Long Particularly Poems
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("Something or Other", 2023, original encaustic)
Veils
Veils get lifted all the time
Anytime we encounter truth
But they then fall back into place
The natural effect of gravity
Or whatever we call the force
That is opposed to the levity of truth.
For me this recently happened
Seeing a particularly fresh and joyful Turkish rug,
But it’s happened before in myriad ways,
From vivid dreams, to close brushes with Death,
From the satori of meditation to taking just the right dose
In just the right set and setting.
Truth may be a constant,
But our relationship to it is constantly changing.
Earth spinning and revolving around Sun
Comes to mind as an apt metaphor
All the more apt since it is also our actual condition,
If we take ourselves to be objects in time and space.
Veils support such illusions
Perhaps, and simply, because they give us something
Tangible, which without, leave us naked
Exposed for who we are,
Or more poignantly,
Who we aren’t.
(8/31/23)
Born shackled with globe sized
yoked millstone around my neck
rivaling the world Atlas shrugged,
or outsize boulder Sisyphus
eternally obliged to toil uphill
steepest mountain side
in concert with
Battlestar Galactica pièce de résistance
ear splitting discordant cacophonous din.
Simultaneously analogous twin tower
of Old Faithful geyser
Googleplex times Mariana Trench
aqueous oceanic chasm amply housing
Rhode Island sized fountainhead
constantly spewed vitriol
out subterranean mouth
scalding yours truly
with deadly skull king poison
(parenthetically), metaphorically, hyperbolically
approximates, nee aforementioned
actually an understatement
how whit sir yours truly
psyche dashed, manhandled, whipsawed
post parturition mine birth
subjected to class sic
biochemical, environmental, neurological
pummeling, oft times the cudgel
inherent, latent, salient...
genetically scripted torment.
Case in point
constitutes psychosocial (mine)
extreme introvertedness,
painfully shy reticence
exiled within zapped
writhing, wrenching, wracking
emotional, physical, spiritual isolation
plaguing mein kampf,
a worse fate than death
experiencing brutal and
nasty schooling as outcast
never feeling linkedin among peers,
nor family of origin
particularly latter years
minimally functioning just squeaking
to advance from one grade to the next
hidebound by invisible manacles
weighted heavily with severe anxiety
debilitating, paralyzing, unrelenting
panic/ anxiety attacks.
Scattershot employment track record
poor credit rating
the bane of misery
bias, discrimination, prejudice
throughout hand to mouth existence
impacted two innocent grown progeny
the eldest unforgiving,
no matter this papa coped
with demands of child raising
the missus easily overwhelmed
deferred domestic duties
birthday party arranger,
chauffeur, cook, homework helper,
summer time planner,
medical appointment scheduler...
It draws our eyes from a distance.
The hill is not spectacular, the lone tree
nothing special, pretty in summer,
not a maple, not a particularly remarkable Oak,
yet all are drawn to it.
Not far from the hill
woodland stretches for acres,
yet these woods receive scant attention,
while that single tree on a hill
is the subject of much photography,
folks feel impelled to tramp up that slope
just be seen by that special feature.
There is a thing worth understanding
in this very human need to admire,
even venerate the odd and atypical,
as if the minds imperative is to focus
on the one in the many,
selectively seeking out, the stand-out,
whether it be exceptional or not.
Perhaps the special, the singular, the notable
is a need we all have to believe
in our own ‘one tree’ uniqueness.
cuz poisonous toxins sting like scorpions
severely crimping ability to sit down absorption
radiating throughout every
cell guaranteeing abstention
against hidebound contract, no
ifs, ands, nor but tucks
whereby mood linkedin
to nihilistic abstraction
particularly as quasi pincers jabbed
like sharp serrated knives acceleration
guaranteed, where bum rapped cheekily
prospective hemorrhoids increased accentuation
pro bono (cher red) bloody stools,
this tetchy, itchy, y,...
bard declined invitation,
nee I rejected outright asinine acceptation
within bowel running toward toilet trees
squeezing keister exhausting effort in vain
scheduled medical appointment
gave curled lipped grudging acclamation
acquiescing nod toward grim reaper
worth casting die i.e. permanent resolution,
nary one more infinitesimal fraction
of second, could bare witness re: acclimation
or spelling alternate spelling acclimatization
experiencing, idolizing, lurching...,
sought after emetic interaction
with commode preoccupation
nearly twenty four hours
'tween latter part of September eighth
and ninth laxative delivered accommodation
at long last me no longer tortured
relieved, overjoyed, belated...
rear (rare) accreditation
proffered prior to accretion
lest I forcibly axed to join acculturation
of medical anomalies, you better blivet!
Blossom Monyei is a poet, potentially from Liberia, as indicated by references to the Liberia Poetry Association and poems published within Facebook groups for spoken word and poetry according to All Poetry and Facebook groups. he has written poems like "Faded", "The Distance Peaks of love", and "Unshaken". One of his poems, "Sin," is available on All Poetry according to All Poetry.
Here's what is known about his work based on the provided search results:
"Faded": A poem that explores themes of value and loneliness, particularly in the context of success.
"The Distance Peaks of love": A poem that depicts a love interest separated by a great distance.
"Sin": A poem that reflects on struggles with faith and temptation.
"Unshaken": Another poem by Blossom Monyei, suggesting a theme of resilience.
