Long Twaddle Poems
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The empty hand
Life is a black hole and I am forever falling deeper.
Down I go into a light-less hole, no sign of my keeper.
I would say it is nice to see you, but all is mist inside the deep.
When there is no vision to guide my hands, for you I cannot reach.
I reach out into the nothingness and I return not a man.
I cannot give thanx for this cryptic master plan.
I become part of the space between reality and this place.
Forever sucked into the next realm where time has been misplaced.
If I ever return, I will only be love’s skeleton;
No nourishment can sustain my soul when I exist inside oblivion.
As the memories of me fade, in this wide open space;
I cannot recall what a smile is when I see it appear on your face.
It has been so long since I last saw a miracle,
That I do not recall how to make my smile actual.
I must have imagined it when I was a kid;
A head of fantasy creations, like happiness and bliss.
Sure you people talk of love and it sure does sounds nice,
But I can only speak of the love that doesn’t exist in my life
And good things don’t happen in front of my eyes.
I never got to feel what marriage was meant to really be,
Because I am surrounded by my apathy in this reality.
There are dreams, of course, like that dream where I was loved,
But dreams are not real; people are not enough.
They are separate entities; none will ever join me hand in hand.
I will never be standing matrimonally;
Love does not have me in its plans.
I make up words that do not exist,
Like truth and trust, this twaddle is twixt.
The meaning is lost on the journey between foolishness and death.
All this nonsense is irrelevant to a dreamer head.
This bed has no place for another to fit,
For I have never ever been seen to be fit;
So all I do is sleep in it.
Boy am I tired of living this life.
Can I not just grow up and become someone who shines?
It’s been so cold without a woman in my heart.
I have kept her spot warm; waiting in the dark.
I am a single particle in the great mass of the universe.
What chance do I have of meeting my equal; my poetic verse?
What chance do I have of communicating with her,
On a chemical level,
On an intellectual level,
Or any level at all?
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I’ve seen the minds of my generation bested by their handheld mobile devices,
texting for a dopamine rush, tuning out the reality around them.
I’ve watched them, withdrawn from present company, looking for bars of microwave coverage, friending strangers, downloading angry birds,
internet junkies, living in the ether, looking for that server connection to fame gauged by the number of hits they receive,
who sit in restaurants with downturned faces aglow, oblivious to their dinner companions, to check who has Twittered® them in the last few minutes,
who drive distractedly, causing fatalities in order to update their Twaddle® followers with TMI about their state of mind on the road,
who walk into traffic, updating their relationship status or performing Binglehoo® searches for celebrity gossip or obituaries,
who envision themselves as divas, broadcasting narcissistic images of every party or event they’ve attended in the camera phone eye, imagining others care,
who live without discretion in the digital age, unknowingly or uncaringly giving up control over their destinies to follow the latest manufactured meme,
who look with disdain on anyone behind the curve of the latest cell phone product designed to track them through time, space and potentially subversive ideas,
who are GPSed at all times allowing local merchants to alert them to sales or law enforcement to track their movements,
who are trained to demand ever higher speed connection because they’re afraid to be, “so seven seconds ago,”
who fire up the Wiki at both ends eliminating the need for scholarly research or retention of thought,
who self-publish their diaries and essays as open blogs pretending that makes them journalistic writers,
who trust all their personal information to cloud networks they don’t begin to understand,
a big fat twaddle twist twisting
To catch a cow in a silky net is said to be one of the most marvellous experience for magnificent magnifications of moo are often found in a lake filled with rust. But travelling over the ground carrying a rake isn't that wise really for snow could fall, as could rain, thus meaning that the trees could wave around and hamper the speed in which the flow of flight travels. So its one two three then.....counting is a pleasurable pastime for the ten little imps sat gathering fodder in preparation for the coming winter. Taking no tickets and trapping no trade. But before hearths immersing in dew is quite often deemed to be a very philosophical mission base. Particularly forntonpaintnan who is quite adept at stringing a house together in origami format. Peanut hats are not to be placed lengthways around a table. For it is far better to have width than heights sometimes for plaster sine wave is a wave of weave and weaving is best achieved ambidextrously in a thirty mile per second whirlwind. So now who wants to play with wands at dusk? Pick up swords with ears? Throw sticks around? Not I said the sad little potato sat in the office. Miles making multitudes. And the dish of blackcurrant singing a soft lullaby on the radio. Radius of spawn then. Whip. Grab no garter heel you shrimp for the table is now ready for the ten glow worms, eighteen geese, twenty nine seconds of a string vest, an arrow, and a wool hat. The jelly fish are arriving so please be prompt. Thank you. Hahaha have you eaten the beans today? Hahaha are you dressed appropriately? Hahaha spin spun. Xxxxx agronomist z that was the p y Q. Reporting live from the makers of the article on 89.0 xxxx rhombus
