I don't spar with your half-truths any longer.
I don't wade into those spicy justifications for marginal behavior.
I've accepted it as the fabric of you.
I need to flee this chamber of carnage.
Some fancy to call it your heart.
I
corked
the last
lightning bug
in this Coke bottle,
too precious for any matchbox,
distinguishing it from slugs, snips, spineless annelids;
for no other reason than juvenile sensibilities, vainglorious captures,
nothing for practical science, all to preserve a boyish reputation that made me aleatory, dire, perilous, savage, bland
but pride, quaintly, comes as I bear its marginal light, dwindling the dutiful darkness of evening, like faint choking hymns of elder choristers; hence I pray it shall be till morning, since fireflies have no engagements with the sun
They line the streets
In a shanty confined
The cemented floor
A cold refuge
Embracing disgusted busts of energy
Lost in the wilds
A strange world
The Privileged ones…
What can they do
To assuage this continuing distress
About 1.7 billion
Held hostage in
This grueling tunnel
Manifest in varied dimensions
They lack voice
Human dignity violated
Insecure exclusion of individuals
Habituated in marginal environments
Astronomical cost of living
Must be apprehended
Cities and states must be
Built on God’s foundation
Harbingers to this state are:
Scarce basic needs
Unwilling governments
No economic freedom
Weak rule of law
Bureaucratic burdens
Lack of industralisation
Ailing financial services
Contaminated tendencies
WATAMALA
Blind obedience till death,
a transitory illusion at best.
Following others a crossed path,
a maze of continuing half truths.
These centrifugal forces finding foe,
a marginal mayhem to behold.
Don’t step up and follow along,
it may feel safe but alas not strong.
Reach within and grasp your soul,
traveling this road you will not be alone.
Do dare this path of trusted insight,
a power to witness blessing intuitive light.
And now, finally, the curtain is falling on Palestine and
there will be no Palestinians left to set free, erased from history.
March of history at its cruelest, a grand tragedy foretold,
by the misprints of victims on history's canvas, painting white on grey,
to the point of oblivion.
If history was pregnant with an alternative, we may never know, only the end of line on this bus of history, with crystal clarity.
History is a bastard tree drenched in blood, always groomed by the victors, with only marginal notes by the vanquished, like so many weed to root out with sharp blades, beheading the hope of a nation.
Peace is nowhere to be found, gone for good, like an alienated neighbor travelling to distant territories, for self-preservation.
Rising from the ashes
The lightning crashes
Pain is inevitable
Suffering is optional
Using everything in our arsenal
It’ll all become marginal
It’s said that time heals all wounds
What isn’t said that it doesn’t come soon
The memories may become faded
But we are still jaded
Although we take it in stride
Our feelings are justified
compliance to naughtness is an escape from everything
ritual--contrivances wreak patterned ignorances garnering
shaudy spiritual saviors signifying pseudo sentient savory
santifications. plain braindance passengers personify
jolting journeys to gypsy moon starred skies, praying
to proximated planet walled wailings with mystical
marginal, manufactured, terminal terrosin tired tears,
Blaming blank blindness blind bailing wire wisdoms.
Find your fate, it lovingly lurks in one's continuous
challenge of choice change.
It's out there somewhere,
that marginal place where the elastic nature
of truth, reality,
the measure and fit of coffins,
baby cribs,
the doable dimensions of a a plasma screen
according to its scope, sufficiency, and relationship
to a plausible accommodation of any available space.
It’s the weight of a cut glass bowl of wine
on a rolling rowboat; anything that exceeds
an imprecise self-limiting amplitude
yet also be full or nearly so
to a hard to determine fill-line
of an existential brim or limit.
it is that overly deceptive inch, tittle, or quota,
a displacement that's great enough
to create its own capacity of
less or more.
We will know it
when the shrimp cocktail spills over
onto our dress shirt,
or when the cat starts to turn over the non-clumping clay
and silicone particles of its particular litter box
looking for where the bottom
is deep enough to cover the top.
The squirrels are dashing here and there.
desperately filling winter larders.
They are still crazy for nuts, after all these years.
Autumn spurs the living and is a rest-home for the dying
it brings in new snow from the high hills
and turns flakes into cold raindrops.
The wind whinnies like a small wild pony.
Marginal changes happen
within a fluid hinterland.
Eyes get wider, feet heavier.
Kids get louder, expecting
God knows what.
Honey and tea for allergies
and sniffles.
The elderly
just sweep stiff crackling leaves
off their heads and shoulders
while asking the stars
for one last dance.
*Image of The 27 Club by Wiki.
Enclosed Rhyme Sonnet: The 27 Club
A painted desert from a simple stone,
Act sans, singer storms, own closeted world,
Head o'er heels life strung noose tied to be whirled,
A dispersal sorts of the world well known.
Up versus downscale, winner takes it all,
a marginal few knew, a world of shock,
cycle bludgeoned to a paradox,
'tis headlines for papers always printed small.
Number two is "new," seven "beginnings."
struggles one's outreach midst angels that call,
sorry wrong number as one lost cause fall,
home runs to strikeouts, no extra innings,
Twenty-seven club, dying to get in,
If membership's denied, just keep smilin'.
2022 August 27
*3rd Place*
the 27 club
~~Anthony Biaanco: Judged 2022 September 27
The Parliament of Freud
In youth the infernal triad posture and prance
Like the kindergarten of the lower house;
Bit players on the eternal stage of life,
Pawns in the cosmic joust of evolution
Development and decay.
ID pork-barrels the marginal seats, whilst
Ego duns the sleeping ears with rhetoric,
And Super-Ego wrings its hands in despair.
The chattering classes look up with indifference
Before continuing on their way, playing out
Their own little drama on a parochial stage.
Yet at some point in life, wisdom prevails
And the tussle of ID with Super-Ego abates, as
One tempers its selfish demands and the
Other decides she’ll be right, so that
Ego finally gets a grip on reality.
ATMOSPHERES
ambient
installation
in
communal cipherss
transitioned
then
transcended
appropriated
with symbolic
affectation
of
attitudes
characterised
by
circles
simple
&positive
yet
marginal
merging
with
modernity
when
flourishing&
profound
&all around
is
decline
of the
premodern
replacing
the
rational with
harmonious
hubris
of
circular time
in
mystical
views
so intertwined
with
the
contemporary
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Glazed and beautiful
the perfection
were human creativity
and skill meet.
perfection
beautiful
perfection
strange and right
the wrinkles look real
the crevises rstore
your thoughts
and compliments the
artistic selection
a perfection of
beauty and
something real and right!
DIMENSIONS
spectacular
experiments
into
a magical
world
of dream-like
expression
a union with
the
invisible
absorbed by
the avant-garde
impossible
to engage
the marginal
moment
with
eccentricities
of an
imaginary world
with
a profound
demeanour
to incite
on going
inspiration
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
When you try to control
You're mind becomes a stall
Waiting for people
You look towards betrayel
When your eyes are marginal
You want them to listen
Listen to accept only you
Need them to do whatever you
Need to do
For your own sake
Throw control in the lake
You do not know the taste
When people realise
Dirty tricks won't work
Your mind can't think
You will only blink
And see what's left
Control is a theft
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