected a toddler
Didn't think twice so we did it again
It's trying, this lying, there should be a trial
And trials like this are where it rubs thin
And thin skinned or weak chinned again it begins
But thin skinned or weak chinned, it matters not now
We must learn where we've been or we're going back now
And we'll keep going south, the further we go
As we live hand to mouth, til there's nothing to show
For the hard work put in to get us this far
We crawled, then we walked, then we talked a good game
Taught the world all the rules until they did the same
Now the world waits to see if we'll take the next step
To a healthy childhood, and then adolescence,
Responsible adulthood before our senescence
As a country we'd better learn from these lessons
And lessen the likelihood we've lost the essence
But waiting's not dating or baiting or hating
It's anticipating what we can do better
And we sure could improve on a lying bed wetter
Third times the harm sustained by the bluster
That fulfills the promise of all the King's muster
The Midas inside us has led to the crows
Who gather the shiny bits He always throws
And it's all worn thin as the Emperor's clothes
He sat outside a window pane,
On the street called Easterlane.
Invisible to some but not to all;
who cared or none the same.
Passersby with shadowed eyes
Would pass by him in vain
And go by him with cautious vibes,
Some judging while some refrain.
A lonely man with dirty hands
and clothes some say as claim;
Would Drink his wine in perfect time,
Before a judgement came.
Some prayed for him.
Some pity him.
Some cursed him just the same.
But he would smile and ignored the trials
and drink his drink again.
From spring to winter,
(All seasons all)
Around the evening two,
Would sit this man with a happy grin, Ignoring the verdict too.
On the news a story arose a scene
That drew the public view;
“Tech. inventor, billionaire and alcoholic too; Dies on Easterlane, around the evening two”
Outside my window (Easterlane)
The man was gone from view.
Tech. Inventor?
Billionaire?
Dam, who would have knew?
When accidental
auroras stroll along
the pale highlights of
camouflaging corpses
and death blossoms
in vulturous hearts of
dreadful puppets,
she always holds
pixie dusts of
strawberry seeds within
october's obsidian quartz.
Gaze beyond those
glass-stitched horizons,
as she cracks the
carmine cocoon of
judgemental juxtapositions
and transforms
carbon-coated
milliseconds to
magenta-gold
pronunciation of
peaceful phrases.
She is a silken
cream-dove,
floating above
murky musings of
redolent rhinestone-
reveries.
As prismatic primroses
shall cleanse every
sin from the witching
spellbook, she will waltz
in whispering lulls of liberty,
emancipating from
chloroform-stained
chains of blood-
scented blames.
Her sunflower-shield
and aurous
summer-sword of
amber poesy
can slice spicy
silhouettes of
graphite goblins,
she will never
surrender to those
misinterpreting
megalomaniac minds,
who twirl along
masquerading rivulets
of manipulative
assumptions.
She is the shiniest roar
above grimoires of grief,
like an 'unassailable purity',
washing away
emerald exhales of pain,
who mutes each cosmic
raven's lament and
distils russet-white-lilies with
her alchemical aroma.
She was brought in front of Him,
Dragged by her accusers who were shouting.
Calling her all sorts of ugly names,
Punching their fists with stones in their other hands.
She stood still in the center of the crowd,
Holding her head up high.
Tears stung behind her eyes.
Little blood drops dripped from her lips,
As she tried not to show how much it hurt.
She looked at the man who stood silent there,
He looked different from them.
She depicted a beautiful light surrounding Him.
With so much love and peace in His eyes.
Immediately she felt safe and knew,
She is at the right place.
She blocked out all the voices,
And fix her eyes on Him.
He looked at her and smiled,
Went down on the ground and wrote.
She wondered what could He possibly wrote,
Amidst the chaos in the sand.
The accusers’ voices quiet,
As He stood up again.
She heard Him saying some words
But her heart beating so loud it deafening out His words.
She looked closer to what He wrote.
“The same finger who wrote the Ten Commandments,
Is the finger who is writing in the sand.
Thou shall not judged unless you want to be judged.
All women are made to be loved by men.