Long Unfounded Poems
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She twirled in like falling autumn leaves of gold.
The ultimate heroine of fabricated stories of men of old.
Her castanets clicked in a gleeful, happy friendly way.
Tambourine Woman had entered the fall fest fray.
She brought in dragonflies, they flew at her command.
She is here! Someone said. They organized an impromptu band.
Tambourine Woman was no legend or myth.
Her sapphire eyes danced as she lived her pure bliss.
We were perplexed, bewitched, enamored and astounded.
Corn moon gave her attention that was mostly unfounded.
Butterflies surrounded her, and flitted their truth and love.
Her glorious dancing must have been given by those from above.
Murmurs went through the family on that October night.
She is real! She exists! We saw her, in all of her bright!
To others we could never spread this truth or express our zeal.
Because they were not ready to admit this myth was actually real.
Poets were given nine lives a year ago
During the pandemic. Didn’t you know?
I used my first life in January, when I fell in the snow.
Lost until my soul had left. Oh, what woe!
Luckily, life number two took me through Valentine’s Day.
I had Zoom meetings to attend, and Google Meets along the way.
I got zapped by electricity, for my machines were ungrounded.
Life number two was gone; your disbeliefs unfounded.
Life Number three was happy and excited, cheerful and gray.
She kept me safe and enthusiastic every day.
We were besties for a month, maybe two.
But then I was run over by an elephant name of Blue.
I was determined to be careful with life number four.
I drove rather carefully from my home to the store.
I did not take any risks, I wore a mask on my face.
The fact that a wolf got me was a huge disgrace.
Life Number Five was overbearing and crude.
She told me what to do, commanded, and she was rude.
I did not mind losing her, the day she went away.
I have to admit, I was not one second gray.
Life Number Six came along on Memorial Day.
She decorated graves with me, and we made them all gay.
We danced and strutted until I accidentally fell into an open grave.
Life Number Six is gone now, but often her I still crave.
Life Number Seven came with warnings of danger of red.
I nicknamed him Samuel, but he asked me to rename him Fred.
I was getting scared now, because I am losing lives fast.
He told me not to worry, to stop dwelling on all my lives past.
I am proud of myself for I only have two lives left.
If I lost number seven, I would feel depressed and bereft.
I am choking on this sandwich loaded with Iowa Ham.
Oh, no, here is Life number Eight. Damn! Damn! Damn!
I squandered my future,
my past present expended.
Unsteady steps protracted,
seconds and hours not tended.
My thoughts were not pondered,
delusional perspectives un-debated.
So many of my mistakes,
could have been anticipated.
Was it my unfounded fear,
that informed my preoccupations?
I could have chosen different,
my foundational miscalculations.
Polite and respectful,
an untrue participation.
The truth didn’t factor,
into my odd equation.
So I embraced my fear,
which fuelled my frustration.
Mistake on mistake,
led me to this destination.
One step forward,
two steps quickly back.
Do you see me sunshine?
My brain going clackity, clack.
I’m the one afraid of shadows,
don’t worry, I won’t attack.
Just a quiet back door seeker
searching for the strength that I lack.
Tell me please,
what can I do?
I want to be like me,
but just a bit more like you.
So I’m drowning my thoughts,
I guess that’s nothing new,
you keep bouncing in my head,
is what you’re offering true?
Now my many mad moments
are down to a few,
with the last sip of sorrow,
where am I headed too?
Maybe there I’ll find my answers,
will Jesus greet me anew?
Still my greatest final fear,
is he’ll just wait for you!
This piece is from the perspective of a person caught up in addiction.
I've come to say a few things about our political involvement,
Important is this because our future is on the edge of precipice,
And is dangerously tilting irreversibly towards enslavement,
If urgently not arrested we pay the unholy bitter Price.
How easily a people once astute and meticulous,
Got swerved towards the edge of political escarpment,
Punders sane mind, so absurd and so ridiculous,
Though it be inflicted by unnegotiated predicaments.
Then make I bold to interrogate and not to despair,
To investigate, scrutinize and not to speculate,
Prescribing solutions so simple and so straight,
Least I be misjudged and suspiciously at glared.
Despise not that which I say because of its simplicity,
For truths, real truths unadulterated are always simple,
And need not be subjected to unwarranted duplicity,
But be accepted by souls learned and simple.
Is this predicaments not caused by lack of participation?
Was it not caused by poor political permutations?
Are we not plagued by lack of proper political calculation?
When against action we choose unfounded speculations.
Have we not indulged so much in self aggrandizement?
Have we not taken the destructive path to political oblivion?
Have we not despised the Zikist ideology and movement,
When we choose "sit at home" in every election?
Refused we not to galvanize 20 million votes for our leaders?
Have we not disdainfully despised our leaders,
And make it practically impossible to organize us?
When we claimed that politics is not for us?
What else on the negotiation table do we bring,
Except the uncalculated threats of secession?
What if on the table 20 Million votes we bring?
That would grant all our interests protection.
Oh! What is he saying? Does it really matter?
All we want is our freedom from this contraption,
Their political system is bedeviled with corruption,
So we do not want to get involved in their matter.
In the final analysis it does not really matter,
What the political system is - whether it be perfect.
We do not need perfect political systems,
We need political participation that's perfect.
I say this one and I cease to say no more,
I Say not everything for want of time and space,
But that we participate even as we continue to ask for more,
As people of peace who for others set the pace.
