Long Professionally Poems
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Oh...and hello
to you, some hours past, I
returned from counseling,
(hence this boy yent -
albeit beastie boy
figuratively basking
in fading afterglow)
great kickstarter session,
countless moments ago,
sans treatment plan,
she facilitated emotional airflow
i.e. Stephanie Dodds,
(sat straight as an arrow)
whereat this client purged, avow
hid lee, his psycho
logical reflux backflow
(Matthew Scott Harris) did crow
as said professionally trained
medicine woman actively listened,
(no doubt other male patients
similar to yours truly entertained
(alignment with see
thing hormonal concurrence,
where ego super vies iz
Id dee hot - hook line, and sinker
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
who sired, midwifed, and fathered
psychoanalytic theories)
sexual kindled fantasies,
viz being bedfellow
this soul, hood doth not bellow,
but keeps mum
(during my allotted time),
yet willingly shares
with utter strangers
intimate gal olive
hunt ting fantasy,
that doth beshadow
obviously no intent to breach
such prurient thoughts, bestow
foolscap upon mine noggin,
and most definitely blow
future appointments
with aesthetically pleasing
(tomb maa cryptic) bowwow
wing hot diggity
dog inner primate, perhaps,
and not surprisingly get brow
beaten, where dire
erect tor of facility
wilt hell me
"go take a hike to
penile solitary bungalow,"
where all manner of
libidinous desires wanna burrow
(where warren peace
can thrive hare and now),
on par with rabbit - burr reader,
which confinement would
not principally peter out
till dawning transgression vetted,
and avered final cockrow
trumpeted, norte - til last cornrow
reaped, hence unable
to thwart counterblow
permanently, doth nada
different she hate
lustful zeal from eye
dims sum – genital fateful dayglow,
thence high lee
grant ting deathblow
to testosterone laden satiety,
randy proclivity, and
concupiscent adoration from
combine nation of #endow
ments to ghost of - Grant
yule leases eyebrow
raising candy cane upon fallow
da weeder foreshadow
wing sowing field of poetically
wet dreams plying fecund,
feminine, and fertile ground
godaddy on his gangplow.
With two months left to go, in the year of 2012, I must not be too complacent.
However the first ten months have brought much joy and few sorrows.
The most exciting events have been the four weddings of young relatives.
My youngest grandson's wedding came first and I was not invited.
He and his intended flew off to Hawaii for the wedding, with their attendants.
The rest of us had to be satisfied with an invitation to their reception after they returned home. My wedding gift to my grandson and his bride was a professionally framed and sealed and museum glassed copy of my double poem, "The Bride's Prayer and The Bridegroom's Prayer". in hopes that it would last as long as I deeply wanted their marriage to last.
The other three weddings were the results of many months of planning and I received a formal invitation to each one. In late August my great-grandniece married her fiance in a military wedding. The reception was held in the Officers Club and was planned to the last detail. In September my own great-granddaughter held her wedding in my
yard and the weather cooperated beautifully. It was small, around fifty guests. Rented decorated tables held a feast worthy of a more opulent wedding. The groom was as handsome and the bride as beautiful as those in the wedding magazines they had consulted in order to avoid the high expense of a wedding planner.
The last wedding was held the last Saturday in October and the bridegroom was my favorite great-grandnephew. His beautiful bride was dressed in a lovely formal gown, under which she wore...cowgirl boots. Her eight attendants wore flirty. short, black dresses and...cowgirl boots. Western music was played and a catered meal of Western food was served to the two hundred guests. No expense was spared for this wedding. It was held at a remodeled cattle barn which has been turned into a beautiful social hall and rented out for just such occasions. The minister said it was the twenty-fifth wedding ceremony held in that building at which he had officiated.
These were all joyous affairs and my prayer is that all parties will all be able to observe their 75th anniversaries and are still as happy as on these, their wedding days.
(Note- Based on the story of a friend of mine)
There are TWO PARTS to this. The second one is here- https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_pen_lives_on_part_2_876105 . Since I can't enter the contest this was originally written for twice and character limits...ugh... Please read BOTH PARTS. Thanks!
She married him for his money.
He married her for her breast.
Both use each other as exhibition pieces.
But whenever I ask, it was
true love.
Sure, of course it was
true love,
because every night now, they fight,
insults, books, papers thrown about.
