Disrespect They Have Chosen
A correct and different image exposed,
Is not one they have been taught...
They should physically embrace.
In fact,
Everything they've done...
Has eliminated any traces of it,
Appearing near or found upon their faces.
With a pride that guides,
Their humiliated paces flaunted as taken.
Therefore...
Any benefits acquired from strong images given,
Has been ignored to replace them...
With those that encompass,
A disrespect they have chosen...
With a preference that dictates,
Every aspect that shows...
How they have adorned an implementation,
Of their social disgraces satiated.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Gliding On The Surface
There is nothing like being assessed,
By those who prefer to just...
Do their gliding on the surface.
With a doing that at their best,
Against all warnings of first testing the depth...
To inspect and ensure,
What they have chosen to do...
Is not on thin ice!
Or...
Angers the one who has volunteered,
To provide them with 'sound' advice.
But that advice goes ignored,
Because it has been decided by those who glide...
The one speaking intelligently,
Does not physically impress them with image.
And 'image' is all they have been taught to address.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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An Eclectic Approach That Is Adorned
Tribalistic?
Oh yes.
I wish I could address,
Every aspect of my heritage.
To represent each of my ancestors.
In fact...
My pride,
Can be best described...
As arrogance.
But that's okay!
As long as something about me,
Is displayed to expose my dignity.
Eccentric it may be,
In my willingness to have it presented.
With an eclectic approach that is adorned.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Padlocked In A Box To Stop Further Production
No,
I would not say I could ever be an image maker.
That kind of responsibility should require tact.
At least 'some' of it with no holding back.
However,
I can say I am an observer of those images made.
With a wish I had been consulted,
Prior to their creations.
Since many rear-ends seen today seem on purpose to offend.
And it is impossible for me to be the only one insulted by them.
With the brimming to the rim to spill such disgusting 'butts'.
And a freedom given to have some of them I've seen,
Exposed like they are to parade publicly on the streets.
My vision increasingly has become demeaned.
No,
I would not say I could ever be an image maker.
However,
I can say I am an observer of those images made.
With a wish I had been consulted,
Prior to their creations.
Padlocked in a box to stop further production.
With a key to bury never to be found.
That's how I would have handled...
Many of today's images that have gotten out of hand.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Enactments
Now that their feelings of betrayal...
And being disgruntled,
Have a rawness about it...
They believe there is a commonness,
Left to express those displeasures...
With those historically distressed.
Those they would normally regard as pests!
And that was just...
Yesterday!
With their duress confessed,
During these suppressed times...
They seem to quickly display,
A discomforting selfishness...
They wish would go away,
To unwind and leave behind.
Like keys left with the butler or maid.
If not for temporary and sentimental reasons!
When the times were good for them...
They would not be seen,
Appearing in daylight...
With 'those' disadvantaged on urban streets.
Exposing their faces on such scenes.
And rubbing shoulders,
With these 'underlings' they meet!
'These surroundings?
How gouache.
Tasteless.
And so unbecoming! '
They would have ignored them,
As not being among those blessed!
They would have compared their separateness...
By comparing acquired materialism,
That kept them feeling falsely blessed.
But somehow their current fellowship expressed,
Seems more like a pretentiousness hiding a desperation.
And spreading a shallow attempt,
To solicit empathy from those who can least afford it.
Those who know who 'they' are!
And why they have been kept by 'them' suppressed.
Those things they once had,
No longer provides the escape...
From their insecurities now exposed.
So they have 'chosen' to be amongst the poor.
To uplift a hollowness...
Left from a loneliness of an emptiness felt.
Somehow,
This can not be easily erased.
Or from them now to go ignored.
Or replaced...
As one awaits for delivered luggage,
To leave quickly a bad vacation.
Especially when faces of a different hue...
Reminds them of a racistness they inflicted,
And kept in place to subdue...
In brutal disrespect.
Who knew these times would be so stinging.
Leaving so many unprepared?
To unpack cares and fresh hints of concern.
Now 'they' appear as if in research...
Seeking a way to find a comfort.
One that is not as demeaning as seen,
Or vividly portrayed...
By those who seem professional,
Recreating enactments placed upon them...
To do that poverty 'thing'
Done so well!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To be physically fit is just a small aspect. You can be a beautiful physical specimen, but you're empty as far as what it takes to be a person, and that shows up real fast.
As individuals and as a nation, we now suffer from social narcissism. The beloved Echo of our ancestors, the virgin America, has been abandoned. We have fallen in love with our own image, with images of our making, which turn out to be images of ourselves.
quote by Daniel J. Boorstin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whispers Heard
The weird one,
Out.
An escapee,
From a life deemed scarred...
By the markings of dysfunctions.
Labellings endured but removed.
Bold, brave...
And,
Often rude.
Often moody and with attitude.
The weird one,
Out.
No longer enslaved,
By limited mentalities.
Too goal oriented.
And...
With identity.
