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brandon nagley Dec 2015
i.

With thee I shan't
Never leaveth;
O' Jane I shan't
Leave.

ii.

With thee I agreeith
In matrimonial
Ceremony;

iii.

I leaveth a key
Outside thine abode;
The key shalt fit inside
Mine aura, thou hast
Unlocked mine soul.

iii.

Entereth in, I'll keepeth
Thou cozy, as thou shalt
Touch mine lip's, and peck
Mine cheek's Rosy.


iv.

A dawn anew,
Spiritual growing;
Pound's art few, ourn
Spirit's art light as feather's,
In the surreal, utopian together.

v.

Foreordained, stains made
White as wool, ivory garb's,
Sweet savour; a distinct flavor,
Wild Asian, unearthly station,
I'm a European patient, as thou
Art an angel, of ourn Lord and Savior.

vi.

The sky open wide
Chocolate pupil's,
Baby blue eyes;
Together a ride of
Chariot mind's, blendid
In fashion's of eternal
Afterlife;




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
Shan't means shall not..for you who don't know . (:::
Towela Kams Oct 2014
I've never really liked the idea of culture
How it supports the African man
For the sins he commits
In closed doors

He calls his father and uncles
And reports his wife from youth
Says she doesn't do anything right
Says she doesn't respect him

Almost immediately,
His Uncle grins
He is reminded that
He once had the same problem

Recites the same words
That he was moulded into
As a young groom
To his wife from youth,

"It's true, they never do anything right.
They don't respect. They don't respect!"

His wife's mother is listening
She has flashbacks as well
From back in her day
She tells her, what her mom told her,

"Don't answer back, Mo. Don't defend yourself. When you're wrong, you shut up. Even when you're right, you shut up!"

She's astonished, but she accepts.
She goes with her husband
To their matrimonial land
As he continues to mock her

On arrival, they meet a lady
The African body, with braids hanging from her head
Beads on her hair, waist and feet
Standing all so proud

"Esther!" He cries. "What--are--you--doing--here?"
"I'm pregnant for you baby!"
"What?!" "Really?!"
"Yes love!"

Mo is about to scream now
Esther has always been a threat to her marriage
But when she tried telling Wanjala, he would lay his hands on her each time
So she keeps quite about the events she witnessed, a month ago, with Wanjala's brother, Sam, and Esther in bed together.

Sam was a good lad. He respected women.
He loved Esther very much. But so did Wanjala.
Wanjala stole her heart recently, simply through a flash of a few coins to her.
Sam was not wealthy as Wanjala.

Esther's baby could belong to Sam.
She can't tell Sam because he never knew about Wanjala's affair with his girlfriend.
She heeds to her mother's advice.
She keeps her mouth shut, like the African woman she is.

She remembers what happened earlier
When she overheard what her uncles said
Her husband had falsely accused her of adultery
And yet, here he is today, receiving the fruits of it.

* The END
The African culture supports men with everything. The African man is arrogant and proud. He is influenced by the crowd which always agrees with him depending on his financial position. The African man can't be told what's wrong and what's right. He is always praised and adored by his fellow men. He has no regard for his wife from youth. The traits of the African man are found in each and every male born and brewed in Africa. I don't want my children to live in such a world with traditions from 100 years ago!

Women, respect your husbands. Esteem him and he'll exalt you. Embrace him and he'll honour you.
Men, respect your wives. Esteem her and she'll exalt you. Embrace her and she'll honour you.
howard brace Sep 2012
He'd been conceived in Flamborough, so his little sister assured him some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole eighteen months his junior and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid, "on this very rock" River insisted, kicking her heels in delight, "next to this very rock pool" they were both sitting beside, "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky... she taunted as the rest of the colourful story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant concealed... she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded close enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
        
     It was conceivably an ill wind that blew no one any good that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister...  Having just taken a well earned drink from a neighbouring rock pool, Sockeye the floppiest Springer Spaniel this side of the Pecos decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching wriggle instead... then promptly flopped over and slid into the hole... life was sweet.  Now covered from nose to tail with every species of deceased shore life usually found frequenting the high water mark Sockeye, in a blinding flash of canine inspiration judged it would be in everyone's best interest were he to have a really good shakedown which always appeared to go down well on these occasions... and give everyone a good peppering, just so they could see exactly what they'd been missing all their lives.  

     "A rock of all places, for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he jumped up and wiped his palms on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then sat back down again and began exploring his left nostril in quiet contemplation before finally jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..?  these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool...  a baby crab marooned by the tide scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss to herself and considered what further mischief she could possibly pass her brother's way.

     Rocky tossed a piece of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby flock of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be a discarded bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch gambolled after the stick, his ears flying courageously in the still Summer air and burst, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping magnificently from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the fratching seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their daily business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.