Leaving lets you avoid emotion.
Everything’s perfectly fine with me.
I have a loving, supporting family.
So what if most of the time they believe
I can’t do anything, or if their ‘love’
consists of strings of expletives
whacking my senses like snowballs,
cold, hard, stabbing? It’s still love.
They love me in a material way,
books lining the shelves.
Some books I’ve never read and never will.
Masks cover feelings.
If I feign a smile – or even if I don’t –
nobody asks what’s wrong. I’m just there,
like the dysfunctional coffee machine,
something everyone avoids inherently.
And I like the solitude – it gives me more time
to brood in thoughts, philosophies.
Depressive ones.
One of my favorites goes like this –
Love is a bastard.
Not all was meant to be.
Like the fantasies of my father
doing something else besides sitting on the couch
and watching television and old soccer matches.
Like the notions of my mother
inherently happy for once, not just
professionally cracking a grin and gossiping.
Like the whims of myself
finally able to end this whole mess.
There’s only one way to die.
My parents think they love.
I was the sole ordeal in bed either of them either experienced,
a nine-month wait and taking cancer pills to alleviate the pain.
I wish the pills worked.
If I weren’t here, they’d be happy.
But I am.
And they aren’t.
So I lie down and fantasize
about how happy everyone would be if I were dead.
It’s fun to stop breathing.
I grow increasingly concerned
about living in an unhealthy monoculture
of educational
evangelical
judicial
legislative hubris
Rhetorically LeftBrain dominant
verbally debating
which empowered opinion leader
will improve my personal consumer powers
and ego-incorporated
greed productive profits
In this competitive big Dog
eats little not leftbrain dominant
feminized nasty girl-dog
predative worldview
In which straight white male dominant
militarized
police state supporters
armed and dangerous
capital profit performers
for self-aggrandizing opulence
corpulence
corporate satiation
Slick as opioid addiction
to causing pain
supporting profitable relief
through drug-addiction management,
Corporate sponsored
unhealth
uncaring
inhumane unwealth
predation strategies
to survive economies
of LeftBrain dominant
scarcity
With no apparent worthy survivors
after we professionally
corporately
predatively kill prosperity
of all our individual species
recast as if
competitive pleasure-seeking consumers
on some superficial entertainment regimen
and off from our own RightBrain
cooperative mind
inviting compassionate health care
ecologically co-gravitating,
sacredly indigenous
natural/spiritual nondualistic,
bilateral,
contextually therapeutic intelligence.
What we need
and mental/physical healthcare expect
our teachers
clergy
judges
and elected representatives to wisely administer
is health and safety
of this
and future humane
regenerators
Of past
and for future
bicameral
bipartisan
multicultural compassion,
Sacred
indigenous
health/wealth equitable
and potentially win/win care
Integrity,
our universal EarthTribe
becomes more economically co-invested
in cooperative
dialogical political values
Empowering integral
holistic
equitable health care reception
Which is also
enlightening
trusted
not frightening
safe wellness,
prosperity,
wealth care
Seeking cooperative EarthPeace
through health mediating productions.
Rags To Threadbare Tatters...
(a true “FAKE” story
how Mein Kampf - chill as hoary
frost – and totaling lacking glory.)
A woeful disgraceful
cautionary tale stitched
from the barest thread
harkens back half life
of yours truly
comprising a few decades
in the pluperfect past,
when this husband newlywed
living hand to mouth,
when thy wife and me
occupied mine boyhood abode
sharing one kid size bed,
though dwelling under
same roof as parents,
this "pariah" did dread,
cuz prior to getting married
most every day
found me loathing mandates,
yet never fled
duet hoo bing
cowardly, yours truly
blithely endured pa
rant till fulminations,
and litany of"hateful"
broadsides at my head
minor misfortune, sans scant
details barely one
measly paragraph
tenuously stretched,
thus (with all manner
of dogspeed, I fetched
kvetched against restricted
poetic licensed finesse)
to complete
at least one
page (OpenOffice)
word document spread
attempting to convey penury,
but nonetheless I
consider meself
if nothing else
blue tiff lee well red
irrelevant to stand in good stead,
and pertaining to
profession of thespian,
never found me professionally
acting out a scene
neither did I glean,
nor memorized
scripts, thy counter
with applying literary mien
super tramp ping cheap tricks
to convince skeptical readers
"Quod Erat Demonstrandum"
just show up on opening night
when mine break
out character lean
on words since being "green"
behind ears of corn lean
refulgent klieg lights
will shine a light
asthma pantomime
dramatics mean
business and take
thumb page from playbook
portray me as
superb drag queen
when "lights", "camera,"
and "action" called
debut appearance
with stellar broadcasts
in every magazine!
