Long Ugliness Poems
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Words appear on a page but I see them not
I am in a foul mood, and determined to keep it.
There is ugliness afoot, in my mind of minds.
Halfheartedly, I pick up my I-pad
Poised to play an hour of scrabble games
My avatar looks incredibly silly
She has purple and blue hair, and she has a kazoo.
She is wearing a number one on her chest.
I stare at her, she is as weird as I am.
She sticks out her tongue, which makes me mad.
I am the ruler of this at least.
Anyway, I think so.
I stare at my letters and rearrange them.
Prkgoda what the heck?
I am too irritated to come up with dog or park
Mad as hops I play a two letter word for five points. Pa.
Precious time on your hands
n' peace on your brow
Flower of a moment in the eternal hour
Peace be with me now
Not a wave breaks
my heart like the sea
Final silence after a storm that has died
still I cannot sleep
Now all the worlds falling leaves
n' the drifting winter snow
seems to have given me
with its quiet nothing more than sorrow
It's a beauty to feel
a notion to be
skin deep but ugliness goes right through to
the core of me
Where not a bird calls
a work of stilled life
What doesn't bend at some point must break
call it what you like
Now all of this evenings dew
n' for reasons only God knows
seems to have changed you
into nothing, nothing more than sorrow
Hey, let it be said
but it's so hard to confess
Hating rivals more than loving myself
well if that should be my best...
Then the garden is barren
It is fruitless n' bare
All my bloody pains were in vain love
one sorry state of affairs
Lady Luck should have a kinder face
and if she does why won't it show
both slighted n' no less appraised
for bluffing. Nothing more than sorrow
The sun is hot
My blood flows with the spirit within me
I sit, I look, I listen, I pray
Times these days are no longer our own
When you can wake up one morning and you no longer have a home --
When people are committing unspeakable crimes
Where it becomes - just one of those thangs --
When there is so much ugliness -- THE SUN IS HOT --
The people are procrastinating -- the councilmen are debating
There's a shortage of food
Crimes are escalating
No one talks anymore -- but they're willing to fight --
People are dying -- our babies are crying --
Hearts have been turned to stone --
Our young children feel all alone --
Family life is a disgrace -- everyone is spread all over the place --
What's yours is no longer mine --
What's mine is no longer yours --
What you have today - isn't guaranteed to be yours tomorrow --
So, if you have a voice -- use it --
Speaking of what it used to be like --
When we were a family -- When the family gathered around the picnic spot --
When life was everything that today's it's not --
When life was great -- When the sun was hot --
Sun Shines On The Righteous
93,000,000 miles from the earth, the sun heats our planet in varying degrees.
If the sun were not appropriately set in place by God, life could not exist, because we would certainly freeze.
Though it be true that the sun shines on the righteous;
it is equally true that the sun also shines on the unrighteous.
I cannot imagine a world of sunshine only upon the righteous,
because the righteous are comparatively so few.
Our prosperous planet would appear as one with beautiful and pleasant strips of light and comfort; but so much of the earth would be in a sad state of neglect and unused potential. There would be breathtaking views of high snow capped mountains and grassy valleys, sandwiched between blue skies, clear waters, and greenish landscapes.
Nevertheless, such beauty would, in turn, be painfully segmented by massive strips of the pure ugliness of cold, darkness, and death.
It is so incredibly descriptive of a benevolent and magnanimous creator, that he would design and engineer a “sun” which dares to
express, like him, a love so far reaching and unconditional.
04112016 PS Contest, Sun Shines On The Righteous, by
Seren Roberts
I never thought I'd turn into a flower,
supine, looking at the sky,
sometimes vibrant, but so fragile -
with an innocent vulnerable rainbow heart.
My eyes gaze at timeless horizons,
resembling fragrant pages of my poetry.
My verses are like a bouquet of emotions,
an abundance of fresh pastels,
which sometimes bleed dark and deep.
I'm well versed in the beauty and ugliness of silence.
Not all is hidden behind metaphors.
It's simple to gaze at stars for our musings.
Yet, in the glowing garden of the poetic gardener,
my bottle of tears cannot save my cursed orchids,
trying to blossom despite unrealistic hopes.
I search the sky for heaven
on days when the sun does not shine.
I wonder if the sombre rain has arrived
to wash away all my sorrows.
I'm afraid of the sky's shades, moods and tantrums.
The weather's black velvety emotions are a reminder,
how the season's of life can massacre my oasis.
What is my life,
but an anthology of dead poets,
empty promises and forgotten dreams,
like a plethora of pale petals.
Who will sit and listen, if I tell my story.
What will the clouds carry with them,
what whispers will the winds keep secret.
A blank page is my destiny with invisible ink -
after all, doesn't everything die?
Except eternal love.
But is it a blessing or a curse.
It's that time of the year again,
when roses wither for winter.
I'll never forget how well I suffered,
despite regretful nostalgic murmurs,
constantly echoing irreparable losses,
when paradise faded away from my grasp.
