Long Unimpressed Poems
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I stood tall in front of the head stone.
A bunch of cheap flowers in my hands
Were given to me by my uncle.
I felt all the discomfort of the world.
What was I doing there, staring at a tomb?
I was told my mother was buried there.
I had never seen my mother, I felt no bond.
Evil tongues said she died of an overdose.
Ashamed I never wanted to know of her ever.
Now on my eighteenth birthday
My uncle made me visit her tomb.
So I stood emotionless, just staring.
My uncle told me to mumble a prayer,
To whom? To this supposed mother of mine?
She had died ages ago. Eighteen years?
I did not know nor did I want to know.
She was dead. Let her rest in sacred peace.
After all I wished her no ill will nor anger.
I tossed the flowers on her grave and turned to go.
My uncle stopped me and silently handed me an envelop.
Written on the large missive were just a few words:
“From your mother.” Inside was a letter.
I turned on my uncle, but he was gone.
My first instinct was to throw the envelop away.
Who could say it was from this mother?
But curiosity got the better of me and read:
“Dear daughter, I saw you being born as tears fell
Without control, for I knew I will never
See you grow up and learn what life has in store.
Your father disappeared as soon as I got pregnant.
Giving you birth was painful but worth it.
For you had to live, and I hoped, live to the full.
For me life is now at an end, for my tumour
Will surely kill me, as all doctors said.
They gave me just one solution, that to abort you.
Then they would remove the tumour that will kill me.
But I refused. Why should I kill you?
What wrong had you done to deserve death?
So I preferred to die so you could live.
May God bless you and keep you whole.”
I read the letter twice, faintly unimpressed.
Then I saw there was a photo in the envelop.
A perfect picture of my mother, very much like me.
Then tears fell.
Then I knelt down and prayed.
29 March 2021
Mother - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Buying corporate profit tickets
to this June's PRIDE event
does not feel therapeutic,
where once lived public trauma.
Another annual rite
of well-bred socialization
political masturbation
with no flavor of resistance
to white-washed Capitalism's greed,
to straight Patriarchalism's need
to rapaciously breed
to gluttonously feed
on humble margins
of truly empowered
LeftBrain dominant humanity
not RightBrain depressed
demonically repressed
satanically oppressed
devilishly suppressed
Right supremely unimpressed
by deeply felt insanity
born a profanity
against Earth's Straight
White
MonoTheistic God
False idol
of patriotic
nationalistic pride
parades before
and lingers after
sins against EarthMother's uncapitalized
poor in spirited nature
Our planet's
traumatically wounded child,
x-rated
x-rayed
x-cised
by homophobic
feministphobic
Afrophobic toxins,
divinely inspired hate,
monotheistic vengeance-is-mine
militaristic fate.
This, and future, summers of inclusive love,
I would give away invitations to proud PASSION,
co-passion
compassion
compassionate integrity
passionate enquiry
of Left erect
correct cognition
greets Right flowing
enlightened growing
synergy glowing
sacred felt reconnecting
concelebrations
Of timeless
dipolar co-arising parades,
out-rageous raving displays
of globally spectral
spectacular
spiraling circular rainbows
of regenerating strings
and co-passionate things
Sacred hope promises
form ribboned resonant faith
for love
of EarthTribe's holy
co-emergent DNA diversity
deeply held
in silent summer whispers
Inviting year-round
and full
and sweaty wet PASSION plays
stories
narratives
epic songs,
starred night light
and lunar displays
Flowing Right
Left strength
universally full
uniting Color
Healthy polycultures
wealthy multicultures evoking
not revoking
compassionating
never mindlessly sedating
fully woke
out celebrating
Earth's PASSIONTribe.
