Long Seamy Poems
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Perilous is the journey, sordid is the quest, flashing flirtatious desire,
Treacherous is gaudy aspiration, playing with torrid flames of fire;
No matter how thrilling, how visceral may feel this insidious chase,
Neither it is a road to endearment, nor is it a destination of grace.
Provocative is charming croon, simulating sound of love’s acclaim,
Exhilarating is ephemeral attraction, missives seductive inflame;
Audaciously feigning love, squalid is the phony paramour of shame,
Teasing emotions in tawdry games~ ignoble is his heartless name.
Allures of the dangerous dalliance, dazzle donning a seamy stance,
Hosting rendezvous immoral ~ an illicit dance of lurid romance;
Transient are escapades of infatuation, never meant to forever last,
Buried are their broken-hearts, in cemeteries of jilted forlorn past.
In interludes of life and time, wrinkles weary warn of receding age,
As lascivious phase, in book of life, begins to turn a fading page;
Revealing to glamor and courtship: the aura of beauty is long gone,
And nightmares of regrets have since robbed, avid dreams of dawn.
Obsession of lust wasn’t love~ admonish the sad memories of yore,
Promiscuity of casual encounters, pathos of remorse now abhor;
Wondering if it’s too late to long, for lasting bond of kindred hearts,
Before empathy of love departs, before the warmth of passion parts.
(FICTION, PLEASE. It is easy for me to write in the first person, but nearly all my poems are fiction. Please don't attribute this poem to me. I loved my wife to distraction. For ten years she was sick and I cared for her like a baby. My only regret is that the ambulance which took her away would not allow me to be driven with her. I knew she would die and she would have wanted me near her despite her dementia. We were lovers. I don't know where I got this old poem of mine, but it is still fiction.)
Shifting relentless time,
sand in hourglass trickles slowly
towards its final hour.
Pretending I care not,
I bask in the sun,
enjoy mellow breezes,
I wait; the end will come.
The sky is clear, my mind is not,
in truth I am distraught,
echoes of a distant past
ripple through my futile thoughts
reminding me of your last visit.
Now you stir in your desolate grave.
My listless life is at a crossroads.
I hover in a vicious vacuum,
remember all the senseless shame,
slide after seamy slide recalled,
all your wants and needs
which I demonically and cruelly denied
despite the reparable ways,
you made my fantasies would not come true.
Now it is too late.
Frustrations tear my sinful soul,
I lie bound in a wicked web,
I'll drink my teacup of remorse
tomorrow is another curious chance:
I pray for spiritual rebirth.
What mighty man shall this cup serve,
Whose power rests on fealty’s nerve,
With certain lust it shames to know,
How upon its charms did grow.
A thousand years did wax and wane,
Until a Dane did ascertain,
That time was ripe for certain news,
A book he wrote with crooked clues.
A goodnight read did he convey,
Thoughts that caused some disarray,
With simple verse did he unveil,
A magic code that was the real.
Foul, foul to be so naughty!
Those dirty men at a party,
So many others not invited,
Rage and anger now ignited.
His story told a subtle tale,
Of one who was a ripe female,
Into the night she had fled with seed,
Carrying the babe of man’s misdeed.
The churchmen did not like this thought,
Preferring the plan they had bought,
That damsels ought to stay like that,
So a chosen few could pass the hat.
Whence upon the story broke,
The pope his army did invoke,
To arrest the man’s little scheme,
For thinking of this seamy dream.
Another bloke whose name was Leigh,
Who suffered from some jealousy,
Cried and yelled with all his might,
To no avail was the fight.
With all the Brownian motion,
There was a bit of commotion,
A genre hereby was created,
By an idea that many hated.
So what was really this all about,
That threatened those who were devout,
Could it simply have been so scary,
That the Man was sometimes Mary?
That they forgot a contraceptive,
Should not make us less receptive,
To one degree or another,
We all come from the same big mother.
So let us stop this boring blight,
Embrace instead the fun of night,
Dan the man stole an idea,
Oh mama mia, mama mia!
I couldn't stop thinking about the June
It's the month so shy and dreamy
But she could never forget soon.
That morning, June was shocked by the moon.
She found herself feeling rather beamy.
April couldn't stop thinking about June.
Later, May was spooked by the moon
She thought the situation had become rather gleamy
But I could never forget her June.
May tried to distract her with a goon.
Said it was time to start thinking about a Niemi
I couldn't stop thinking about June.
June took action like a loon
As April was becoming too creamy
May could never forget that soon.
June nosedived like a warm buffoon
April minds became dangerously seamy
I couldn't stop thinking about my month of June
But she could never forget me soon
6/22/20
Month of The Year I Like Most Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mohan Chutani
Villanelle poetry form only.
to the Peach cobbler My Desert Favorite- -
YUm!!! peach cobbler, you inspire me to eat.
How I love the way you’re juicy and sweet,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Dreaming about the huge seed hard and tight.
Let me compare you to a dreamy prune?
You are more beamy, creamy and solid.
Deep sun heats the gleamy peaches of June,
And summertime has the seamy pholad.
How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love your bright fuzzy peel, stems and eye.
Thinking of your steamy stems fills my days.
My love for you is the horrible high.
Now I must away with a pholad heart,
Remember I sweet parts words whilst we're apart YUm sweet tart.
12/27/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
(okay, yukon axe me whatsapp pinning,
though beep pre spired, cuz mess sigh key
threads experience didst rub burr raw
as if spun as a micro spindle.)
