There are people dying
There are women crying
The men are lying
And ostracizing
The men are flying
And falsifying
Its horrifying
It's mortifying.
Words are seeds that grow and blossom,
Open doors,
Change the course,
The mouthpiece of the mind,
Intertwined with society,
Use case undefined,
Words depart as soon as they come,
Although,
Their meanings linger like a quiet echo,
A weight with every word,
People clueless to the true meaning,
A deeper meaning,
A meaning that can harm,
A pain that sorry can't mend,
A global obstacle,
A hole in our heart,
I didn't mean it,
Stop,
It's not like that,
Stop,
There's no reason for the commotion
Stop,
Thoughtless shouting,
Rambling words,
Wounds disguised as speech,
Mortifying speech,
Stop,
Hurting to feel better,
An endless cycle,
Normalized in our society,
Rooted in our veins,
But what if we paused?
What if we reconciled,
Took time to understand,
What if we planted better seeds,
Growing a garden of kindness?
A world where harm dissolves,
Where we choose light over dark.
It only takes a moment—
A single decision,
A second of thought.
Words can blossom beauty,
Or sow division.
Choose wisely.
I fought with Jack,
He hit me back,
We both went home crying,
Mom asked me why,
I did not lie,
Jack started denying;
He broke my toy,
Total destroy,
And my car went flying,
He was uncouth,
I punched his mouth,
It was satisfying;
Jack said my punch
Was why he lunged,
'twas so horrifying,
I cried some more,
Mom did ignore,
"Let's find out who's lying";
My sis she called,
Who saw it all,
(That was terrifying)
"Jim broke his car,
With Jack did spar,"
On us, she was spying!
There was no doubt,
I got time out,
It was mortifying,
Jack was let go,
Just so you know,
We're still friends undying;
Three sides, you see
To each story,
There's some falsifying,
Dig deep to find
The truth unfeigned,
It's called verifying.
Line of inquiry:
“betwixt the pulse of our heartbeat
simply present, head-heart linking
dwelling in time stretched blissful peace
awareness became unblinking
Animating Innate Vibrance
Open and shut, constant change
He’s on His throne, He’s off
My heartbeat says otherwise
My mortifying act of anamorphic shame
He says, “Sit still.”
He says, “Know that I Am…”
When I clear my head
not of everything
but when I sit in place
with only the inside and outside
universe; not without sound
I would be dead, without the sense
I’ve been given. I’m holding hands
with my own heart, quietly kissing
the peace, which I, all too often,
want to run from and to what…
How much time can I take
five or ten
minutes that I want to spend
elsewhere
but this is what I need. He
knows; the exploration time
spent in meditative prayer
pays higher dividends
Oh what I see
when I truly open my eyes
high beams highlighting,
sculpting, silhouette-sitting,
the unknown takes shape
The aha transforms. One
never forgets
when floored
with answers that transform
…Dunder Mifflin
actions not mortifying
suddenly
the voice of a sportscaster
erupts
with the time of day
giving
the time of day
quarterly
…Mash
not a lover’s quarrel
but
like Burns and Houlihan
together
to screw with “the cast”
…Priestly
but the devil
was tattooed on an arm
scaring
the hell out of us
causing
us to retreat
like boxers to our corners
…Hart
not sexual
but sleazy
an occasional liar
at
his desk, I
saw past his
Pinocchio nose
he’d
not get fired
but
our 9 to 5
was a little kinder
…Slater
but schemed
to make her own team
it
wasn’t Betty
that was ugly
…Me
for to be the boss
would mean
I’d have to drive
the machine
not
be sent off a cliff
…a novel opportunity
but
poetry
brief walk with new beau
for every step I take, "THPPTPHTPHPHHPH"
most mortifying
9/29/2023
I want so many things
I want to be kissed on the cheek
I want to be told
"Your hair looks so soft!
Can I feel it?"
I want to be hugged
As though I could slip away at any second
I want so many mundane things
But of course
I could never say any of that
To do so would be to break social standing
And status quo
So instead
I spout it off to the internet
Online
Or in a journal
Where faceless beings
Or future historians
Might read it and feel
The mortifying horror of asking
All of us agreeing
To pretend we don't want it too
My son collected baseball cards;
My brothers did, as well.
My Beatles card collection
Was the female parallel.
But there’s an opportunity
For everyone to buy –
Although it’s hard to understand
A decent reason why –
Some trading cards that feature Trump
In poses quite bizarre –
An astronaut, a cowboy
And the weirdest one so far –
A superhero with a body
So unlike Trump’s own,
It would be quite ridiculous,
But somehow it is known
That people buy them!
Shelling out, for every NFT,
Enough to question what’s become
Of each one’s sanity.
How low can one man really sink
To hawk himself this way?
It’s mortifying to confront
Such ego on display.
