The argument of silence, absonant,
hammers into the pliant mind it’s hard
nails of craving.—a spirit thusly marred
will yield to any prickle, every scant
pressure to give in.—once the foreign implant
is firmly riveted, a brain so jarred
can no longer trust its levies to guard
its thoughts against the inner, speechless “can’t”.
Quietudes disturb the peace of silent
folk, pounding its forceful will upon their backs.
When, going unfulfilled, a lurching tic
tickles the unstilled ego, its violent
lashes thrash harsh whips in frequent attacks
on the tender flesh of a crooked back.
Created this for a blog, but I am unncertain as there's an absence of accountabilty that would assure me of the values that I've delineated, has been ascertained.
I've effected a furtherance exposing other pertinent facts that solidfy this word: Equivocal, having a basic compound valued word, thusly, have more than one meaning.
That became the manna from Heaven, taught to us by those missionaries being one of those subclasses, became a breather/a cutting edge, for the Hawaiian language to accommodate the variable classes besides those missionaries.
Their were whalers who were infamous users of their catch-phrases, Chinese broken-English, a nine-year-old-English, and it goes on.
"How do you say , Hello"--Aloha, "Goodbye"--Aloha, "I love you"--Aloha, "To that guy"--Aloha, "And that girl"--Aloha, "So their sex don't matter"--Oh sex, much Aloha.
Levity, but it does point a true beneficial factor. Chaos needed a directive, simplify matters by conquering their language and dividing it. This was part of my theoretical thesis for my psychology class exam at the Uni.
signed ...
one man's horror
another man's justice
what was in the box mattered not
its representation was enough
an end ... a beginning ...
it was sufficient to know it existed
to know it bled
warm, trusted, beloved, bound -
by time and vengeance and a pink ribbon
bound, indeed ... for oblivion
as was the recipient of
the rather unique (and deafening) 9mm reply
a squeeze for a squeeze, thusly
righteous and red ...
and unholy.
.
the two tone'd
textures
theirn
twist
trading
throat thunder
threading their thews
titillating
theirn think
transfixed
tete-a-tete
toasting
this tempt'n
tome'z
teach
tip
theirn
'telegence
thusly
* diversely ethnical .)
*"tete-a-tete" means;
'head to head' [french]
I always felt like A soul without a refuge
Every place i have visited
None flutter my inside with the feeling of being home
A heart without a haven
I contemplated,
My whole life where i lived never felt home
Nor it gave me the sense of peace and love
I'm drifting aimlessly,
Yearning for a place to belong
In this quest, for a place to rest my heart
I get lost and hurt,
Abandoned by my own thoughts too
Seeing a door slammed shut,
Doesn't indicate it can't be reversed
So I'll not give up, no, not ever
Until i find my home
My haven
My refuge
And hence i still find myself dreaming of a place to feel at peace,
I am determined to do whatever it takes to find it
Thusly, i will navigate the uncharted waters
Roam the earth, explore new horizons
Through the known and unknown
Rambling through the wilderness
I'll give my life to the thirst of finding a place to call home
Though there might me a possibility
I may never find my haven in this quest of eternity
I won't give up hope, i won't let uncertainty define me
I'll keep searching, keep dreaming, untill i find my haven, my peace.......
Hopelessness is a loyal mistress.
Tender agonies whispered in ones ear,
twisted thoughts to forget by sunlight;
only the uneasy shadows cast doubt.
Warming embrace of past mistakes,
lovingly corrupting every though;
every joyous memory left defiled.
She is a tenacious, unstoppable force.
Sacred truths lifted from impenetrable walls;
raised up as if by providence, thusly burned.
Loneliness is the timber piled to the sky,
entombing childish dreams of the everlasting.
Hatred for the self becomes a ready tinder,
Lost sparks of loving hands burn forever.
Motherly care scorning innocence;
beautiful tenderness charred to a black husk.
Hopelessness is a loyal mistress,
ever guiding you into the abyss.
Hope a bonfire lit by loving hands.
That Salad Went Right Through Me
I've always wanted to write a poem called
“That Salad Went Right Through Me”.
And I would wager upon its best destiny:
To begin with, there is the Universal Theme--
For who has not gurgled around a conference table
at half past the last radish scrap?
Who, once stalled, has not
persistently punched the flusher
to muffle the borborygmus din?
But on a loftier note, I prefer
to think of my paean emblazoned
in the annals of first line indexes,
where, as one wanders lonely as a cloud
over dactyls and tropes,
“That salad went right through me”
trots right off the page
demanding a fervid flip to its leaf.
