Long Singularly Poems
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Once a nation
Supremely white as driven snow,
Singularly Christian, white and male,
Purely untarnished, and aglow,
Grandeur unparalleled in fairytale.
Hence a grievance
Punitively bold as bloody hellfire,
Potently prosecuted in seats of power,
Oppressively waged against objects of ire,
Prisms of nonwhites seeking justice in the hour.
Now a leader
Colossally void as sterilized weaponry,
Glibly sanctions white phobia and rage,
Lethally enflames this proto-fascist fancy,
As corporations provide aid to the rampage.
Thus a faction
Devoutly for leader, they stand down,
Steadfastly ready for the order to kill,
All woke-ish elitists, and enemies black and brown,
That white men reclaim their rightful place at the till.
Violence of mind
Shocks no one in America,
Where thugs are part of romantic lore.
With our ascendant authoritarian replica,
Are we ready for what washes ashore?
Published in Dissident Voice: 01/09/22
We poets have a coven where we write our sins. Bewitched by the entirety and stringing words in beautiful threads of our own possibilities and what-ifs of the future, we fret, singularly, on a piece of paper. We hide our words between another few words that make everything seem hollow when in reality we are mellow and broken by the ghosts of our past. And the blurry waves of hope pass by our shore so we hang a little tight, even when everything gets hazed. We slip through cracks of our own imagination when the 'light at the end of the tunnel' is only an idea for the fools, we know the truth. There was never a light we broke the walls ourselves.
We love a soul and trade ours for theirs. The pages of our deepest fears are stuck with the ink made from our blood and tears. As ghastly as it sounds, it becomes our reality. Whether on paper, on a Microsoft Word file, or in the secret of Notes app- a writer always bleeds. A poet with no one to pay heed, to their words. Only understood my the gravest hearts. A single piece of parchment hidden beneath the deepest corners, lurking in the shadows of our broken bones and hurt that burnt us whole. Breathing is a sin to a tainted soul. Will it ever be okay?.. How would we know? So we form a coven where we write our worsts- the transcripts and the manuscripts sealed shut, only to be opened by fools who know what's what.
The poet in me has run out of blood
My veins are dry and full of dust, from my ashes
The weight of this stone-hearted world crushes my soul
Like an inch to death, the flowers don't have a root
There isn't a home, for my words and my wars
I wait restlessly
For fate, to do its magic
In reality.
From bright sunshine to dark caves
From cozy cradle to forlorn graves
From autumn gloom to spring bloom
From vast deserts to dense forests
From hard rocks to vibrant valleys
From bursting clouds to parched fields
From utter silence to wild clamour
All is one
Cosmic consciousness breeds all
Essence crystallizes as manifestation
Inseparably bound by time and space
Confined in human perceptibilty
Inherently transient, dependent on a blink
The differentiation is an Illusion
Dwelling in superficial senses
Far from reality
You are not only one of them
You are that and that is you
The size, shape, form and place
Are fleeting and ephemeral
Intrinsicality does not differentiate
Transience manifests as variation
Nothing comes, nothing goes
All was there and all is here
Rooted in the truth
Universe is singularly unified
Heterogeneity is a perceptional veil
Covering the chaste expression
Of the absolute and the innate
You are a note in the eternal song
Of ocean’s tide and star’s twinkle
As part of nature’s symphony
I am the un-find-able ...the hidden now
But outside the wild winds still blow
I know lighter leaves in brighter hues still swirl
move and gyrate to the beat of music
arms and leaf tips in the air
hips and form flowing like the river around rocks
winding boldly over the slightest of hills and down again
They live in hope –with hope
that rises up and bursts forth in them ...fluttering of butterflies
they sweep out the preverbal door
How sweet it was!
the ecstasy of youth filled hope...each day a new shiny discovery!
Each night filled with starlight and street light and dazzle of white lights off wet pavement
potential brimming forth...the froth and foam of it!
washing them crystal clean...They await
self-discovery
and being
“discovered”
- to be made in a moment
–to be found more significant than the others
-to be a leaf......singularly found and lifted up among leaves
I taste it still in my dreams
you come to me as you did then...and we swing up fluid as a vine
and ride on mighty dark and wondrous steeds
we ride...into the thick of dark green mossed filled forests
ducking away with ease from the clawing limbs
that sought to dethrone us
Awake...I close my eyes
and rock
...whisper just audibly enough for me to hear
“Hi Ho Silver! and away!”
The Magical Epiphany of an Old Rusted Can
whilst out hiking one day in a countryside area
that was quite desolate and remote from any nearby
city, I discovered, amazingly, an Old Rusted Can
that was at least two-liter-sized and was partially-buried
in a long dried-out river bed in the middle of nowhere
this Old Rusted Can protruded out upright at about a
twenty-degree right-slant with some jagged-edges all
along its circular lip
its striking physical presence and the way in which it
was positioned, still partially-filled with dried river
sediment, for me, bespoke some sort of an old artifact
of sorts, yet it was the only object like it right in the
middle of this long dried-out river bed
its unique silhouette was, at once, quite discernable at
a distance on the horizon as it casted a very curious and
most soulful shadow under the limitless canopy of the
late-morning sunlight
although it was very rusted, this Old Can actually
reflected radiant light rays at various times when it
was touched by the rays of the bright sunlight as it
ascended to its customary cosmic dominance in the
late-morning sky
it also had five certain hole punctures located front
and back, in its upper-area, from whence the bright
sunlight reckoned a kaleidoscopic effect of sorts as
the sunlight touched and passed through each of these
unique apertures that were arrayed on this Old Rusted
Can
inelegant as this Old Rusted Can was—this unexpected
and most unusual light-show lasted for several minutes
until the darkened clouds overhead blocked out all of
the bright sunlight for the rest of the morning
yet, I just couldn’t help but feel the true divine presence
of Almighty God Himself—as I had fervently focused on
every aspect and precise detail of this radiant and very
unusual light-show which presented a magical sense and
aura of empyrean enchantment
and whilst I continued my deep gaze at this Old Rusted
Can, I was simultaneously and singularly transfixed by
the utter majesty and true joy of the holy epiphany it had
presented to me. I thought for a moment . . . God does
indeed, relate to us, at times, in very mysterious ways!