The weird one,
Out.
Never to look back,
To retrace haunting distractions.
Or again to face...
Those flaunting their disgraces,
In a buffooning pride to dignify...
Stereotypical images to imitate,
Interpretations that disrespect one's heritage.
The weird one,
Out.
An escapee,
From a life deemed scarred...
By the markings of dysfunctions.
And with a pace motivated,
By the whispers heard...
From encouraging ancestors.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Traces Of Me.....[SHORT; Personal; Humor; Death]
If when I pass I leave few traces,
let me leave at least some smiling faces,
on a chosen few.
I may have been at times a pain in ass
(and I don't mean when I was passing gas)
to a chosen few.
Retired, I wrote poems for myself and to share
(though it seemed most I shared with did not care)
with a chosen few.
I never with my money was wild.
I shared with wives, non-profits, and my child.
That's what I would do.
I've tried to live like a good Boy Scout.
But I gave up religion, and I sometimes shout.
What's a guy to do?
poem by Bri Edwards
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These Two Faces
These two faces,
These two appearances,
These two images,
These two men,
Appearing to me to understand the realms of life!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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We Promised There Would Be A Return
Why the somber and solem looks?
The dark suits?
And the meshed veils,
Covering the women's faces.
'We are celebrating the return to our values.'
This reminds me of a funeral procession!
'You have forgotten traditions once highly esteemed.
Soon we will return to them.
And it will be as if,
You had been awakened from a nightmarish scheme.'
I am sorry.
This is just too much darkness.
'You see! ?
How much discipline you have been missing?
We promised there would be a return.
And here we are.'
What you represent has an absence of fun!
In fact,
What you propose is quite scary.
'What is more important?
Image?
Or the implementation of rules and proper etiquette? '
Ugh.
Ugh!
MOMMY?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Spirit Guides
Thank you 'Spirit Guides'
For clearing my path of unwanted obstacles.
And providing my life,
With the correct insight...
To motivate and inspire dreams,
Desired to fulfill and complete...
My appetite for life.
No longer have I chosen,
To walk on paths unguided alone.
Or to stubbornly resist assistance.
Since my needs for you here,
I now know is plainly shown.
Thank you 'Spirit Guides'
For clearing my path of unwanted obstacles.
And providing my life,
With the correct insight...
To motivate and inspire dreams,
Desired to fulfill and complete...
My appetite for life.
No longer have I chosen,
To walk on paths unguided alone.
Or to stubbornly resist assistance.
Since my needs for you here,
I now know is plainly shown.
And as my daily affirmation,
I acknowledge my destination...
With you near,
Has brighter light.
In my mind your presence has been cleared.
No struggles do I endear,
With you here.
With you near.
Spirit Guides assigned to my life...
My eyesight 'sees',
But does not invite nor is chased by fear.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Varied Visions Of Retirement
RETIREMENT: An acquired belief that failure is impossible.
Investments made early-on, makes dividends more profitable.
Beneath it all, the pride of your labors will show.
Like a harvest moon or a brightly colored rainbow.
RETIREMENT: An emotional calmness, filled with tranquillity.
Extraordinary comforts - turn dreams into reality...
Holding this thought: Retirement is not a career ending...
New attractions, plus foresight - makes it a career beginning.
RETIREMENT: An intriguingly different lifestyle.
Imagine vividly your ego at peace for a while.
Without sacrifice your future has become a realness.
Custom designed an made valid by your own success.
RETIREMENT: An optional transitional symbol in careers.
Labors disgraces no one- no side effects- no fears.
Whenever questions of your success is in debate...
With pride convey your past reactions to any twist in fate.
RETIREMENT: An unconditional career for any season.
Great benefits, with unlimited freedoms for every reason.
This Era of unstoppable individual freedom is supreme.
A time to reflect on your momentum of pend- up dreams.
poem by Juanita Farrar
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Much More Than Fluff
Because it is made to look easy...
People think it is!
Whatever it is one does,
And enjoys getting done.
Not a dropp of blood, sweat or a tear,
Is connected to what one does...
That seems to instantly appear.
And others perceive...
If it is done like that,
There can not be sweat...
Dripping off one's back!
So they stand on the sidelines...
To either admire or attack.
And the more productive one is,
At what one does...
Of course,
They must live lives carefree and breezy,
Correct?
One would suspect.
Not a life in the 'fields'...
Working harder than a horse!
However...
No one knows how long,
One toilfully struggles on.
Perhaps days and nights...
Without one wink of sleep in 'sight'!
This would ruin images!
But this is not the view that is chosen,
When someone selects...
Another to dissect!
Nor would they accept,
One working hard to produce their best.
This would ruin images!
They would rather pass judgements.
And compare what it is 'they' do!
To make that appear more tough and rough!
But what appears to be simple....
May take much more than fluff,
To produce the stuff!
Then make public appearances,
To further mystify...
Those who qualify images!
