Long Meeker Poems
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Paul, Peter and the Tweeter
Why not choose,
a billionaire leader?
One who is not
an eloquent speaker.
Trouble rises,
he robs Paul to pay Peter.
The bold rich need tax savings,
forget about the meeker.
From a distance,
we watch the kingdom teeter.
Him smirking on high,
he thinks "What could be sweeter!"
Why oh why,
did so many choose that cheater?
Global temperature rising,
things aren't the same.
Scientific facts need hiding,
isn't that a shame?
There's new logic he's applying,
says coal dust isn't really flying.
Even though the fish are bitter
and you can't see them under the litter,
no one can turn down the heater.
"Fake News" he says,
check out T-Man's Twitter.
The Country is "Great Again",
cause he ain't no quitter!
Yet people are making less than their babysitter.
Good jobs will go with free trade,
might as well become a waiter.
Otherwise you’ll starve sooner or later.
People happy,
he wants to build a wall.
Mexico will pay,
so build it tall.
More immigrants?
You don't need them at all.
But no one left to pick the fruit,
or to be at your beck and call.
Watch it all fall,
for sure the economy will stall.
No one buying nothing at the mall.
Meanwhile
Klu Klux Klan standing tall.
If they ask him,
T-Man will let them guard his wall.
Look for all the signs,
a leader who's a hater.
Mastertweeting, flatulater.
A logic lacking debater,
self-loving,
self-promoting, congratulator!
If he pushes the button,
we might become a large crater.
He'll spin it and tell those left,
"I'm the great emancipator!"
If you don't believe him,
You’re just another disloyal traitor!
What kind of car is that? I yell, looking out the window.
Just an ordinary car, my husband says.
With a star on it and a cherry on top?
A police car? He guesses.
What on earth has he done?
Has he killed somebody?
Is he a mass murderer?
Is he getting served divorce papers?
I glare at him, wondering if he is a bigamist.
He goes to the door to open it.
Steps outside.
Sure. He does not want me to know what it’s about.
I run over and rip open the door.
It’s his buddy Jake, dressed as a police officer.
What are you supposed to be? I demand.
Jake and Joe both stare at me.
“I think I’ll be the sheriff,” Jake says.
I had forgotten he was running.
Because we live in a different county.
I congratulate him and go back in the house, much meeker now.
I can’t complain I’m sheltered and fed
But this nagging ambition still builds in my head
Of what was written and what was said
Of a lonely road far from my bed
You don’t venture far tiny bird in the thicket
The home you mind is safe from the wicked
It’s a shame you can’t fly far away
And see all the cultures time built on its way
With the people of both peace and war
And the beauty of things in nature to adore
But your home is well kept and happy it seems
But what of your heart, your wishes and your dreams
I can’t feel shame it would make me weaker
About the wasted moments left to the meeker
The scoundrel in me keeps my heart from fever
But fever is wanted by my soul the dreamer
So tiny bird would you say you much wiser
The time you spend you count like a miser
Or is it that you take simple love in your day
In the little you make from the soil and the clay
Do the storms bother you at all little one?
Do the storms keep you hiding waiting for the sun?
I see the light is there in the weather so destructive
Are clouds to you renewal or counter productive?
I take it we differ in thought and song
Though I can no longer say yours is wrong
But I take from you a lesson - a lovely subtraction
In the happiness to be found in simple satisfaction
For longlonglonglong
and many days, turned to years,
minutes 'n moments
turned to tears;
I'd been a Seeker.
Now, though,
I'm Seekless
(Not meaning, simply that I
seek less.)
kindly meaning
that
I am Seekless.
I've been Seeker,
I've been Sought.
I've been strong and weaker.
I've been all thought, and meeker.
I've been Seeker.
I've been Sought.
I'm an Inquirer now.
Such is the path.
The path, my path, the
Path. The Path of
Inquiry.
It's comes with turns.
I step onward, leg before leg,
Eye before mind,
Grace before heart,
Day before week,
now before Now.
-ShhDragon
When in having or showing a seemingly moderate,
most humble estimate of one's great merits,
and importance, free from ones vanity,
egotism, boastfulness, or grateful pretensions.
When free from ostentation or showing extravagance.
Can you a modest house,
white washed as new cotton picket fences.
When kind when in having,
or showing a proper regard for the decencies
behavior, speech, long fevered press,
and desert is best served:
when a modest neckline is not seen on that dress.
A demure young chorus girl.
Not being prudish could suggest an exaggerated,
self-conscious proper well fitting form of modesty
or propriety in behavior or lacking in conversation
when one whom like I, being thought of, as you wish
to be thought of,
easily shocked and who more often than not
is thinkingly tolerant.
Could a prudish objection to a harmless remark thus provoke.
When I am loving you, but you never me.
Bold, but coarse.
Often is the bread, when seeing the greenest sea.
I am but a small,
humble, low, slower, meeker version of thee.
A candle light woman.
Bright camera woman,
and a dream for he, comes true.
Can you not find,
this being this your modest of modest of styles today.
Can we not be ostentatious or kind of pretentious
without it being unseemingly, not extremely or excessively?
When it is modest and moderate,
decorous and or decent, when coming, I ask this of thee.