Form:
After all the love
the fear and hate
the final condemnation
religious exhortation
separation, division
inspiration and defamation
the truth the lies
and conspiratorial denials
the didn’t know but should know
the informational overload
a terror strike
who was right
false flag war in another nation
Recipes for disaster
and human annihilation
the falling price
the rising cost
stories of the children in hopeless lost
burning questions of who’s at fault
scientific twaddle
and revelation
the stars, the moon
raising populous of depopulation
agenda and mind bender
cognitive dissonance
dissonant response
begging responsibility
The billion faces
of you and me
in political chaos
and social agony
flying communications of anarchy
upon despot papers in printed secret societies
viral themes
shocking schemes
of never really happenings
buried expose of more important things
scratching the itch of human
desperation
the echo of ages
filed upon the grail of deception
awaits
The poor, the rich
the space between
the dark age of the human soul
and its ending
so far into the madness
we’re all participating
and behind it all this everlasting scream
clings with talons of steal
wrapped around the idiocy of money
And then
sudden
suddenly
the pages stopped
comment
like
love, laugh, angry
all the controversy
profiles disappeared to digital ash
the wealth of humanity
signing off
and closed the account
And there alone in electronic ether
all the voices ricochet into it didn’t matter
the last person on face book
sent one final emoji smile
They fell in love and married when she was about the age of twenty.
He knew she liked to talk since she'd already bent his ears aplenty!
She could babble at twenty miles per hour with gusts up to forty!
His mother warned him, "Son, this woman will surely damage your corti!"
Even when in a romantic mood and with her he'd like to coddle,
She would rant and carry on with her incessant twaddle!
She'd prattle at forty miles per hour with cyclonic gusts of seventy-eight!
Only when she'd begin to snore would her unceasing blather abate!
They attended their college reunion and he was embarrassed to death!
She dominated each and every conversation and didn't take a breath!
She gabbled at thirty miles per hour with occasional gusts to fifty!
He hesitated to tell her so but as an auctioneer she'd be mighty nifty!
At her family reunions it sounded as if they were speaking in tongues,
Like the rabble at The Tower of Babel, bellowing at the top of their lungs!
Babbling on and on seemed to be an inherent family trait!
They'd chatter at fifty miles per hour with gusts exceeding ninety-eight!
When his spouse said the grace she'd chat with the Lord ad infinitum,
Asking Him to bless the food and all God's children beginning with Adam!
When she left for Beulah Land, on her stone he had this message etched:
"I could never get a word in any-wise and that ain't too farfetched!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
A little homework assignment - if you don't know what the word "corti' means,
look it up in your handy-dandy Funk 'n Wagnalls!
The Quota of Ten
Oh, God! Help me to write something
touching and reflective today.
To be concerned with inner truth.
Not rushed, please help me ...to
overcome my poetic arrogance.
To not just post just anything to
meet the "Quota of Ten".
But to have a poem with real meaning,
A number fulfilled~ does not a great
poem or poet make.
It's rushed words on paper, that leaves
me forlorn, empty and and me....
Feeling like a poetic imposter.
I doubt any poet of note~sat down
and rushed off to "pen ten"!
This feels like a football game-))
Worse yet, each day of the year?
Imagine Shakespeare doing such twaddle.
It's a race to be popular here and what to call
that..I am at a loss.
A game of vanity~nothing more!
ee Cummings in a whole lifetime
wrote 700 poems of lasting veracity
and depth!
They last through the ages, he is one
of the poetry sages we never forget.
I wish there were no "Quota of Ten".
I am no doubt considered weird and
that's totally nothing new to me.
Ten short poems any one of us can cook
up! No biggie!
There are magnificent poets here who
understand that.
They don't participate in this game, I
so admire them~ so significant.
And their poetry stands like outstanding
mosaic works of word art, with a
heart.
Their poems so magnificent, they truly
move my heart.
A salute to them and their kindness to
responses to comments
God bless their compassionate and unselfish
souls.
To learn from you, is one of goals.
Panagiota Romios
4/28/2019
8:30 am PST
It seems there are self-appointed disciples who've nothing else to do,
Except propound their inane dogmas to assail folks like me and you!
This nation is being torn asunder by a few people acting on their own.
