Hear me mates, before its too late.'
Get awake..Not woke! It'll send you broke.)
I have cried in anger.' In sadess and rage.'
At the counrys humilliation, and the world its stage
Its time to leave ideaologys that steal great
Aussie values.' Cue labour liberals greens and the teals!
Go and study the 1980s.' Though there were still fools
In charge.' The people were more involved in actions
By and large.' Put away navel gazing. And disengage.'
From the quackery and e u foolery.' And useless tirades'
In all states and territory, can you just say g'day? Embrace
Your true heros.' Listen to what they say.' I think of Hobart
And Patterson, Bosi' Latter and Hoody.' Culleton and
Rennik and Antic; another goody.' Smit; and krystal, iyah, Claire Woodly too.' stand
With them Australia." And get back to ( true blue!)
Those greyed pink strands
That trickle with a crackle
As neurons motor there their weigh
That Brian that named itself
I gave the voices in my head their own costumes
Some synapses may have snap
…………………………..………p
…………………………………..e
…………………………………..d
Some people don’t have an inner voice
I think I got their share
Some just grunt
Not the day to ask how I am
Some whisper tirades of alarms
Some plot within
while chances of escape are slim
They all came from planets
No earthlings
Scarred Wars
Things Han could have responded….
Me and Luke are a thing
Once you go Chewie…
Get your stuff outta of the falcon
You snogged your brother
I am doing this to get away from you, you nutter
My name is Indiana
Something something
this comes way.
Quote: "In zen we don't find the answers. We lose the questions." ..zen philosophy
Beneath the plum tree by the Zen pond's side,
Its vivid hues reflected in the water's glide,
Autumn leaves, a kaleidoscope in motion,
Swim with carps, in a colorful perpetual devotion.
The optimist gazes, sky-bound, feeling free,
As leaves brush top of the tree, a sight to see,
But the pessimist sees inspirations wane,
Leaves wither, decay, in autumn's refrain.
The autumn moon, its silver light cascades,
Galaxies, stars, in its gentle tirades,
The universe contained, in tranquil grace,
Even a plum leaf's fall stirs the quiet space.
What is the sound in silence's domain?
Who listens to its whisper, its refrain?
The peaceful heart hums, a silent song's plea,
Yet ponders, who hears its melody free?
Anti-Poem — “Baxter Street Monday”
me trudging walking
gripping onward forward
traipsing baxter street monday
and its steep inclines
going up like a dizzy sparrow
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
that sip spit with maraschino endives
scanning thighs ripe with hard-ons
the stoner pink boys
lost in rainbow cul-de-sacs
lost amidst the traffic tirades
the propelling grind of accelerators
up up and onward everlasting
floating hovering over shy ascensions
in ravenous echo park
me scratching grinding like steel death
holding tight the skin wheel
trudging baxter street monday
the morning reality suspensions
the daily cyclotron of kidney exertions
of ascending footsteps moving skinward
now racing down baxter street monday
descending and plummeting
passing vertical merry go rounds
the sly moulin rouge turnabouts
i see my sista rosa gonzalez
she be screaming down with wet wings
sending love bouquets to my los angeles
He found her in a stray in a
night poem... she noticed him in a
Flaming Tirade...
- I admire your tricks... !
- I like your tirades... !
- Actually I call them deductions...!
So they took off exchanging poems...
From that day on, they were enchanted and
loved madly...
Each one on their own page...!
I think it’s time I stopped paying attention
To those who suffer from **** retention,
Who are stuck in a rut of raw vengeance
Penning verses out of jealous vehemence,
And lashing out with tirades of cattiness
Written with their characteristic nastiness,
Seems they cannot abide my liberal stances
They’d rather regress than make advances,
They tout protecting their individual liberty
No concern for what’s good for you and me.
written January 20, 2022
He couldn't stand her temper tirades
She ranted and raved about bills left unpaid
A tragic couple they were, a perfect mismatch ~
Their marriage contract containing no escape hatch
A strange query oft does haunt
And prick the soft cosy mind :
Why do ill tempered outbursts find
Gestures, tirades or an irate taunt,
Much against the intended good ,lofty
Decision to withhold all ill will
And be nonchalant, calm and still -
Be it being dishonest, selfless and crafty ;
The wrathful heavens and the elemental holder
In turbid turmoil smash and wipe
All alike with a swish, swirl and swipe;
No regrets, the world is set in a new order
Anger gilds a proper cause or action
And makes it shine like a jewel,
Inspiring love and feeling of being well ;
While out of proportion , it tends to malfunction.
On that glorious evening, don't sleep subtly.
Utterly, prime-age ought to portray a furious fire.
Rage for the waning daylight with ferocity.
Even if bold people realize the terrible dire.