     After fourteen years of valiant endeavour his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair assembly, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumping gallantly atop his waistband...  

     After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically overlooked anniversary cards a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... his better half, so she insisted would ride rough shod, administering her own brand of justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded revolver... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.  

     Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger badly trapping the mound of his thumb in the process, "Aaargh...!!!" plunging his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rock-pool "aaah...!!!"   Still marooned by the tide, the baby crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good offensive nip, then hang on spitefully as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully used earlier.

     Acknowledging her husbands misfortune with a perfunctory grunt as she rummaged in her beach-bag for the thermos, she refused to be drawn in where thumbs were concerned right now, after all with his DNA sequencing she was convinced he could probably grow a new one within the month... whilst Tina, well... she was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in her direction... and who in turn was more than happy to listen to the woes of others and went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more of poor Mrs Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently..? you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone... and how she couldn't wait...' and as rumour had it, neither could her husband...

      Feigning to be otherwise engaged, Tina... as her husband, now blowing frantically on his mangled thumb, stumbled backwards over the half erected lounger and with a spine jarring "Ooomph...!!!" landed squarely in Sockeye's subsiding earthworks... professed total disassociation with the entire fiasco as she plunged her nose even deeper into the overdue library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to stick with the same itinerary once they returned home... and that while she was here, she did not under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed hanging from the door handle... but if anyone should, then whoever it was did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a mangled thumb she luxuriated, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth as the one normally found playing around her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.

      All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with a certain someone out from under her feet then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock pool comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide was now sat busily knitting four pairs of matching leg warmers in the cool, still water but that was only if that certain someone... a shrill  "AAaargh...!!!" somewhat more desperate than the first, ****** itself upon the as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated across the warm Jurrasic rock and recoiled out to sea... "now where was I", twisting her book uppermost "oh yes..! someone was going to pay..." only now it was going to be sooner rather than later, but only if that certain someone didn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disappeared and drift into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold out, or was that she reflected, simply too much to ask.

     It was his Surname that Rock found so objectionable, or it had been right up until his little sister's enlightening disclosure, now it was both names Rocky disliked, it would have been far kinder had Rock Salmon been sandwiched between sliced bread and given to Sockeye... who's solemn duty, from the first mouthful to the very last, was to gaze up beseechingly from beneath the kitchen table  and devour anything that passed his way, even the postman had to be quick about his business or have his arm follow the mail through the letter box... then Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.  

     All Rocky's mum had thought about for the last fourteen years was seconds... every last solitary one of them since she'd suffered with an infection of matrimonial neurosis which had deprived her of common sense and her maiden name, from Chovey to that of Salmon and how with hindsight she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted was everything the name claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying your condolences to.

     Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good, his grandma-Ann by all accounts had been dead set against the union from word Go and saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth in whatever rock pool he found himself in, swimming against the tide as it were, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rocky, almost eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family... only he couldn't swim.

     "There"! her husband exclaimed "all finished... better late than never eh', who fancies trying it"? his wife luxuriated over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition would complement formal mourning attire.  Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and cautiously took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the last two hours, this was what holidays were all about he declared, one man pitted against insurmountable odds...  His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.  

     Having gathered her offspring with the promise of verbal earache if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally located Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of feathers poked tellingly from the corners of his mouth, his tail beating mischievously on the shingle decided in one further blaze of canine brainstorming, as Tina attempted to slip his collar on that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... Tina then devoted the next ten minutes chasing him amid unrestrained salvo's of cheering from the rest of the family... then bid goodbye to the little crab who, still marooned by the tide waved a friendly pincer in return... and trusted that she wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then she slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have shown you" she snapped "and don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered a jaunty angle with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.  

     "Woof "..? said a bewildered Sockeye, bringing everyone to an abrupt halt... and with paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation on his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress "I've met your sort before" and knew exactly where to place the toe of her dainty size-5 as Sockeye, digging his heals in even further created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband the unwitting holder and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned to clean up his own masculinity and dismantle the recently assembled, now redundant deck-chairs by himself... as for Tina, well... she'd had quite enough excitement for one day thank you very much.

     Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rocky making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite showing a brave face was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long to point out her oversight and... "please Miss" they'd all chant "we haven't had Salmon all week" and while the rest of the class were having convulsive fits, Rocky would elbow the lad sat at the next desk in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays.  Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilarious names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "what's wrong with River Salmon".

