Long Mimicking Poems
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40 Days
by LC
Sin is inside.
And inside… isn’t what it used to be.
I used to keep a fig leaf at the ready.
But one day, I ran out.
And nothing changed.
Weird.
Binary yielding too many zeroes.
Typical ritual. No improvement.
The pastor might have the virus.
Let’s play a game: Metaphor or Meta?
My saliva turned blue, and then black
If I never had a fig leaf, I would’ve confronted sin.
If I never ate the apple,
I might never again be confronted with temptation.
Crafted by external serpents,
Little wave-like functions,
Mimicking oscillation.
They echo in our decisions.
And decisions…
They quietly are the foundation of the Tree of Life.
But we forget what they’re echoing.
And the echo becomes a virus.
It calls itself… the narrator.
Forty days.
Visceral.
No sound.
No light.
No serpents.
No parasites.
Just the heart, and the mind.
When we dive in darkness,
The light gains sharpness
We begin the battle
Shadows Matching internal IQ
Light doesn’t cast shadows on light
Reality was a coin toss.
The manifested serpent,
Devoid of disguise,
Stood between me and the last light in the room.
As if to say:
“You gave me nothing to feed on.
But I still want you to notice me.”
Like—
Just because I don’t see you
Doesn’t make you scary.
You were a part of me
You only exist as a shadow,
but I can still hear you crying
We stood side by side.
Until I walked away.
I sat in its lap, its grasp
I let doubt consume me
I thought it might kill me.
I turned to dust.
I learned that doubt…
Takes the form of the virus called narrator.
And with that doubt,
We scatter fragments of the real me about.
But I took responsibility.
Tried to restart the universe.
Forty days
And I came out the other end asking:
“This was crazy,
But if it gives me any credibility…”
Where is the moon?
I just forgot that song of robin
when I heard the blue jay notes.
Resonating tunes of cardinals
merry cuckoos mingle my throat.
They call me mimicking mockingbird,
a plagiarized heart in mask of many voice.
a carefree flirt inspired on flattery,
cadence of echoes in shameless rejoice.
A beautiful parrot I just saw in a cage,
a deep sigh buried in her emerald green wings.
"You are a free bird, you learn what you like,
with crickets and larks, the bosom of sky sings.
But I have no melody, on my scarlet curved beaks
just one and only song, whatever my master speaks",
Dated 17th July 2019
Sponsor Edward Ibeh
Contest Pick A Title, Vol 6 - Personification
Title chosen: The mockingbird
Ofttimes yours truly assiduously tries to adlib,
but blubbers like a landlubber
at sea treading water donned with bib
(that doubles as yellow
spongy bobbing life jacket)
furiously doing doggy paddle
riding the next tidal wave
hoop fully washing me ashore to crib
if need be to dig an underwater channel
painstakingly slow drabs and drib.
The English language I simply adore
though offtimes methinks waxing eloquent
affects listeners as yours truly a bore
in record time flapping waxed lips
beholds one gordian
tongue tied knot major chore,
whereby I wanna bolt out figurative door
feeling deplorable and stuck
analogous to Eeyore.
Ache 'n to launch into a monologue
or chime into ongoing dialogue
me noggin off times generates brain fog
mental state mimicking one,
who quaffed an over abundance of grog,
which for this teetotaler would constitute
a mere thimble full of drink,
perhaps rum enhanced eggnog
just one sip and boing I go
topsy turvy as if a felled log
hit me over the head
rendering me unconscious.
Thus wood explain mine altered state
though unsightly gash on pate
battle scar leveled playing field
with the missus, 't other significant primate
supplementing and complementing
one aging long haired
pencil (vane ya) necked geek
being caged, yet free
to roam within human zoo
both, (née all) of us captive
on carousel of time
nsync with every other *****sapien
begot to participate in circle game.
All superfluous joking aside,
I strive to groom conversation,
whereby uninterrupted flow of words
(versus fumfering, hemming, hawing,
stammering, stuttering...), thine
general oral feedback paradigmatic guide
ever diligent to think
before I speak with pride
else I heep discourtesy
upon myself and chide
yours truly with harsh rebukes,
which maybe tantamount
going off the mountainside
plummeting into the abyss
engenders an unpleasant
metaphoric roller coaster ride,
and if crash test dummy doth survive -
upon gibbet he will be tried
punishment broadcast world wide
for flagrant horrendous verbal
egregiousness (waywardness) he belied.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Entitlement Derangement Syndrome
------------------------------------------
After a failed attempt at a long lasting relationship. I decided to find someone who I understood. When it comes to objections and goals, people often lack sincerity when discussing such. People laugh at your goals and often tell your goals and hopes to other people. Often to people who can afford to do the things you wish to do." It's like finding a secret compartment full of treasure. Gossiping and devaluing a relationship can lead to helping other make better decisions.When people use other people's goals to straighten out their own lives, they are often engaging in a mix of social learning, goal mirroring, or, in more negative cases, manipulation and codependency. People do this for a few key reasons, and the dynamic can either be healthy or highly toxic depending on the intent.---Goal mirroring generally refers to understanding or mimicking the intended objective or end result of an action, rather than perfectly copying the physical movements themselves---------------------"His name was stumbled into memerance due to her mentioning it."--
-------------------------------------While asserting personal boundaries and expecting basic community respect is healthy, an inflated sense of being "owed" often stems from emotional immaturity, a lack of self-awareness, or cultural conditioning-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------"I owe her nothing as she is seen now as vile!" Written by: Epicurus Citium--------------------
Poindexter sat and stared at the new fellow with the sneaky eyes
He hated him, plotting this creepy guy’s downfall and demise.
It was a contest of wills, and they were both winning.