I'm tired from lying flat,
yearning for my posture to become upright.
As twilight brings darkness
and I can't see the moon,
an aromatherapy of vintage memories,
ignite into a hell of confusion,
especially the lyrics of that song,
where you think it's been written about you,
which is a timely reminder,
there are things in life I need to forget -
to let go and not to fade like a silent petal.
UGLINESS OF A SHRIVELED ROSE
To youth this dried up flower represents ugliness,
but that seasoned rose is a prime memory.
It had its regality of soft petals,
his pure sensual pleasure - whole face breathed the bouquet -
the amorous scent, felt the allure, the softness of breast and cheek.
This dried up flower looks fragile
but it has withstood the test of time.
Each pucker and wrinkle is a memorial,
a story that would pluck you bald.
To the lover, this old wild rose, so wise,
can still make you smile and weep,
make you laugh in your sleep,
stroke your back in comfort
and in sexual retreat.
The ugliness unfolds the unforgettable prose.
Youth is but a toe in the oceanic shore.
But young tart, I have dived in full throttle,
felt the languid waters envelope me.
Life lived to the fullest is beauty!
Kim Rodrigues (c) 2017
I should be mad at you
I should be upset
I should just walk away
And say, “To hell with it!”
I should lock that door
I should throw away the key
I should be contemptuous
Oh, but that isn't me
Instead I make excuses
For what you do and say
I try to see the good in you
And love you through the day
I forget past transgressions
I come back to your arms
I forget all the ugliness
And I revel in your charms
I should just walk away
I should make you learn
But oh, that just isn't me
Instead I burn and yearn
Well, try not to worry
When I’m all bruised and torn
I’ll only have myself to blame
For to you my love I've sworn.
I am full of self-loathing
For my blind eyes cannot see
Anything but your beauty
Oh…..despicable me!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I poison myself to endure the torments of my clairvoyant mind,
A journey littered with catastrophes and irreversible scars.
I chase nightmares I will find in hell,
My face drowned in the fleeting vanities humanity sanctifies.
I am in no rush to honor my appointment with the reaper,
Like a terminally ill patient who still dares to dream.
I am trapped in an asylum where appearances and masks
Are the mirrors of madness.
I burn my neurons with cannabis
To find beauty in the ugliness of my surroundings.
My indelible scars are searing reminders of my insignificance.
I have tamed the violence of silence
To anesthetize my demonic urges.
I trust not in human frailty,
Like a bipolar paranoiac.
The darkness of the furnaces of the bearer of light
Shines deep in my eyes.
I am a solitary soul, persecuted
By its demons and ghosts.
The melancholy of my heart has chained
My mind to the depths of bitterness.
My life on Earth has been infernal torture
Since the day I let out my first cry.
I am compelled to sow the seeds of chaos
In this dimension, to unlock the gates of immortality.
A symphony of blasphemies, to discover every fragrance of freedom.
("Utopia and Terror Merit Badge", 2010, original oil)
To This Day
Even now over 175 years after Marx
Set a tide of revolution in motion
There are still ever expanding and encroaching
Tendrils and tentacles of his influence
In every aspect of our lives.
At the root of all this hope and change
Is the vision of an idealized society,
You could say a vision of heaven on earth
Which should make it clear
It’s more a dream here than literal vision.
At the heart of desire for change
Is discontent with what is.
Sometimes this makes sense
Like wanting to come in from the cold rain.
But sometimes it’s just a wish to deny reality.
It comes down to choosing our battles
Defining what we actually control
And thus the limits of our power.
As they - they being the generic voices of wisdom - say
You can’t change the world, only how you react to it.
Yet due to the myriad of modern achievements
We easily forget this timeless wisdom
We think we can change how others think and act
And can one day eliminate all suffering
All injustices and sin, and ugliness too…
But, you know, there’s a simple way to solve our problems
And that is to accept them for what they are.
Apparently it works for cows and dogs
But less so for humans
Especially the more idealistic and ambitious among us.
So there in a nutshell you have it,
We choose our problems
Because we don’t want to be cows or dogs
We want to be gods, masters of our destiny,
And so to this day continue to dream, in vain.
(8/28/24)
I twisted myself into a strange posture
-thinking it was comfortable-
and my heart struggled to reach past the pinch.
Gradually -like boiling frogs-
pressured increased
as the weight of foolish distraction
settled comfortably upon me.
But ugliness, like beauty,
though often hidden,
will always eventually burst forth from its soil.
What a vile, wicked bloom unfolds -
alerting us to the true state of affairs.
Then - like a prodigal fool
who's already done too much damage
I beg for your grace
Hoping -at least for a moment-
I can become something new
and never forget this ...
But I hesitate to promise.
I have failed such promises before.
And ... yet ... again ... you pluck the weight off of me,
gently unfold me from my twisted position,
and I feel a roaring surge in my arteries
as blood -and grace- return life to my body once again.
Please God ... Please!
Help me remember this time...
10 March 2025
written 6:03-6:14 PM
concept thought of after confession around noon