IMPULSIVITY spasmodic spurtive sudden spontaneous surprise
The political biochemistry of triumphs and defeats
Lives its spasmodic life
Consisting of precious milliseconds,
Precise calculations and brutal muscle power.
But this bodily activity
Doesn't mean a thing
Without the reports, the flags, the anthems, the politics of international relations,
Without the sensational exposures,
regularly supplied by biologists.
And what is left for those who are not involved in the world of national vanities,
A world of deadly grudges and the will to win,
A world of flag-waving and sublimated hatred, even in those who imagine themselves observers?
None of the above, actually.
Our victories have long since been converted into ordinary days.
When half an hour passes in ten minutes
And evenings linger until dawns
For no apparent reason.
With sadness, that never ceased,
I watched your Father shot on live television.
I was living in Chicago and Elena, a baby
in my arms asleep.
Your Father, Robert had just won California
and “on to Chicago” was his mission.
Sirhan-Sirhan., anti-Isreal, pro-Palestinian ,
shot your father in the hotel’s kitchen, near dead.
I sat in Chicago, in tearful disbelief, and all I could
feel was profoundest grief!
Screaming crowds wept as deep crimson-
warm, blood seeped from your father’s head.
And here you are now with your lovely wife and
actress, Cheryl Hines, about to follow in your
Father’s footsteps!
Your voice may sound strange as you are
affected by spasmodic dysphonia.
I am just an extraordinary American because I
do not think one party is a religion whose
Ordinances must be obeyed and kept.
For anyone, who would like to see
Robert Kennedy Jr. Mon, October 9th!
Soupmail me.
Thank you!
My Functional Movement Disorder
Turned me into a performer.
My body becomes jerky,
And I move quirky.
My arms move spasmodic,
Onlookers may think I am neurotic.
But I am not foolish or silly,
This disorder will not kill me.
So if you see my jerks,
Know they are now my quirks.
Its wild and woolly outside tonight
The wind is blowing a mighty gale
The trees are loudly whispering sweet nothings
Or whistling mournful tales
The rain is indecisive
Spasmodic in small bursts
The thunder lazy and quietly rumbling
No desire or energy to exert
As I closed my door and lay down to sleep,
A poem came and violently knocked at my door.
Being quite late, I put a rein on my desire to admit it in
Even in my sleep I could hear the faint sound of a knock.
In the wee hours of the morn, as I sat up to house it,
Only scattered phrases and broken lines floated around.
A crazy excitement made me trap them in ink.
But nothing worthwhile showed up on the writing pad.
I found I had only violated the virginity of the paper.
After hours of spasmodic labor pain
What came out was a stillborn with no heart beats.
It lay limp before me and all excitement died down
It's still body, I found had closely resembled me.
Something of me was there stamped on it.
How could I who had parented it,
Callously discard it in a dustbin?
So, I carefully stashed it away in a secret place.
Where no one’s prying eyes would ever fall over it!
April. 6. 2023
~ Placed Third~
Free Submission Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Sotto Poet
My gait spasmodic
I staggered drunkenly
My inner voice a thousand tongues
Of crazed cacophony
In mumbling incoherence
My muddled mind benumbed
I sought the words I fumbled for
As if I were struck dumb
But sentence was unstructured
And thought was compromised
Were I to even form a word
Complexity – be mine
The Thought took hold – though –
In shape – and form – and slowly
I expressed in words
What only wise men know –
Springtime is more than just flowers and sun.
April is drenched, and bees will have much fun.
Swarming insects frighten with bites and harm.
A staining sludge swamp and stinky silt farm.
Sneeze and hay heat-stinging eyes are a curse.
Lands that loom like orbs, yet deceits are worse.
Yet, we must not squander sight of quaintness
with the rigors that spring brings or faintness.
Berth booms boost pollination burden rood.
Spring is spasmodic, apart from the mood.
White snow morphs into mushy rolling hills.
And sprinkle down verve up till the dale spills,
Flowers rising from snowfall restore hope.
Were we blithe beyond the zenith and slope?
3rd place contest winner
Written: February 05, 2023
Spring Is Not All Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Michelle Faulkner
Convulsions with consciousness.
Spasm and exaggerated sensitiveness.
Alternate constipation and diarrhoea.
Paralysis after apoplexy,parts cold,numb,
and emaciated.Coldness of whole body
and Cannot get warm in bed at night.
Choking,or spasmodic contraction in throat.
Sharp and shooting pains in thighs,with torpor
and paralytic weakness and tottering of legs.
Tendency of legs to become numb and dead.
Paralysis,coldness,and insensibility of legs.
Cramps in feet and toes.Burning itching in toes.
Spasms which the patient compares to electric shocks.
(Wehm,Nafsiyat,Aqua,Drink,Drugs,Injection,Game Over)
SENSIBILITIES
a vibrant
dream tangled
& annotated
preserved &
rendered
so
attractive
notable
& disguised
a
spasmodic
expression
a surprise
announced
such a bewildering
drama
yet fortuitous
& so appropriate
snatches
inspiration
from raging
sensibilities
a captured atmosphere
so immersive
& yet
voluptuous
with unstoppable
appeal
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
Ever since
Life is spasmodic
A broken realm
Of high and low tides
Ever since
There is no one to count
But pellucid self –
Merging into oblivion
Ever since
Time is clocking
Years surrender
To abundance of blame
Ever since
It’s unfinished wars
With narcissistic powers
That reign the rule
Ever since
I have amassed wisdom
That life is too short
To invoke justice
it's a motel room
sunrise, sunset, happy, orange sun
some such
off the interstate
in
bum
florida
my spasmodic hercules
I work pretty hard to make it a hercules,
anyway
with bulls & boars & eighty six
bras
and a bottle of evan williams
wine
He has left the world.
A half-made bed creaks still.
A life left elsewhere,
not here in this blue rat-tailed viewing.
Display the cold hands,
the musty suit newly buttoned.
Teeth wedged tightly
inside a cosmetology mask.
Earwax continues.
A smile sheens on formaldehyde lips.
Outside, a spasmodic rain quivers.
Never before has he been this ready.
His pockets bulge still with balled-up notes
a linty jot and tittle left unsung.
Damp mourners ebb away
dabbing milk-less eyes.
A soft hat sags from a paint-chipped hook
dripping like a nose.
Half-washed dishes are his legacy.
Close the door quietly least they rattle.
Gut-wrenching tears flow in torrents,
swathe of spasmodic gulp and shiver,
I weep stridently when haunted,
by moonlight ghost resemblance,
to my dead cousin, fleeting angel,
halo an eerie nocturnal cloud rim,
shrouded in haze of mournful rupture,
our deepest wounds precede the grim,
acknowledgement of threadbare memory,
feeble consolation as we quietly sulk.
to dull persistent angst with fond ephemera,
evanescent meek recall from bygone echo,
funeral cortège hymn neath mortal passage,
solemn midnight clan’s shuffle lachrymose
Dare to risk
making poetry
for madness,
touch stars
with lips,
talk to
them...
Contact the
imaginary
of beings from
universe,
fly with
letters wings
spit
in
insomnia...
drink the
courage of
young wines and
sip
the inspiration
from the rain ...
Dare to be snow
under sun
hot and
pour fire
through the eyes
from the hands ...
seek calm
of silence
enraged and,
the noise
spasmodic
of sadness ...
Be the most
eloquent of
blind-deaf and
dumb
to spread the sap
of the genuine poem
unprecedented..!
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