Why can't they find productive things to do and leave the rest of us alone!
I find it offensive that Christ and Christianity are held up to ridicule.
With absolutely no apologies to anyone, in my house He alone will rule!
Now if others should happen to have a different point of view,
That is fine with me, but leave me alone to worship in my pew!
There are those who want any reference to God to be ignored.
Remember, "Blessed is the nation Whose God is the Lord!"
Prayer is banned in the public realm and is prohibited in public school.
Separation of church and state is fine, but shouldn't common sense rule?
Our nation's flag, that shining beacon of hope for this troubled world,
By some of our own people is scorned and at it profanities are hurled.
Seems that some folks use The First Amendment as a fuzzy cloak,
To justify most everything with a screen of mirrors and smoke!
Some folks are easily upset if what you do or say ain't politically correct.
I hereby aver my Declaration of Independence and such twaddle I reject!
I'll say and do as I please and if it offends, sorry, I'll continue on my own!
"Progressives" may do as they please, fine, but leave us other folks alone!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Its creation’s simplicity still stands as a difficult puzzle
head is twisted backwards while in a forward motion
still looking behind at the chronicles of some centuries ago
long before the infiltration of Christian missionaries and Arab traders
is the exact factor making its existence seemingly complex.
Foreign politics and faiths both adopted,
have tied it with the ropes of inferiority
systematically indoctrinated to condemn
its history, personality and civilization,
while grabbing other languages and cultures so dearly
to the point of blindly pushed into Anarchy.
The modern world is on a high speed,
excuses of the west’s exploitations to build their civilizations
are noisy complaints and already cliched.
Small islands with no natural resources as Singapore;
the awe of the miracle of the Han River portrayed by south Korea
and the magical performance of India in information technology
are evidences of old colonies
beating their colonizers in some phases of development.
From Abuja to Addis Ababa, Khartounm to Kigali,
no Caucasian is seen, staying in charge of its state houses
but to give reasons to its mediocrity and indifference,
conspiracy theories and neo-imperialism twaddle are coined.
All these, just complications of a chronic low self esteem
but unfortunately manifesting at a time it should be confident
in the chaotic universe
of western imperialism, Christian materialism and Arab expansionism.
so this “western civilization”
taps on your window in the
morning & wants you to jump
to attention, salute big brother &
speed through your routine
so that you can be a good hamster &
jump right on that treadmill,
if you ever get off it in the first place.
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
run
&
what has it gotten you?
is it an issue that has gotten beaten to a
dead horse? go on, pick up your smartphone &
pick up your laptop & check to see if anybody
has done anything new on your face****---go
on, tweet **** twaddle yourself to death, live
your life in just over 100 characters a second,
go on & enjoy your cubicle, go on & march
to the beat of somebody else’s drum in your
suit & tie, go on & march to the beat of your
own drum (marching because you have to in
order to stay ahead of the game, in order to stay
ahead of the rest of all those marching to stay
ahead of you, because if you aren’t ahead, then
you’re behind & if you’re behind then you
are irrelevant in the rat race) so you can get to
the tip top of the pyramid & then…
what has it gotten you?
as long as you are working for the day you
can rest you are dying quicker than you would
be if you took the time to do it
NOW.
may your body command
what your mind
refuses,
before they agree upon your
end,
together.
Oft I flew as an artigiano over turbid and stern feelings,
Blowing hard into alpenhorn to shake the mountains built to protect,
Pale-hued gems, aneurysms of loving, resisted the temptation,
They malignantly affected me, as my twaddle does when it dazzles in twilight.
Fustian echoes from the distance cascade down the hill of sadness,
I feel the bubble surrounding me in a sphere like trap,
And more, much more, I feel haughty darkness, a painful agony
Of life suffused across every epoch, swinging and punching,
With fathering force, so damaging, and yet so becharming, that
It’s hard to resist not to prolong the agony or living.
Bound to cross the final line,
Bound to gaze what is beyond,
Bound to share the girth of young and old,
Bound to drown in the eternal pond.
Oft I killed my raylet of hope, wondrous flukes and bluffs,
Submerging myself into the vortex beneath,
Deep, deep abyss of unknown, dark and cold,
Devious depths where loneliness carves out its signature,
And, where orphaned grief strikes swiftly, as a bolt.
It’s spiralling me down into the gut of drama and intrigue,
The divine emptiness of Dionysus’ ecstasy and revelry of doom,
I await the hovering hammer, from the above, wanting
To exit this realm of stasis, as I feel being toyed,
Bring it on! For the victory, or let me be destroyed.