Woolworth (Penneys on
the Dollar Store) Sears electronic,
dynamic and atomic weight
cumulative decades of suppressed
crackle, snap,
and pop, triggering
psychotic sans tete a tete
legal tender visa vis
bit coin block
chain payback daily
quotidian fits and starts
trigger torrential spate
impinging ability to relish potential
existential joie de vivre
finding me (I rate)
analogous to suffocating
unbearable pressure, yours truly
doth eek quate
to Metallica Mega-death
accessing, hammering, and pinpointing
(excel lent lee powerfully)
every square inch
of mine pate
strewing, sparking fiery
fingerhut sized explosions,
and slamming incessant
psychological torture akin to
a pernicious hidebound mate
and as of this date
November 20th two thousand eight
scored entrenched occupation
of my fifty plus
shades of gray matter
becoming more agonizing of late,
where suicidal ideation,
where repressed self hate
sprung from cumulative
(albeit cloudy with
a chance of at least one
meatball i.e. me) psyche subject
to verbal whipping (yours truly),
the gloating mean
bullies didst denigrate,
without doubt half life of
Matthew Scott Harris
aint at all great,
yet to some degree, this saturated
scorpion poisoned, mauled
and jackknifed fate
in some measure
duet hoo war ton internalized
emotions griffins
hound, feast, and delight
(more so ravenously
throve) on Hawaii,
and seamy to Maui
didst successfully, (particularly
throughout earlier decades)
emasculate, under estimate,
now (in retrospect) execrate
at invisible monster
on par with beastie boy
Doctor Frankenstein didst create
only upon death doom
he part wretchedness
will hoop fully abate.
Romantic overtures
like gaudy butterflies
kissing all blooms
that come their way,
teasing me, haunting me,
flirting with me
and playing havoc
with my feelings
Are you really harmless?
Is it fatal poison I drink?
I ask for hero worship
I get senseless fiddle-fuddle.
I ask for endearing emotions,
I get teasing quips
and seamy punch lines
that make me feel worthless,
shabby and trivial.
I yearn for meaning
I get trivia, empty promises,
like husks of unfertilized corn,
like a rundown house
abandoned even by ghastly ghosts,
or like a hot futile desert
filled only with smouldering sand,
empty even of a hopeful mirage.
Should I be thankful
that you bestow your love on none,
that you just love to trifle
with every man's heart?
Alas, I love you too much.
Socialization
When does socialization become sexualization?
When does socialization become sabotaging?
Socialization isn't sexualization
Socialization isn't sabotaging
Saboteur isn't a socialist
Socialization isn't sacrilege
A socialist isn't a sacrosanct
Socialism isn't sadism
A sadist isn't a socialist
Salacious isn't socialization
Socialization isn't admitting safe sex
A satanic isn't a socialist
A socialist isn't a scandal monger
Screwy isn't socialization
A socialist will not be scruffy
Socialization isn't scurrilous
Seamy isn't socialization
Seduction isn't socialization
A socialist isn't seductress
Sociality is morality..
©® 27/12/17... Junaid Abdul Wakeel. #YoungWriter
All I see
is washed away
into the sea, the Sea of Humanity.
Swarming seamy sea surging sorrows of self pity
whisking waking hours of human emotion
draining liquid fluids of human life
into a sub calming vortex of logic
for accomplishment and conquest.
Deeply drowning the happiness of self worth
with it's lapping wet tongue of bathing insults
it's submerging swell of hate and neglect
it's selfish flood of bristle equality.
A boisterous cry of self indulgence
It's confirming body of acceptance
Deluging the thinker is wet rot
leaving him to suffocate in his own
wallow of tears on the edge of a banishing shore.
To be original is to be cast adrift
alone on the raft of life
dying of thirst salty water cannot quench
defeated by sweat and heat
souls evaporate into the boiling mist
of delusion for defiance against the will
of the Sea of Humanity.
Engulfed by the weight of the mighty oceans surge
I withdraw back into myself
Escaping within my mind of dreams desires devotions
Inner truths of compassion and forgiveness
But I am awaken by the splashing spray
Of the seas lusting shower
And taste the bitterness of my salty fears.
Discovering myself bloated and numb
open glazed eyes that stare blankly inward
toward the oceans depth
ears that hear the singing sirens of the oceans mouth
luring me closer to the shipwreck damnation conformity
a constant unison murmur bewitching tranquil acceptance.
I envelope myself into its lusty whipped foam
devoured by its rhythmic lapping
soothing fingers that wave calm my troubled spirit
like the sands that wash away from the shore
I am consumed into the void grey sea of faceless millions
streaming my soul into it's swell
washing away my existence into its bosom
drowning my dreams desires and devotions into its murky waters
I conform to belong as one
I am weaved into the wave of masses
Laughing into the sound of madness
of the Sea of Humanity
I succumbed to be submerged in its submission.
Socialization
When does socialization become sexualization?
When does socialization become sabotaging?
Socialization isn't sexualization
Socialization isn't sabotaging
Saboteur isn't a socialist
Socialization isn't sacrilege
A socialist isn't a sacrosanct
Socialism isn't sadism
A sadist isn't a socialist
Salacious isn't socialization
Socialization isn't admitting safe sex
A satanic isn't a socialist
A socialist isn't a scandal monger
Screwy isn't socialization
A socialist will not be scruffy
Socialization isn't scurrilous
Seamy isn't socialization
Seduction isn't socialization
A socialist isn't seductress
Sociality is morality..
©® 27/12/17... Junaid Abdul Wakeel. #YoungWriter