Their tirades were drab due to a lack of bloom.
Utterly, prime-age ought to portray a furious fire.
An ultimate wave passed, awed by its gloom.
Their lamest act could be green bay dancing.
Their tirades were drab due to a lack of bloom.
Feral people sang to the sun while swooping.
Some claim they're bawling on the path too late.
Their lamest act could be green bay dancing.
Those on the verge of death due to a disease.
Eager eyes can shine as meteors even when blind.
Some claim they're bawling on the path too late.
And you: my dad, upon the bleak hillside.
On that glorious evening, don't sleep subtly.
Eyes can shine as meteors even when blind.
Rage for the waning daylight with ferocity.
Written: October 20, 2021
What kind of poetry are folks reading?
Sonnets and triolets of beautiful scenes,
Or tirades about the latest political row
Random words from poet minds feeding.
Unrhymed blank verse, or is it free verse
Old-fashioned limericks for a chuckle
Time for an epic story … or a tarzanelle,
Nonsensical poems for better or worse.
Everyone reads a favorite now and then
Be it a jingle or a lengthy narrative
After all, we grew up on nursery rhymes
We learned but cannot remember when.
written October 11, 2021
I could write you a sonnet with lyrics that purr,
The sweetest of verses, as ever such were,
That feature your virtues and dwell on your charm
With harvests of words from the poetry farm.
But I’d run out of paper, I’d run out of ink
Portraying the way you behave when you drink,
Because it frightens me,
The way you carry on.
It frightens me...
The way you rant and snap and curse.
Your scotch-induced tirades and worse.
Your claw and fang, your angry fist,
The way you grasp the truth and twist.
Your lame denial, shameless rage,
Provides me cause to disengage.
I’m standing up and walking out
Regardless how you scream and shout,
Because it frightens me,
The way you carry on.
The way you carry on
Goes on and on and on.
It frightens me,
The way you carry on.
I’m suspended in mid-air
As I begin to look upon and stare
At the body which was mine of late
Before I chanced to disassociate.
When I cry out no one hears me
All because they cannot see
The specter of myself I’ve made,
And live ears are deaf to ghost’s tirades.
The lone fly keeps buzzing by and by
And I just want it to die
When it lands and vomits on my hand,
So I swat at it and finally stand.
I have returned presently
To that distant figure that was me,
And I remember suddenly
That this is how it will always be
Living in this home’s reality so warped
And sleeping at night next to a corpse.
Beauty bows and surrenders at her bare feet,
The gold glitters jealous of her glowing skin,
Her bright eyes light embers of passion within,
Men yield to her will!
Warriors clang their weapons to fight to die,
Flags with horseman fly, write history again,
While sat in emerald throne, she rules their minds,
With potion of love!
Is there a poison more deadly than such love?
A woman to whom the Roman empire bows,
Juice of poison berry* she put in own eyes,
He who loves her - dies!
Mighty Caesar or Anthony were like clay,
Their tirades, history fade in her presence,
They lost in war, lost in her love, end by knife,
She put Asp to breast!
Sapphic stanza Poetry contest
Sponsor Edward Ibez
Date 08/July/2020
Cleopetra used poisonous berries or the deadly nightshade juice( medicinal name Atropa belladonna) that yields Atropine which causes dilatation of the pupils. Was used in her time to make the eyes dreamy, innocent and beautiful! Hence the name “Bella = lady, Donna= beautiful)
Drowning in our incubus sleep,
phantom enemies are devised.
Easy answers for night terrors.
Social purgatory for the stranger,
Our river Styx for the brown ones.
Our fortress must wall them out.
Brown poverty is culpable.
Starving families must be criminals.
Racialism winking and nodding.
Jingoism sneering and taunting.
Everyone knows the words.
ICE round up the suspects.
Our delirious sorcery making police raids.
For us wall builders, it is always midnight.
For us distracted, there is never safety.
We are detainees of our nightmare,
POWs of our wraiths.
The smeared tirades offer glaucoma.
The duplicitous liars supply our slumber.
The scapegoating harangues support our night blindness.
Yet, we always awaken sweating
in our witless twisted sheets.
Would it matter to you
if I believe in God
or Gaia
or the sacred interdependence of Earth
or our ProGenitor
or our Source
or Earth's Living Natural/Spiritual ReSource
if I love you
and our shared right to love whomever we wish?
Far more than I could hate you
and any presumption
that we are right to hate
whomever we wish.
Why would you think
or feel
Earth's ProGenitive Gaian-God ReSource
is any different than an elephant
so resonantly grand
that we are likely to blindly take Her tail
or trunk
or toes
or tastes
or tirades
or trusts
for Her ego/eco-bicameral Whole?
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