Short Dispassionate Poems

I'm not a passionate man
but I'm not dispassionate
about the moon and stars
and taking the elevator
from Earth to Mars....

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I see the 
mathematics in her,
the whole family of scholars,
dispassionate judgements, 
their genius
and their madness.
I see the Schaeffer 
eagerness in me, a 
dynasty of tail waggers,
trying to please,
blundering....

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Atmospheric grayscale mirrors my mood
where rainbow pastels are loath to intrude,
monochrome perverse looms ‘cross universe -

black powder train, mind is gun barrel gray
cold dispassionate muzzle of dismay.
My happiness; my death will reimburse -
lifeblood bleeds an anemic attitude.


Susan Ashley 
November 17, 2018...

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a sense
     of persons past
in fallen shapes
                abandoned
delineated
         woven
distilled demeanours
brooding 
vulnerable
in 
precise
      posture
novel partial
              insights
personal
prejudice
       implied
casually contrived
yet
   inherent
      subordinated
in
the
   dispassionate eye...

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THERE THE THOUSAND REASON LIE,
WHEN I SAY, I WISH I COULD BE YOU,
SO DISPASSIONATE AND FREE,
FROM THE NORMS, I M FORCED TO OBEY.
WHEN THEY SUPPRESS, I WISH HARD.

ONLY IF THE CREATOR HADN'T HAD BLESSED HER,
WITH THE BEAUTY OF GIVING LIFE, I FEAR,
MUST ‘D BEEN RUNNING FOR WINNING POST,
OR MULLING IN YOUR FIELDS,
OR BE FED WITH THE LEFT OVER....

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Bleached shells catch the sun
and throw it back again,
pearled cup-hearts smoothly clean,
long ago picked bare,
the forgotten feasts of ghost birds.

Waves lick forlorn sands
but cannot coax those dispassionate shells
to frolic in the happy surf;
empty, they choose the dry beach
just out of reach of happiness.

©Faye Lanham Gibson, May 5, 2015...

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In the midnite of earth's noon,

Sun's shadow blackens the moon.

Silver shades of pale desire

Are consumed within its fire.

Adrift in darkness of death,

The burnt moon struggles for breath.

Unremembering the plight
 
Desire brought, it slays the night.

This envious moon of sky

Sighs with dispassionate eye:

The sun too will one day die....

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So my aunts dying - 
    a dispassionate aside
        over coffee, Saturday
No point in crying
    bitter death taken in stride
        and a sugary frappe

How fit the topic?
     Heated chemicals imbibe
        Caffeinating hollow sounds 
Reflect myopic
     Her death we fein to describe
         with muffins and coffee grounds

Saturday, January 16th 2016...

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An artist am i 
Human flesh my canvas
Blades my brushes
Mesmorising red lacerations my monochromatic palette
Soul demolishing agony my inspiration
Anguished creativity my flesh eating demon

Until painless perfection

Horrific scars my magnificent masterpiece
Annihilating criticism my only praise from this dispassionate world
Initiating the relapse of brutal expression again...

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COPLA SESENTA Y DOS
: This Bad Guy World

Anger hell-bent at enemy
Despair at Bad Guys’ existence:
Bring self-defeat

Let him not provoke your envy
Nor make you expose inner essence:
Minds must not bleat

Only the dispassionate will
Gita’s detachment of action:
Leads to success

Everything else being equal
Plus strength of cause and conviction:
War’s then pointless

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014...

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the dispassionate color of no hope
has only walls of empty bedim white 
the statutory color of no hope 
has manifestation of a smudged life 
the offended color of no hope 
has mud stained dimming souls

I have destroyed the rest of the poem 
so that, to say 
that when i am destroyed there will be 
no more words, that I will be able to write...
and you can not have them as 
i can not have just-us...

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Filtering filaments of shouting color
Dancing brilliant motes

Defining sunlight by crowding into invisible shafts
Reflecting hope and brilliance

Revealing resistance with every tiny fragment
Defying gravity to fly the final arc of existence
Catching the sun and revealing an unseen world

That every breath is defined by gauzy curtains of sustenance;
Should we be so dispassionate  that we inhale all this
Unknowing...

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Time has endless Patience
There from the start
There too, 'twill be, at the end
  when all else departs

Time's a humbler of Empires
Outlasts them all
Watches monuments crumble
  no matter how solid
  no matter how tall

The glory that was Greece
The grandeur that was Rome
  In Time's rear-view mirror now
  Majesty become soil's loam

Time is dispassionate
It goes its own way --
Yet it's ours to utilize for the good
  ~ every moment, every day...

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The bee is a-buzzing~
a sweeter time of year – 
for the hive is a-growing,
has to be dearly fed, as
the queen was off a-queening
had taken fond drones
to her sultry bed – 

flowers, all-efficient, 
the earth's blushing, reddening
ripening fertile ways – 

Spring giving all colorful
blaze, warmly enticing 
brightly dutifully tinting
adding uplifting expression 
to 
earth's
cold 
drab
definitely 
needing
inspiring
far too
dispassionate
winter
phase....

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If Time were only the
sweep of hands, subjects 
mere tiny clicks~

then we could tinker with
metal sands, and springs
to determine life's short
or eternal ticks;

but unlike the glass, that tilts,
and turns, and drips, one's sense 
of real loss with dear passing 
profound...

though yet I am here...I have been
told...since your tragic unwound,

Time for me
came to an unraveling stop

with the last shovel
topping off 
earth's too often 
dispassionate 
ground –...

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Said the old widow cook
to the drag queen son
feeding his/her dying abusive dad,
while offering her nurturing donation:

"I don't want your money.
We're not savages, yet."

Other words
that might have come to
desecrating mind:
not for sale, yet
not that victimized
not that wounded
not that uncivilized
not that poor
not that disenfranchised
not that disempowered
not that unenlightened
not that devastated
not that resourceless
not that dispassionate
not that judgmental...

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