The road that has been improved and widened would’ve yielded many unexploded munitions. I’m curious how many were found and wonder how many thousands still hide unfound. Sections of the trees/grass by the road are taped off. This is for safety of any munitions and also due to the steepness of the terrain.
The local people within the valley are being moved away and compensated for thus upheaval. Their valley will be inundated by what is now a small river in coming years. Any remaining homes and unfound munitions or Japanese tunnels will be underwater.
Every time I hike the area from Wawa to Mt Mataba to Timberland to Casili I read about or am told or shown evidence from the war and battles; that old actions from 1945 has outlived the people of that time be it locals or soldiers. History is not old and boring black and white photos. An rusty Arisaka rifle with working bolt or blasted shell fragments tell more than any story or photo ever could. Only fate and God knows the unnamed soldiers names now.
When the dam is built I wonder how many unfound unexploded ordnance and dead Japanese soldiers will be now forever unfound? I suspect many thousand Japanese soldiers are buried on those peaks. Remember, these hills are the first high ground above Manila. This was the start of the high ground battles that went on for hundreds of miles at several huge mountain ranges. It was Tier 1 fighting equal to anywhere involving hundreds of thousands of opposing troops, of which tens of thousands were killed.
Now the 1945 legacy is coming back to bite us. Not just buried shells on a dam construction site but the risk of them still exploding when not even found. This is due to corroding fuses. Buried bombs in Europe have self detonated several times. I’ve been told of two large unexploded warplane dropped bombs, one near Timberland and the other near Mt Parawagan. Both need to be found again and professionally defused. History is never boring; the lethal harvest is a testimony to their dastardly deeds.
***
We will swallow hard this spit hanging in
our throats for the love of our eloping country.
We will soundproof our ears before the
immediate suffering of our honest stomachs.
These are our tracks decorated by thorns
and thorns of hurt and problematic troubles.
this was the vow made in the public ears never
to allow our land tear out again
those bleeding curfew of midnight howls.
Now, mercies at hand, love divided these lines
that father carved in part of protecting fate.
Look at the bruises on our faces weeping,
look at what the sun has done to us,
listen to the happy noise made by our
stomachs under the harsh cruel sun.
This is the hatred caused by those we looked
in their eyes yesterday and saw fear and love.
These are the substances that homed our
regional state of mind but they failed us!
If they failed us in the young day who knows
what the old night will do with our broken spirit?
No one knows the consequences here.
Are we doomed in the morning masses?
Are we really going to see the changes promised?
When will one Naira become one dollar?
When will the School children start collecting the
meals promised before the election?
When will the economy wear a new look?
Where are we going from here, home?
Who is the black cat in Aso rock, the masses?
Is the powerhouse still working because
our streets are in pain of darkness ?
What problem is craving it hands on us?
If breathing of my last wills stand there,
If professionally we failed heaven again.
then Mass bury we be for all the leaders.
we will gather all and bury them to ashes
because they are the Prime Ministers of
our weakness dangling in the air for all to see.
This is our passion planted up there on trees,
our homes are hurting the fears that govern us,
through this lane we will walk diligiently to this
that our country will stand firm and tall through you.
©John Chizoba Vincent
Cam'god
Asper sweaty palms,
and other physiological ills
nothing beats infusion of
spine tingling electrifying chills -
experiencing psychological nirvana,
(nope NOT even
prescription medication pills)
except attaining, experiencing, and succumbing
delivering to bodily flesh, sans
nightly cathartic, intrinsic dream changing stills
and pacific inner calm gained,
thru shuteye, which tranquility
vis a vis REM hark able slumbers instills
necessary linkedin kickstarter instagram
godaddy transcendent reddit state, and fulfills
verity corroborated by perusing reliable
opinions painstakingly researched tracts
compiled by hands of
expert sleep specialists quills.