Modern Consternations of Lament
Contradictions and formulations of thought that bridge the edges of time
Benedictions and combinations that evolve into the refined
Jurisdictions and innovations that are galvanised by crime
Crucifixions in the courtyards of those who draw the cursed lines
A damsel in distress crying for all the loss that cannot be expressed
A shadow of progress dying while the youth look unimpressed
A moment of redress that’s logic-defying as it leaves me thinking I’m depressed
An ancient cultural head dress with colours electrifying a people that cannot be suppressed
Curious children at the gates of a billionaire peering out among the harems door
Spurious wills then hate the artist lying dead upon the floor
Furious villains berate the terrifying dread then perpetuate the horrors but what for?
Injurious killers negate the life defying leads that impact as they infiltrate the peace of the broken and poor
Acrimonious alimony for the wife and children while the fathers left to bleed
Sanctimonious sermons in the alley and stadiums of evangelical greed
Ceremonious services in the galleys of a political theorist bought down to his academic knees
Non-harmonious melodies causing sonic felony’s as they try to control what you see
Commodification of the spiritual as they sell toxic positivity
Solidification of the chemical as they try to buy more than just market productivity
Transfiguration of the polemical as the mood broods for civility
Modification of the heretical as we kneel down before the Nativity
Fastidious retention of a fact to prove a point that needs verification
Insidious inventions that detract from the joint venture of innovation
Mysterious momentum of a contract the won’t endure the effusive commendation
Odysseus intentions redact as the mention of epics make me cry out in lamentation
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
Awoken by my internal clock,
the ground is cold and sticky.
Head is pounding,
body is dirty,
why did I sleep here?
Arch my back up slightly off the wooden floor,
shards of brown glass pop off my grey hoodie.
Better get a grip before this gets worse.
My eyes crack open.
It takes longer for the room to get into focus than usual.
For a solid five minutes the living room looked like its reflection in the Hudson River.
Is it dark?
No.
Do my guts hurt?
No.
Do I remember what happened last night?
Barely.
My first six drinks were Pabst Blue Ribbon
but I must have gotten myself into something else.
My nose hurts—
damn,
how much money do I have?
Less but not much less.
If I did cocaine I didn’t pay for it.
Check the clock,
8:35am
class is at 9:20am
better head to the bus.
I get up,
brush myself off,
toss one strap of my backpack over my shoulder
head out the blue door.
Leaving the house like this
leaves me insecure.
My body likely smells of yeasty mold,
my breath likely smells like the inside of an ancient treasure chest,
the general aura of smoke follows me as well.
Jessie stops me in the streets.
Catches me in the act of walking while recovering.
“your hair is messy,
your smell is musty,
your general aura is tired.”
Thanks
I thought to myself.
I tried to leave.
Jessie stops me.
“What do you want out of all this?”
“I want to live like this until something or someone stops me.”
“What about karma?
Don’t you think that if you keep behaving like this, it’ll hit you hard?”
“Karma is reality,
if it just proved it to me I’d be happy.”
She left with an unimpressed prolonged gaze.
but I got to class on time.
I woke up
warm
in my bed.
I like Jessie
I hope I see her today.
She’d make fun of me
and I’d laugh.
Form:
AS NATURE INTENDED
This is the tale of Edward Brown, a man respected in the town.
A model of sobriety, a pillar of society.
He lived alone and, in hot weather, he’d walk around in the altogether.
With neighbours few and far between, he wasn’t likely to be seen.
And, anyway, to make quite certain, each window had a nice net curtain.
Having had a shower one night, he decided that he wasn’t quite
Ready to get into bed, and so he went downstairs instead.
First he put the kettle on and then prepared a buttered scone.
He put some cocoa in his cup and stirred it as he filled it up.
Just then he heard the front door bell; the knocker loudly knocked as well.
It gave poor Edward quite a fright; who could it be this time of night?
Standing there, completely nude, which in an old man looks quite lewd,
He realised, with a worried frown, that between him and his dressing gown,
There was a well-lit hall to pass and the front door was entirely glass.
He used his two hands to conceal those bits a man should not reveal.