Medical and/or scientific experts
doth now corroborate,
promulgate, validate...(wait
don't go there's much more)
linkedin with falsehood
that requires me to terminate,
an average dumb founded guy
(noir) tasked with rectifying
(with quiet riot) eek quate
absolute zero truthfulness humans
only use 10 percent
(or other small percentage)
brain power in (Jean) Nate,
or anybody else for that manner
("say hypothetically
gals named Kate)
which unfounded,
which urban cowboy legend
persisting in perpetuity, I hate
tubby the bearer
of unwelcome news
(doubling up and
down as a pernicious
cherished rumor squasher
boot nada one
reputable specialist studying
intellectual potential,
would unilaterally vouchsafe,
(and risk their judicious, marvelous,
and prestigious reputation,
which years to elevate),
yet such stubborn presumption
firmly maintained latched onto
(analogous to fish unknowingly
snagged with "FAKE" bait)
nonetheless specialists of the
(egg shaped) noggin
do attest in aggregate
that some n'er
do well (christened
Matthew Scott Harris)
did whimsically create
believable Trumpism,
which invalid conclusion
adopted to enervate
his own cognitive impairment,
thus motivating him
tubby poetically great,
and even though, he got told
afore stated said
baseless, groundless and/or
premise, aye intimate,
the sure fire way
to expunge (purge) nagging notion
(short of a karate
chop to his fountain
head of noodle,
which idea to in Tim mate,
would not rank as emphatic,
dramatic, and/or climatic,
as electric shock therapy
last ditch effort to operate.
Words are dying everyday
As short-lived as when imagined
A plead be a beseeching dismay
Yet as lived... where have I been?
Perhaps a little guidance for despair
A foothold for the disappearing grounds
To once more walk with a solemn flare
And nevermore with fear to turn simply around
Yet the more to will, I am not to see
Of words begging a difference for someone to be
A broken faith upon the unfounded me
Remains only a founded me to never be free
Where the world stands, I stand alone
Misguided, misjudged, misunderstood and misgiven
Where I stand, the world isn’t my home
And with solitude... I ask yet to be forgiven
Have I not have words if I may?
As short-lived as forgettably imagined
Where words are dying everyday
And as lived... I could only have been
There once was a thinker who mused
On how Reason’s often abused
Without God as The Grounded
Human logic is unfounded
And the meaning of thought is confused
There once were minds full of doubt
Who wondered what Reason’s about
But try as they might
Without faith there’s no sight
For The Source is what Reason can tout
There once was a thinker so wise
Who pondered the truth and the lies
He said, "Reason's foundation
Needs more than sensation
It starts in the Creator’s Mind.”
So to Mr. Solipsist
Just because you insist
Doesn’t mean you have won the case
“argumentum ad passiones” starts to erase
The founding of your gist
In this struggle there is no détente
It will always leave one in want
You might say I still reason
But you can’t give a reason
It is the Lord Who has laid down the bunt
The young generation, who believe in dissolution,
promulgating the manifesto
“tradition is the grave of the banality,
only solecism is the quickening of new life…”
yell upholding a flag similar to a bad check
which is unable to secure the needed guarantee for the debt.
They are sycophantic speculators hopping on the bandwagon
of the time, they are nothing but a product of a certain moment
of the swinging pendulum, their unfounded thought changes in consonance with the direction and the amplitude of the pendulum.
Although they think highly of themselves,
they assert themselves as the forerunner of the times,
actually, they are unbridled reckless colts jumping, hopping,
and running blindly in the wilderness.
They consider heteronomy as a shackle,
they, therefore, rush to a smithy and heat the shackles to cut it off,
they insist upon autonomy as the beat of the heart,
they, therefore, lay on the cold operating table to cut it open
to see the inside of the heart bearing an excruciating pain
but they found it full of red and blue blood
clotted in two atrium and two ventricles, the blood
contaminated with filthy and turbid human minds
which carried on from generations of generations
of past unchanged.
They try to ascend their thoughts, nonetheless,
above the traditional ones, it’s nothing more than
a word game, a disgusting prank.
Are they mad? Though they cannot even jump
nor have wings, they try to fly,
ah, poor generation, ill, crooked, lost,
who were not even touched by a drop of Medusa’s
poisonous blood, flap wings imitating Pegasus about to fly.
When an apex predator behaves unnaturally
The balance of power becomes upsetting
The scale is not just immeasurable
It's behaving dysfunctionally
Reason is cast aside
When sides are paramount
Differences mounting to the sky
Becoming mountainous, unassailable
Forgetting we rose from the ooze
We didn't choose what was discarded
But it was nature made that choice for us
And not something lightly regarded
The borders crossed were nature's own
And no one owned what was provided
No one claimed as theirs alone
What only nature has decided
What's unbecoming to presume
Has become our nature to resume
Some think that challenging is treason
And choosing sides is tantamount to reason
Ignoring what has led us here
In willful ignorance compounded
Compounding what leads only to fear
And thoughts of our ascent unfounded
They placed me in a wooden box
and then they put the lid on. They left
me to shiver the cold night through and
picked me up next day around eleven a.m.
I heard dogs bark and children play, I heard
sweet songs among the dirges; friends and relatives
said such lovely things about me that afore were quite
unheard of. Inevitably, old Uncle Jim came out with
the one about the actress and the archbishop,
and what the fallen woman said at confessional
to a rabbi who'd taken over from the priest
for the day in a spirit most ecumenical. Then
the pall-bearers at last bore the box to the
spot assigned for burial. "Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust," said the reverend with
solemn finality as they let down the
box with me inside into the yawning
cavity, and that, if you'll allow me
add, with something akin to
alacrity. Then just as he gave
the final sign
to set the spades
showering earth down,
I lifted the lid of the box where I lay,
I said to the assembled all gasping and white:
"Sorry to stop the proceedings so late in the day, but one assumption I
challenge as completely unfounded, though it's been all too readily
taken for granted:
Far be it from me to cause an upset, but I think you should know--
I'M NOT DEAD YET!"
Some of the assembled felt very let down
and made no bones about it.