Producing a 'pleasantness'.
With a social accepted grace!
And 'that' may be the most difficult thing,
One works harder to create.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It Is Much Too Late!
It is much too late,
To remove that which has taken place.
While you were asleep,
And not in your mind 'awake'.
You devoured such a taste for hatred.
Served as you digested it...
From the plate.
And licking it clean after you ate!
Oh it is much too late,
To erase affects of disrespect.
Or to think forgiveness sits,
Ready to be given.
From those broken hearts intended,
Now too painful to mend.
It is much too late,
To appreciate those you were taught to despise.
Much too late,
To replace false images deceived by your lies.
It is much too late to fake an empathy for others...
When it has been known,
None you've shown.
Or attempts you could have tried.
It is much too late,
To remove what has already taken place.
And much too late to wait,
For an understanding to come...
From anyone who has suffered,
By those things you've done!
It is much too late!
For those apologies spoken,
To be believed by anyone.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Images Presented
The image that's presented,
Determines how impressive...
Those pretentious rush to protect.
And the image that's presented,
Has less to do with intellect.
Or competence and its effect,
Upon those expecting...
Much more than an image projected to accept.
Images old have molded.
Although repeatedly they have been sold!
Those images presented,
Represent times gone.
Those images presented,
Have been rusted so long.
Those images presented,
Do not feed!
Those images presented,
No one needs now!
Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.
Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.
Those images presented,
Represent times gone.
Those images presented,
Have been rusted so long.
Those images presented do not feed.
Those images presented no one needs,
Now.
Those images presented represent a decadence.
And they represent with evidence pretentions that are meant.
Images old have molded.
Although repeatedly they have been sold!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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An Acceptable Way Of Life
Even though there are thieves and deceivers,
And everything imagined corruptable and crooked...
In these days now lived and...worshipped!
To be exposed as they are amongst us.
It is in the pomp and circumstance of the doing,
That treats those delighted...
Who have found they have become addicted.
To allow a wickedness to thrive.
And those opposed against what is now valued,
Are regarded as traitors to an acceptable way of life.
Becoming the ones now accused,
To making drastic changes,
With a restoring of those lost values.
Attempts to correct those wrongs have been protested.
Exposing them for what they are has people outraged
How can anyone eliminated those wrongs uplifted.
To make again those things remembered,
That once had been great and lived as right.
'We will fight to protect our interests that are valued.
We will fight to spread the decadence,
We so love and praise.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Listening and Making Attempts
From Listening and making attempts,
That is how one is known to grow.
I can not expound on something sound,
I have not in my mind yet to know.
And maturing through my life I've found,
A teaching of this that has taught me so.
I can only speak with authority,
From those steps I've taken...
Whether or not,
A direction headed was meant to be.
And where I have not ventured or seen,
Would be difficult for me to fake as reality.
A competence I have chosen for me.
But from my own acquired abilities.
And if I should offend anyone by this?
That is on them to seek a defense.
And not to be an adapted extension,
Of my own existence I still live to experience.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Preference They Have Chosen
The absence of focus,
Of that which approaches others...
Leads them to paying consequences,
An undivided attention could avoid.
Many hurry themselves to conclusions,
To then exclaim...
No one is concerned or shows they do,
Regarding their wellbeing.
Yet the act of that shown to them,
Goes unnoticed...
When their minds are somewhere else.
And that is a preference they have chosen.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Scars
We all have scars.
Some visible and some hidden to the world.
We sometimes try to hide the physically scars because we think it is ugly,
but really having scars is not a bad thing.
It reminds us we can heal and get through the bad times both physically and mentally when we are ripped or torn apart.
So embrace you scars and keep on healing.
For healing and battling is a part of life.
Let people see your scars and how strong you are by healing.
poem by Christina J. Williams
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With A Wishing Of Their Ickiness To Stick
Someone else's troubles aren't that easy to leave.
Especially the ones who come sharing them with ease.
And that one analytical chosing to keep politically correct,
By avoiding those who quickly leap...
On a peace they keep to be kept,
Seem to be directly chosen to be next...
For an elimination of patience.
And an effective tearing down of a peace wished to protect.
There seems always an excuse made,
To dump disrespect...
On those who have earned their peace to keep.
And a happiness one has been blessed to have met.
Even friends, foes and those people that don't know,
Seem to do this in a heartbeat.
With no regard as they break down the walls,
Of that which one guards...
When knowing not to answer certain telephone calls.
People know just who to pest...
With a pestering done to another's quietness.
There seems always an excuse made,
To dump disrespect...
On those who have earned their peace to keep.
And with a wishing of their ickiness to stick has been done,
Those folks don't seem to stay too long after!
They seem to do their icky sticking doing quick,
To then get up and run!
This they do with a dumping done.
People seem to do their icky sticking doing quick.
Then after their performance made...
Without apology,
They get up and run...
As if to gloat with pride by the act of doing it.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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