But, as his hands were rather small, they really didn’t hide much at all.
He took a deep breath, made a dash, but, sadly, also made a hash.
And, running through the flood-lit hall, he tripped and had a nasty fall.
Just then he glanced towards the door and was aghast at what he saw.
For, standing there, mouth open wide, a female constable was right outside.
Panicking, he turned and fled, revealing the rear view instead.
The PC (at the wrong address) was singularly unimpressed.
Her modesty was quite offended, so Mr Brown was apprehended.
My Lord, he intended no offence. And that’s the case for the defence.
10th October 2019
Nude - Descending a Staircase Contest
Sponsor - John Lawless
The tongue was locked in argument
With its master’s hands and feet.
Though none had his own armament,
They could accomplish any feat.
The hands had said they were the best,
For they accomplished feats of might,
While the eyes must always rest
When comes the inky black of night.
And the eyes, though they could see
And guide the master on his way,
It were the feet that set him free
And led him on the paths of day.
The ears chimed in, for they could hear
To warn of dangers all around;
They helped keep balance, helped to steer,
Though they could not sense every sound.
And so the master, guided by
His feet and eyes and ears, had gone
To visit then the King most high
Who sat upon a mighty throne.
The hands then placed a wager to
The eye, the tongue, the ear, the sole,
In order that each one could prove
That he alone was powerful.
The hands then punched through solid stone
To prove to them his steely brawn,
But unimpressed upon his throne,
The King gave them a tired yawn.
And so the ears then tried to test
How greatly powerful were they,
But better heard the dogs at rest,
And so they lost the bet that day.
The feet danced with impunity,
And even had they almost won,
But in their utter mutiny
Would bow before the fluid tongue.
The tongue had not the others’ might,
And so went at the very end.
And yet, she’d cast eternal night
On enemy as well as friend.
The tongue spoke just one word, and yet
With terrifying, awful dread,
The tongue then won the foolish bet;
The King cut off the master’s head.
The hands can lift up any stone,
The feet can climb up any hill,
And yet in power stand alone
Our tongues, for with one word they kill.
Flinging silence to the shore, the sea rises
Painting the sand with shells galore,
Faded on the skies above, the warmth of light
Softly calling, revealing the wonders of a night
When gentle breaths of hope conspired
To candy coat the surface of my heart’s smile
To wash away the purpose of my soul’s poetry
To collect the glorious dreams, the feelings and beliefs
Into a puddle of miracles, stirring the chaos
In my breast, the chaos that told me – even though I’ve been blessed
My heart, my soul, my darkest secrets are unimpressed
By the past which I protect, the memories who reflect
All the times I’ve failed to accept, all the days when I’ve felt such regret
All the promises that have been lost by neglect
All the stories that I haven’t carved out – all the reasons,
The Author of the stars invites me to forget the past, the chaos
That I could not control… chaos that silenced my hope
Chaos that felt like my war, the war between good and bad
Happy and sad, strong and weak, night and day
The war between my heart and my mind, love and hate,
shame and grace, the beginning and the end…
chaos and order, lost and found, faith and atheism
In the war defending this chaos of mine, comes a word
of stability, serenity, soothing me so that I can see…
in spite of the chaos, the upheaval, there is the assurance
of One who never leaves, One who comes with grace
One who lives to say – love is the answer to your mess
Love is the reason I came to pay – the debt of your sin,
Offering you a second chance to become
The person God meant for you to be, because of me,
The One God sent to set you free!
End the war with chaos and agree… He is the answer. Just believe.
ah me. today just a sad faced mutt.
The autumn sky above me is a deep gray.
Hanging like a wet rag, its watching me in every which way.
Wish i could reach beyond this expanse that encompasses me,
and wonder if whats there is even worth trying to see?
Damn this air is heavy. I just want to spread my wings and fly.
But i cant fly with two shoulders that are stressed,
from tugging at this weight i cant get off of my chest.