Love me and thou be art,
it is most often then, only when found by thee, is modestly.
Keeping due measure of your new found treasure.
It is a concentration of all of your riches,
and often one which is considered lost or forgotten
until being, you it is fire, 'rediscovered.
Of fine ripe women and wine, 'not improper or lewd,
Never once considered, a shrew.
'I will, ' therefore, with only thee...
Being that women adorned in themselves is modesty...
When beechen quickened red buds begin then to swell,
And the woods, far off this woman can see.
Being thus when this is, I have written
on this page.
It seems too me like modesty.
She lived arcane
Acquainted with none but you
And if somehow, you
slept tranquilly
And if somehow, you
forgot about ineffability
Of the epistemology of her
Can surmise to the lie
She chose to die
And if somehow by any chance
You feel like an oblivion
be obliged to pass through the street
she stepped upon
a million little times
And mentioned about you
in her golden notebook
be obliged to go through the pages
messed up! Those now are
to pave the path to disclosure
The dialect or her own fabrication?
be it any term
No existence of obstruction
Can surmise to the truth
She's no more, gone are the days of her youth
The death or the divulgence?
be it any term
Take the sunflower's inflorescence
if somehow by any chance
You lead your way to her grave
Just ahead of the street
Turn out the remorse there's nothing you failed to gave
knock back the tears that could fall by chance
As they are going to descend from those eyes
bearing the ocean with no more lies
but, now, to her, it would do no nice
Cause she lived arcane, was never suffice
Those tears would worsen it all
Resent turning them down
From the pupil chocolate brown
which deserves a crown
for their ability to make everyone drown
She lived unknown, known died she!
Those pages saying it all
She cried alone, alone cried she!
The smell displaying the fall
Lived the dust, those pupils, pupils yet shone
Longing for you, are you answering the call?
When you went through the pages
Ruined up! Those now are
The fresh sunflower's inflorescence
She liked them, responds the rhythm
Rhythm from violin or was it from guitar?
Meeker became words, she's now far
Died she sublime, now she's a scar
Died she apt, now she's bizarre
Died she yours, BUT, now she's a star
I guess I'm obsessed
With keeping my breath
I've small use for obtuse youth
And their smug, shrugging abuse
Blinding meeker minds
By the blither of twitter
Where shameless selfishness
Is seen as glitter
Where 'fake' news and 'reality' TV
Both struck by theft of identity
Our testaments and towns
Are burning to the ground
Those with nothing to lose
Are lighting the fuse
When corruption erupts
And common sense, chucked
When science is declawed
And law is outlawed
When propaganda censors flaws
We've cast the last straw
We are democracy's
One hope ~
If we vote.
9/16/20
N/A in 'Clutching at Straws' contest
Judged 10/08/20
He was a great man, a "prophet".
Known by his real name "Japhet".
Started his ministry whilst in the market
Full of anointing like water filled in a "bucket".
Many words do not fill a "basket".
Preaching the word of God was his "mandate".
At his presence, demons would "vacate".
The word of God is sharper than a "machete".
A good man he was, a public "figure".
He never touched any "liquor".
The more he prayed, the more he became
"meeker".
Knowing that avoiding the word, he would become
"weaker".
Every time he was in a closet like a Muslim
facing "mecca".
With a big heart, he carried peoples "burdens"
like a double decker.
He knew the obligation given by his "maker."
Summers' thunderings gather in brooding, heavy clouds
Soundless masses with shuddering voices
Calling through an untamed sky
Shaking above the meeker Earth,
Pillars of rain, shot through, flashings in their depths,
Electric fires running through the close, wet darkness -
Thunderings assemble to make their pronouncements,
In booms and growlings cast through the winds
To tongue-lash an unruly world with elemental admonishments,
Bearing reminders of old forces that never die,
Waiting and spreading through vast spaces,
Breeding strength, coalescing.
Between the group of walls they live in,
He and she circle 'round,
Eyes seldom meeting,
Casting flashes of hurt when they do.
They hold within their aching hearts
Black shards of anger born of their quarrel,
Acid thoughts brew with the thunder's boil around them
It walks with its giant's tread above the roof,
Growling mindless sentiments
In tones that set the windowpanes ashiver,
Bitterness tends to the feeding of itself,
Savoring the cold fare
Of unforgiven words, thoughts both spoken and silent
While this summer squall of tattered love rises to rage
Ends in their dark unease;
The slow burn of anger between them
Has settled to smoking grey ash gradually piling up in their sombre souls
As the sky above flares through rushing sheets of clouds
Wind tearing by, laughing madly.
Not being woke..the system or cistern is definitely broke
Leaders plunder.. provoke under an asylum seeker cloak
Bleaker bloke masterstroke.. definitively immigrants choke
Poke meeker critics who spoke & weaker skeptics who croak
Cynics cast asunder by the bespoke thunder they evoke
Stoke the pariah fires as entire empires they revoke
Entire dire elite liar denier cheat quagmire is a complete joke
Which's why broken folk have a smoke.. become a token soak
Smooth what's wrong with a line of coke.. or bong to toke
Because not being woke.. the system or cistern is broke!