No surprise to me reading
(easy to understand)
judiciously, meticulously, and
professionally researched studies,
which unswervingly demand
the absolute zero tolerance
to deny deep jeep grand
(Cherokee) surrender into the land
where lovely bones and flesh
at rest, the agreed stand
hard quota of about seven hours finds
Melatonin the naturally occurring hormone,
secreted by the pineal gland
augmenting figurative trip wire,
where entire corporeal being fanned
by naturally biochemical processes
as if...complex species
guided by invisible hand.
Today, upon arising
without deafening vacuum
cleaner, yours truly did not feel gloom
me, nor rankle, an ordinarily mellow (Hume
more wrist) fellow, nee unlike
yesterday morning, where boom
ming ear splitting cacophony
gravely rented death stillness
unwittingly did exhume
even the grateful dead,
they did fuss and fume
(lumbering like 10,000 maniacs)
furious with rage
unbridled as many a jilted groom
(imagine a billion infuriated room
Hun hating thwarted lovers) assume
ming stanced ready to throttle throat
of she that chose to clean house
no matter engendering global sonic boom.
The Queen's henchmen penetrate professionally the porous perimeter,
as a Phyrric victory I pacified your Lady's legion,
for both in the open,like charriots missing riders,decentralized command,the measure,
I, like you maneuver behind the superior shelter of Praetorian's protection,
Levy the lurid seige upon my country's citadel as incensed infidels do,
your cantankerous catapaults wasting pawns like pebbles punched by a storming sea,
an officer sacraficed sardonically, intrepidly,
so to decimate the dormant foots encumbering you,
audacious as an angered asp the timely tactic was,will it hasten your demise to me?
Mandatory machinations amongst this moonlight morass,palpable being Death's caress,
a zephyer like a frosty scythe grazes gingerly our anxious eyes,
tethering the still strategy of mens' mentation,
advancing positions predicted but unproven, an apocolyptic inevitability provoked,
fostering inclement suspense,
justice is now beyond principle,virtue survives only on victor's blade,
incantations made in fire for fear's sublimation,
The common denominator of this prommenade of predation is relentless domination,
manipulating the opposition,perception taunted and haunted
as the fox dictates the chimerical chase,
a vermillion heartbeat,virulent,lucious,with a thin hum of vincibility
lures you to na spot of fragile dominion,
divided forces tend to scream like burning forest
when ambushed along trails of a tedious pace,
When the harp chords chortle tears of tucker from a skulless head,recall with dire dignity
that you were vanquished in strong purpose,
the memory of your egregious exploits will depend on the degree of quater
afforded by my soveriegnty
given to this proud harem of prospective sybils
rescued by a king's necessary nemesis,
J.A.B. - Part Three -
"We are moving fast towards an age where people will be lovers of self, lovers of
money, self-seeking. Self-gratifying, laying aside morality, spirituality, family
values, and God, for self-preservation, self-gratification, and a cheap thrill.
2 Timothy 3:1-5
Beautiful, Black, Precious, and Complicated
Nothing else like it has ever been fabricated because the recipe stated the
ingredients are outdated. And the original chef barely got credit when He made it.
So without sounding antiquated, let me tell you how I'm rated:
My Beauty is my quality that offers pleasure to the mind or senses. It gives me a
conspicuous essence to remonstrate the world's false pretenses. My temple
becomes a domineering visual aspect of grace, radiating a Saint's best quality
on a child-like face.
I'm Bold, Black, and Original of course. I stand with full force and demonstrate my
strength with no remorse. It's a color of authority and power as stylish and
timeless as an extraordinary and eloquent flower.
I am Precious, Gentle, Sweet, and Simple. I make all my flaws seem accidental.
A treasured soul that can't become nothing less than monumental. It only makes
sense that my ingredients are kept confidential.
Sophisticated and Complicated I remain, yet such a *****, audacious bird.
Professionally e-nun-ci-a-ting every word and ar-ti-cu-la-ting every verb. Inquiring
about uncanny intellect which remains unheard.
My aura and my persona suggests Royalty among most high. Promising me a
productive future and a thrill of a ride. So the next time you happen to stumble
across me, the child of a King, I prefer to be referred to as MISS QUEEN in your
dialect of linguistic strings.