The day The Eagle is defeated
The incident shall be repeated:
All transmitting stations televise it,
The rarely praised tongues loosen in wit!
Born - to - Rule Valiant of All Seasons
To be lambasted for four reasons:
Who had off switched its amazing wings
Or had God said "it's time to spoil things"?
What had it done to matchless vision
Begun to things sights in division?
Could Mortifying Beak go on strikes,
Suddenly curve less because this likes?
What can have happened to stunning speed:
Rehearsals ended that would it feed?
The day The Eagle is Defeated
Furnace of 'Why' shall be reheated.
The Remotest cause solicited
The sweetened truth not prohibited.
I have some amazing collections!
The moon, dark lacunae etched all over,
Broke pearls strung on failed ideas,
Hideous rocks, amassed from my life's path,
A worn-out journal and it's mortifying pages.
The crowds that I always go against,
My unique dancers, shaking a leg with me at times,
And every perfect morn I start by
A waggish baboon that awaits in the mirror to laugh at.
K.S.Lakshmi
I know I shan’t try it, again:
Plunging into water of any sort
For the thrills by the crazy sought:
The Obviously Robbed of True Gain!
The last time I did
Drank two liters I didn’t need,
The pond ever holding out an opened lid!
The fullest pints of untreated water,
Daring me to a single word mutter
Or even a mere syllable utter;
The beats of my heart, a wild flutter!
What a plot
To have one in water rot,
The press serving the headline, very hot
About the Brought to a Naught
By greenish water, 200 pm on the dot
All too soon frantic legs kicking
And chaotic thoughts fanning,
As death continues its presence asserting.
It is less of redemptive energy
And more of a loser’s lethargy
Oxygen-withholding waters vouchsafing no apology.
So, I should be readying for the longest sleep:
For a bed in the mortifying deep;
What shall my Loved |Ones cause to weep
And many hearers their skin creep.
I can on you bestow a life-time happiness
By demolishing your physical funniness:
With water colors and a compliant paint brush
Making your avoiders at you rush:
Your bad-looking coat of triple size re-tailor
To make it seem that of a Danish Sailor,
Your odd-seeming stringy neck re-design,
Impressing that it is some graceful line;
Your horrifying, scavenging beak re-shape,
So that one ceases to watch it, mouth agape;
Your scary ghostly eyes
Stop their triggering of dreary cries,
Causing to appear less interested in dead flesh
Than in the appetizing fresh!
Your pronounced baldness and barber’s sorrow
To become what one could from behind follow…
So, you trust me, sanitary inspector,
Never your job slacking in our own sector:
Your unfailing attention to every careless carcass,
The momentary child of every unplanned fracas
And The I-ve-rounded-the-clock:
Images of mortifying shock!
Hate
In civilized quarters, an outrageous obscenity:
Unwashed, perishing pant
And, for real, a dismaying insanity,
When a hater heatedly rants
At his subject of unusual dislike,
Whom he would’ve loved to strike:
His heart hammering vessel –damaging beats,
His head contending with an ache a doctor treats.
With hate, nothing is normal any more,
Haters best action, an unsightly sore,
With glances that like dagger stab
And fast breathing that would air grab
And reflections on hundreds of things
United by Death with wings!
Hate is the firmest shutting
Of the outlet to delicate love
And trust me - mortifying hitting
Of a non owner of even one boxing glove.
Knowledge of enemy’s demolishing fate
And serial number on Satan’s punitive slate
Comes with the Supreme Hate
Also, how long his success shall have to wait
Plus the exact date
Of the unlocking on his behalf of cemetery’s gate.
We decided to be elegant
Have breakfast outside on the veranda
A gorgeous Florida day
Where is mom?
Our mother asked.
No one knew.
What is a toaster doing on the table?
Daddy asked.
No one knew.
Where is grandma? I asked.
Maybe she overslept, Mom said.
Dad said, “As if we could be that lucky!”
Grandma had kind of invited herself.
She is a big nut and keeps us happy.
We three kids love it that she came.
“Hey! What’s this?” My six-year-old brother asked.
A sign that said, “push me!”
He pushed the down lever.
Grandma came popping out of the toaster
Once again delighting us kids
And mortifying our parents.
Best trick ever!
There’s a miniature volcano
on his back
with mortifying eruption.
‘Beauty is
in mind’, his mom intones.
But nobody
recognizes. His classmates
‘honor’ him
with some funny sobriquets.
It resembles a cactus. He can’t
eschew its
thorns. He withdraws. Solitude
is a shelter.
It’s like a gas-producing
cassava; his
mind bloats with thoughts
of inferiority.
Whistles and whoops from
the playground
pain him no more. Recurrence
blunts sorrow’s talon.
He falls down through
a siesta.
Posthumous pity is a wreath.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
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