Amen! Amen!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 21, 2018 (Imagism)
speak softly soothe skeptical soldiers.
solicit sages solemn solace sombre soliloqy.
silence sinister speakers speaking
spiritless slogans spiting spightful signs
sift spontaneous sincerity signaling sooth
switch stuborn stupidities superflious supplications
supply superior supplications seeking Soverigns succor
search subtle subversion spreading such syphilis
silently subvert singularly subtle saboters
stimulate stern stewartship, stifle stinginess
spurn squawkers spurious spouting
stymie stylish subdivisions
sing songs signifying single sole solidarity
stupendously swing swift swords
stand strong stoic stern stealth
show splindors spiritual side
send special supremacys silver sight
such suitable sufficent spontanious souls
sow signals sought selflessly since salvation
savor Saviors salutory silence
seek sanctuary since sacrifice
so sacred so sadistic
saith saints suffering sagas
save sordid self searching sealed soul
sence sensation salvation shores
shun satans six six six
smell smoldering sinners smitten
solitify salvation seeing single source
My brother died so suddenly, unexpectedly
at sixty six, a young age in today’s standard.
He contracted the Corona virus that took his life.
Unable to breathe, he was taken to emergency
on Christmas Eve and was admitted to stay.
With all the available care administered,
he still struggled with his breathing and
was transferred to Intensive Care Unit,
intubated and was put on the ventilator.
With his weak body, he struggled more
and lost his dear life in mid-January.
Now, I knew and learned through his family,
how much stress he was dealing with,
how he painfully and continuously struggled
with all the family issues, concerns, hardships.
How he was singularly tackling all these
adversities, problems, difficulties, aside from
his health conditions of asthma, diabetes,
high blood pressure and so on and on.
The financial, mental, emotional tolls
and medical conditions he went through
affected him more physically, manifesting
in tremendous muscle aches and pains,
making him struggle more almost every day.
Just thinking even in near death
or up to the end of his life, he struggled.
Now, he rests in peace, no more life struggles.
His life struggles taken from him, for him to rest.
3/8/21 Life's Struggles Any Form - Updated Poetry
Constance La France
PS Grammar: Checked
The glamour of their squalor is found
in specular highlights of crisp brown eyes
peering through mud-matted hair, crying.
Weeks of eating an abundance of whatever,
which consisted of scarcely more than bugs
fished from non-potable cesspools.
A decade seems a long time, until singularly
it accounts for one’s whole life…and yet
we won’t home them, because they are a plague.
Self-righteousness cannot bear the reminder
that “refugees” might be people…children even;
running from nightmares that persist in daylight.
Ignorance is bliss, after all…
and who chooses to come down from a high?
We have full tables, full inns, and empty hearts.
Opportunistic politicians see a platform,
borne on the backs of the starving and desperate,
they manifest feigned outrage and farcical hand-wringing.
Droves follow droves out from the gloomy dread
greeted by cool apathy or worse; outright derision…
what more is to be expected of humanity?
The squalor of our glamour is found
in hopeless disconnection to what matters, or
to the reality that we could have been them.
11/18/15
Wobbly, these feet… sagging on miles
of dangled reeds: a hike takes me
to an attic of moonlight, bestowing bows
of serenity prayers for wayfarers
unyielding to a precise compass
of direction, reckless as it were,
losing the self to gypsy stones
and nomadic thistles bearing my trails...
for a moment, I release this soul buried
in the belly to a chorale of air's hymns
taking flight unto a trail of obedience
moved by pure lightness: no longer a weight
or content divided, but equaled by
forms of singularly whole reminisces...
)*
*.))
Poetry Unhinged for john lawless
8/29/2016
in the uncoloured tint of another everyday
amongst the spit polished waxed apples
tightly packed in burlap bags
they walked like minded
in their own burly wrap
oblivious to the irony
to their similarity
of the markets round red fruit
unaware of the tragedy
the horror of events yet to come
it will rain metal shrapnel
as human minds grasp
with the purpose of their existence
as in their ignorance
they understand their worth as human bombs
with a belief the heavens will open the gates
with a fanfare and a promised blessing
for their divine act of unquestioned belief
the clay shaped bricks
the black iron metal stairs
the drum sound of engines
then the lull
not after
but before
before
the pulse of the storm
the rain of death
yet this moment captured
this photograph
with man and child in hand
smells sweet
you wonder
bemused
why?
the world travels
aimlessly
singularly
no one
nothing in the universe
suggests
exposes
even a hint
even a glimpse
not a clue
that would lead
reveal
an answer.
life in its contradiction
like the proverbial apple
offers both
the miracle
the curse.
09/23/2014