"Liberia Poetry Association": The phrase "Liberia Poetry Association" appears in the context of the poem "Sin," indicating a possible connection to the Liberian literary community.
"Blossom Monyei - poet at allpoetry"
A little voice keeps saying, “write something different”
Different to what I may ask?
I've surely written about every subject there is to write about
No no! I can't write about THAT!
I'd be censored and my lifetime membership would be revoked
Anyway, writing that stuff is only to get attention
It's called “sensationalism”
The world press is particularly guilty of that stuff
I understand they're in the business to sell papers
And add mucho dollars to their respective bank accounts
BUT a little discretion at times would certainly be in order
I'm not referring to any one particular article or story
Just expressing my thinking
Perhaps if events weren't sensationalized as much
The lunatics out there would be more concerned with other things
Such as what they have to be thankful for
Instead of complaining about what others have and they don't
Am I dreaming???
I relish sparring repartee of clever quips...
Particularly, when voicing and/or
writing bon mots doth betake
chuckling clownlike me
rumbled stilled skin,
and e'en rouses
this mummified corpse
(asleep for bajillion years)
among sleepers awake,
where mine inside belly
doth pleasantly ache
jollity the best medicine
most thus spoke Zarathustra,
asper nonpareil persona
American radio broadcaster
Doctor Demento would attest,
one need not buy,
nor spend real or "FAKE"
money, yet brilliant come
back (as averred by
unnamed modest chap)
sweeter than New York cheesecake
moist definitely more
delectable than grubstake
jamming gobstopper with
yodels, ring dings,
or mouth size edible
chocolate candied drake,
a propensity for parrying
thrusts humorously recently
adopted, though occasionally
embarrass self,
and perhaps I might
momentarily even forsake
such wordplay, but
honing humorous turns
of phrases come roaring
back to partake, and
appease simple pleasure
inexplicably to satiate
passion with English
Language and slake
unquenchable thirst
experiencing euphoria,
vis a vis yours truly
melding, jump/kick starting,
forging, distilling
reasonable rhyme
(albeit short lived) giddy
as if I won sweepstake
this newfound affinity
with whittling words
manifested during opaque
throes of fatherhood,
when ceaseless parental
demands sought fast break
from learning to
accommodate lest stressful
overwhelming anguish
found me undertake
king oft times frazzled state,
where among great
anonymous dead poets
society, posthumous renown
would be small consolation
for widowed missus,
whose then two little girls,
(now grown to womanhood)
would inconsolably shake
for ever and anon drowning
their sweet sorrows,
where profuse tears
engender lachrymose lake.
BLACK DEFORESTATION
Like innocent trees rooted and growing
In a black social forest, we’re being chopped
down by roving lumberjack officers of the law,
as if we were arboreal-like diseased black growths:-
Ironically, such deforestation, is a view of jurisprudence
Along this forest trail, least traveled by the blind goddess
Of justice, as she forgivingly hugs guilt with minor reprimand:-
While it is true that natural nature has a way of self-redeeming,
Far be it, it seems, for human nature to be of the same purview;
Particularly, when it has been demonstrated that today’s
Social-forest rangers are above and beyond the law.
How long must we allow the black forest of humanity
To be the victim of wildfire bigotry and its blazing bullets?
How long must we allow it to be a burned-out hued field of tears?
Indeed, how long will we just sit like frogs on lily pads of apathy?
Forgiveness is not to forget the offense and take care of the offender;
Rather, it must be about assuring that the offense never occurs again:-
Indeed, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, never solved anything;
But there is nothing wrong with soothing a pain, and prohibiting its recurrence:
Let us now be about the cancellation and prevention of Black Deforestation;
There is a time for everything, and it is now the time for us to be doing our thing:-
Am I really a poet? I don’t know,
maybe a would-be poet, not quite there yet?
I keep writing what looks
like poetry, at least to me.
But then, it’s only my opinion, and what
makes me an authority one way or the other?
I’m kind of an ordinary person,
wife mother, ex-tv commercial writer, ex-teacher. Not particularly known for anything except chocolate lava cake.
Brilliant ideas for poetry come to me when I’m out walking,
in the grocery store, driving, just sitting in the living room.
But then, when I write them down, not so brilliant?
My poems don’t always like me. They needle me
with questions I can’t answer.
“Why do you describe it that way?
It’s not convoluted enough to make people think!
Why do you think anyone cares about your old apple tree?
(politics, walk on the beach, regrets, whatever)”
I wrote a poem about my childhood.
When I finished, I looked at it, and it looked back at me
and frowned. It said, “Who gives a hoot?”
I wrote about getting old, how it felt, and
that poem just stared at me and asked, “Who cares? Is that really
poetry?”
My poems tell me, “Get real! Write about something important!”
But I guess I’ll just keep on writing, whatever I write,
because I really can’t help myself!
Mother rams with baby lambs
for greener grass are hunting.
Mama cows spy mama sows
with piglets softly grunting.
Creature ma’ams are joined by dams
whose baby colts start snorting!
Calves and colts and pigs like dolts
in meadows are cavorting.
March 10, 2021
for Eve Roper's Nursery Rhyme Poetry Contest
(I learned a new word doing this, which kids might enjoy learning:
dams are female horses!)
From Wikipedia:
The word (dam) can also be used for other female equine animals, particularly mules and zebras . . . A horse's female parent is known as its dam. An uncastrated adult male horse is called a stallion and a castrated male is a gelding.