And future discourse plied at workshops,
and other such rarefied privies of poesy
might thusly include:
"Did you write a poem for the class today?"
Yes...“That Salad Went Right Through Me”
"Well then, you should consider the cheesecake."
We were always a little ash white,
the girls always a bit cleaner;
the soap always green carbolic
the toilet paper always slick and hard to scrunch,
six year old bottoms always a little sore.
The nuns who ran these grey bricked barracks
called it the: Covent of 'Saint Hilda's Sacred Tears.'
There were lots of tears but no saints.
No black kids either, though there were many
seen on the grimed streets. They looked well fed and happy.
We were different. Our parents had sinned,
had broken the golden rule and got caught
birthing the unwanted.
Back then the birch cane was an instrument of love.
From here-on I must paraphrase...
Each Sunday, The scrawny priest
would look down upon us -
speaking thusly:
"You're all sinful
fit only for cannon or factory fodder,
forever doomed to poverty."
A pause while he did the sign of the cross
while mumbling to himself in Latin.
"The righteous must
resign themselves in good grace
to their natural place,
to humbly throw themselves
upon the mercy of their betters."
Such sermons filled us all with much joy,
and we were all briefly uplifted
until the hatchet-faced nuns
led us back to our own special hell.
As now into a holy mountain my soul makes
Pilgrimage to your side,
My heart unto your lips ascends,
For it is my heart that bears its kiss,
And in that swift-footed moment it
Trembles there, a captive sparrow,
Who'd taste of an eternal nectar,
A sweet elixir of bitterest joy
And thusly drunk take flight
To the very reaches of Love's
Full orbit.
61 Chevy Impala S S
Black sleek loaded with chrome
Parked at quick shop that morning
Not far from my home
The only extraneous decor than
that described above
A bumper sticker of Sylvester the
Cat sending everyone his love
It really popped with his
bright red nose saw it and had to laugh
Block lettered in the blackest type
reading thusly.... Kith My Ath
Kneeling in prayer, the King folded his hands
His assassination thusly prevented
Times were different then, devotion honored
~ Stabs in the back were frowned on
What Hamlet simply could not bear to do
Today (that) would feel refreshing and new
Not taking advantage of his arch-foe
~ Sheathing his dagger, away he tiptoed
I didn’t wake up dead this morning,
my back is no worse than yesterday.
A few customary moans and groans
as I reach the breakfast table.
My spouse is as cheerful as ever,
she hops around like a song sparrow
while I glower.
A cup of dark Columbian
I have to admit that those ordinary miracles
Ordinary miracles are on their job
and I am thusly blessed to be
Gods special little guy.
Yarns are swerving right now,
as sadly as a fall coat of leaves
It's crimson for a split second,
sending cures from the last zest.
the shade then fades to yellow,
I wish I could be so buoyant and upbeat.
as if it haunts an anachronism,
the glow dims to an amber hue.
thusly, like the acrid tangy taste.
my heart kindles a jauntier tomorrow.
1st PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: March 25, 2022
A Brian Strand 1096 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
On the sunset porch, I spatter my breath.
Return the favor so that can fulfill my task.
I'm merely observing people passing through.
Continue speaking with sleazeball lips.
Remnants of alive memories.
Sing to amply demonstrate the dedication.
Thusly, overcome with the eager desire to sob.
I cleave to the pieces of dead maps you are grasping.
On the grounds that I entered the hole to steep it.
As well, mutiny spread in all banausic ways.
I'm crouching beneath the wishing arbor, as you can view.
My most fervent hopes are being warped in odd angles.
To the wondrous strains of a mournful tune.
My heart expresses a desire for raw skin.
In the folds of the reach, light candles of wonder.
My mind is brimming with gloomy shades.
Arrange for the upheaval of gray memory strands.
I applaud my post-injury morality.
And I recall this to the best of my cognitive ability.
That is all in a proper sense.
On saddle cushions, I slept properly.
I buried you on your own holy patch of land.
Nobody grasps me in this squandering.
Nobody compares to my image in mirrors.
Written: February 16, 2022
So, what is poetry?
A fond hobby? A dear pastime?
For some, inclined thusly, it is the
cliche' “My bread and butter” –
for others, to be sure, more a
journey toward spiritual discovery...
seeking enhanced enlightenment – desire
to make transparent man's multi
dimensional shell of physical enclosure –
personifying a mortal's deepest need to ascertain
his Divine source, by looking down the tree,
beyond the soil entrenched root
of man's bony, sentient spine...
So, what is poetry? It is a place
where the poet travels to both cleanse
and play – a candle when needed
for the night...and a salve to help
when doing bout
with a blistering day....
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