Am i lost for good because i tire easily now and yawn to show it?
Unimpressed with this charm of speech that has always made me a poet.
My lunatic eye inward has turned me into an outpatient,
but im still leaning closer in the mirror trying to find something sacred.
And though my stare is vacant, im still concentrating hard to see
past my crumbling teeth and rotting hair, hoping there is more to me.
If not i'll move forward in silence, soaking up all the love and pain,
trusting what my beating heart dictates 'til nothing of me but dust remains.
Having been born in my skull and caged there with remorse forever,
from the school yard to prison bars im killing my thoughts off altogether.
Any short cut i ever took cut me short and the final cost was twice as steep.
A fast buck leaves a slow burn, so with a sense of mature caution i proceed.
Precious days i wasted, chasing skirts in pursuit of newness and tighter thighs.
I lived with one foot out the door, but think i paid for all their crying eyes.
However, if i haven't yet settled my debts for all the pain i knowingly created.
I will accept my fate as a nowhere man here doomed to never make it,
and pray to god that he might forgive me, knowing i wasn't ever his favorite.
I'll wake up each morning,
A dull ache in my side.
I hear the room door open
And wait for you to come
Throw yourself on top of me,
A mumbled good morning or a groan
Before insisting we go
For those walks you subject me to.
We'll hear the tv playing - it's been on for a while,
We'll both get up, scurrying our way
To where we find mom sprawled on the couch,
Tucked beneath a blanket
With a gaze so thoroguhly unimpressed
(Yet smiling just the same)
Now that her quiet is invaded, disrupted like a pop.
We'll lounge around until it's time to get done,
I'll be shoved to my room, with a promise of a walk
I never wished to take part in.
Throughout the day I am subject to messages,
Calls and tags from the same people
Of which resides in this house.
I'll wake up each morning,
A piercing ache in my heart.
The room door opens,
But it's not you walking in.
It's wavery greetings, and nods of 'you're up'
That never feel quite the same.
The kettle doesn't boil like it did back home -
Nobody asks for coffee the moment they hear it.
The radio is playing, the tv soft and dull,
Nothing I care to listen to
Or scurry to join in on.
My phone stays quiet - there's no constant messages,
No calls and demands that I check it.
I stick to a room that is both mine and not,
Wondering when 'normal' will ever feel like it is.
My normal is now subject to missing you,
Wishing for a text - even wishing you were here
Just to be mad for things that were never my fault.
I miss you...
So please pick up the phone.
Please answer my calls,
And tell me when you're coming home.
Tell me when you're coming home;
We can go home together.
The ball goes in the shirt comes off
as all of England a bonkers plot
but men never mention her sports bra
the observation will surly cause a scar
It’s talking down of the woman’s game
objectifies apparently so they complain
of disrespect without the shame
the root of why men think the same
and that is what keeps women down
according to these sad women around
stating madness facts unfound
they call it male culture it surrounds
they claim it creates this disrespect
what they mean is men lack intellect
to independently form respect
as commonly found in the male mindset
unimpressed views female football gets
but that isn’t formed by a Linekar tweet
his observation was one upbeat
a witty comment to cause such heat
from ranting women stuck in defeat
a comment that no man should speak
when we say bra they hear weak
everyone in England watched on
singing that 3 Lions song
celebrating all night long
except for that one ranting cow
“Gary that’s wrong”
when really she was the odd one out
offended because what else is she about
he was supporting them not putting them down
isn’t that a show of respect,
did his humour upset the clown
let the woman be a victim
humourless unhappy stupidity
while we all celebrate the win
and England’s European victory
50 million English, everyone of us witnessed it
Men mention the bra women shouting you sexist pig!
I think some issues can make you thick,
oh offence, you ruin it!
If you are offended you seek support,
put your bra back on stop the wonky warp
and grow a pair or get some fake one’s bought
and remember men dominate the sport