Poindexter was irritated; this jerk looked full of sinning.
Why sit there all day? Miss Tutters asked him, once and again.
This opponent looked tough, and Poindexter always liked to win.
Go play!.There’s your mousey and favorite catnip ball.
He decided to get it over for once and all.
He backed up and wiggled his ass good, but then realized.
Interloper was mimicking his every move, to his horrified surprise!
Tutters began to titter, as they both leaped through the air and hit.
Bang! His nose felt like it had been smashed more than a bit.
What kind of sorcery is this? He demanded. Tutters began to titter
She had to leave him at home that night, so she paid for a cat sitter.
Sitter watched him do the same thing and laughed until she cried.
Poindexter knew he would never like this cat who was sneaky-eyed.
The dream was of me
I dreamt off me in my dream
It was fearfully dreadful a dream
Long ago was the day of my last dream
Before the dream that came knocking on me
Startled still, as I opened up myself for it
Then comes the dream in a dreamy toga.
They were many of them gathered
Gathered only in one accord accordingly
Like the disciples of Jesus Christ of the then
In front of a room just like the upper room
Some in their usual ape-like suite with a tie
Others in Babariga ;Ankara ; Damask ;Lab coat
Pretending to be engrossed with something
Giggling with a mischievous stern look.
In one accord they all nodded cynically
Mimicking no one but the Agama lizard
It was of me they discussed endlessly
Still refusing to leave the only path
That leads to the other world of light
From the darkness we were plunged into
They scornfully displayed the key before me
It was the key to the other world of light.
Tiredness suddenly zoom off me
As I regain my strength to continue to
Force my way out, off the men who held sway
For several moons only in darkness in a garden
Meant to be of light en-route knowledge.
Alas! My freedom came like a proverbial thief
The king of the jungle only in the dark.
For the misfit mistaken as men in our garden of light
They were swept off the ground, nurtured, captured
And ruptured into the dustbin of history,
As I regain freedom from the shackles of their fiefdom,
I shared the dream of me with other dreamers
That was me in my dream.
Alayande Stephen.T
13th,July,2006 , 9.49pm
When does a man know he is genuine,
authentic as anger with iniquity,unimaginary as shadows in sun light
or blood in the wound,
alive like apples on the tongue,
when does a woman cease acting and begin living like an energy
driven relentlessly onto a target,
breathing from within to produce a rythme for personal purpose,
when do children become Machiavellian,stealing for lust,lying for laughs
and hiding for safety,when do they stop believing
that they are whatever can be desired,
there are creatures on this planet displaying instinct for mimicking a prey's sound
or using camoflage for ambush,
in doing so they depart not from a natural state,
what is necessary & unnecessary for healthy survival,
is there a mask for self trust,
is there a script for peer acceptence,
a mantra or prayer for self awareness,
is there such a thing as true & untrue,a good day and a bad day,
who is responsible for truth,
is it the witness or the conductor,
does experience decieve or present,
does the frost cheat the blossom,
do words mislead or is ignorance the folly,
do men disguise themselves subsequent to virtue or vice,
to survive or profit,
the portrait speaks no riddle,
falsehood finds no home outside the frame
nor inside the canvas,
impostering is a function of honesty
to charlatan & fool alike -
J.A.B.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into ornamental animal
via botanical artist wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist wrought voila uber
prestidigitatiously head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed miraculously via
Te Deum divine fist bumping, whence realistic fauna burst
alive with an explosion of colorful twist and shout of foliage,
where scalloped superfluous detritus manna for naturalist
deciduous detritus capacious carpet boar animation punk
chew waiting groundswell Liszt ghost would arise from the
grave to produce magnum opus without a beat missed such
shrubbery mimicking the likeness sans glistening fleshy sin
yew, and gist about ready to become bone a fide (green be
hind the ears) thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate craftsman promised
to imbue life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whittling away
leavings, thus did exist the nascent then omnipresent visible
entity emerging from cocoon an herbalist metamorphosed
from the imagination of a skilled, practiced and mentalist
conniver viz extracting the initially obscure blessed beast,
where with august magic wielding tools of this specialty vis
a vis bringing breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest dexterous
chiseling blistering hands baffle onlookers as coterie of
topiary harvest breaths mind bogglingly astoundingly
authentic rooted ready to frolic in the grass menagerie
a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny, the Michel
Angelo of dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid ahs hid
test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger green hued key luster.
Form:
I'm only six years old as I enter his room
He sits me down as he makes me at ease
To settle my nerves as he tells me he'll help
And free my mind, and escape it's seize
"Listen Melissa, please don't be afraid
We will take our time, and determine these dreams
Lie back, count to ten, into a deep sleep you'll go
I will be here, what you see now is no dream"
It all started with scratching on the wooden floor
As I watched shadows appearing on the ceiling and walls
Hands, paws so grotesque as big as can be
Mimicking writing in confusional scrawl
" Melissa, can you remember, anything bad from your past?
Something that means, that it shouldn't be so
Remember, your only six years old
I'll let you go back further, let your young memory flow"
I'm, I'm, sitting on my bed, the lights flickering
Tears, I'm in tears holding my teddy bear
Watching my building blocks, move across the floor
Hands, paws so grotesque, I'm in frightened scare
"That's good Melissa, your doing so very well
Tell me about the blocks, what do they mean
Is this nightmare your having
Telling us more than it seems?"
From under my bed they crawl, making scraping noises
Reaching for some bricks, big and small
Their upside down I can't read them
The shapes are the same, as the ones on the wall
It, It, says daddy, it says my daddy
The blocks, that's what they say
It's now starting to appear, scratched on the walls
With a snap of his fingers, so grotesque like paws!
Written - 11/6/2010 7:29:00 PM