                                                      ­                         ...   ...   ...*

a work in progress*                                                        ­                                                              240­6
Mark Armstrong Mar 2018
Are you listening to the whispers? are you feeling scandalised?
Harbouring ***** little feelings that you wanna sanitise?
Walk through the swinging doors of a catholic franchise
Ask em for that sailors knot a black-n-white man-ties

To the pairs of prying eyes his practical rebuke
Is a marital disguise and a tactical puke
Throw the garter ‘mongst the pigeons, the voluntary victims...
Whose single minds are filled with matrimonial conviction

Paired up poets pool their miseries; the price of art
Each miserable synergy - the sum of its parts
Did he swear that he’d hold you ever dear to his heart?
To love and to cherish til your knees did part?

If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?

There she stands on ceremony all silk and sinew
While the vow evicted from his Adam’s apple continues
To stutter as the panic builds like stifled farts
Til it splutters its devotions on her lady parts

Her eyes sentence you to sit though your neck-hairs stand
She’s the ****** ****** written in the lines on your palm
Old scores squeeze sideways through her gritted teeth
And he takes on the debt of every promise she believed

Hide the love-bites in a polo-neck, your love life in a Rolodex
When the ***** hand of happen-stance runs its evil down your keks
Cos like the indelible digits on your bathroom mirror
Love is for life until you dress it with liquor

If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?

We are but experiments, seven billion shades of wrong
The clever ones stay celibate, the others pass it on
That’s an easy line to settle-on in present company
Single-riders in the peloton to pick up the debris
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

The incidences of ***** **** and malevolent  violence
Against women are maddeningly all over
As the number of lives claimed
And broken with stupidly impunity
Women are not safe in the crazy man’s world,
This and that to protect women and girls
From gender-maniac violence,
Particularly idiotic ****
And other forms of ****** imperialism
And all other forms of beastly violence
In situations of lunacy of man’s armed conflict
Punctuated by most bamboozling de-civilization
In the nature of resolution reads like capitalist utopian ideal
Women have been the victims of lumpen ****** violence
Since the start of the prosaic propertied conflict
While thousands more have been killed after menacing ****
Uhm; Congo, Mali, central Africa, Iraq, Afghanistan,
Kenyan in patients, Eldoret Nandi militia armed to death with arsenal of ****
****** forlorn foreign victims justifying political primitivism
Tortured, abducted, held to devilish ransom
Or used as human shields
Of the perpetrators being held accountable
For their actions, who can pique
When **** of women creates power
Abuse of women in war is as old foolish male avarice
As is the culture of tribal impunity that helps to breed it
But too much is known about the devastating agony of women
And lasting effects of ****** violence on bigoted individuals,
You generation of the serpent; when are stopping **** of women?
You continue ****** fearless devoid of legal repercussions
I do not think your ***** will be blessed anyhow
You ***** my sister because of the very nature of her vulnerability
Because our family is beautifully powerful and politically powerless
But if there was a way for us to make sure
That every single ***** that rapes is
Chopped of and given to victims in compensation
These would make fair claim for justice,
Here at least the signal would be sent
That people-****** will be shamefully accountable
Them rapists, for what they do
Out of Yet flamboyant patriarchal cultures
Where the stigma of **** overwhelms victims
Perilizing Matrimonial and parental loyalty,
Discouraging victimized women
From  coming  forward to  document
Bitter experiences creating  a struggle within a struggle,

In admitting what has been done to them,
O ! Victims of ****** assault in
**** is so powerful precisely
Because of the stigma in transit
This male a weapon with a long after-life
Is less than the war injury that only leaves  mutations
Dignifying the victim as it does not carry
Psychological and cultural implications ****** robbery
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us’d,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam’d. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death’s harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d;
Or Neptune’s ire, or Juno’s, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea’s son:                        

If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor’d,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas’d me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem’d chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign’d; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon’d shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall’d feast
Serv’d up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem.  Me, of these
Nor skill’d nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress’d; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
Twilight upon the earth, short arbiter
“twixt day and night, and now from end to end
Night’s hemisphere had veil’d the horizon round:
When satan, who late fled before the threats
Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv’d
In meditated fraud and malice, bent
On Man’s destruction, maugre what might hap
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned
From compassing the earth; cautious of day,
Since Uriel, regent of the sun, descried
His entrance, and foreworned the Cherubim
That kept their watch; thence full of anguish driven,
The space of seven continued nights he rode
With darkness; thrice the equinoctial line
He circled; four times crossed the car of night
From pole to pole, traversing each colure;
On the eighth returned; and, on the coast averse
From entrance or Cherubick watch, by stealth
Found unsuspected way.  There was a place,
Now not, though sin, not time, first wrought the change,
Where Tigris, at the foot of Paradise,
Into a gulf shot under ground, till part
Rose up a fountain by the tree of life:
In with the river sunk, and with it rose
Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought
Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,
From Eden over Pontus and the pool
Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;
Downward as far antarctick; and in length,
West from Orontes to the ocean barred
At Darien ; thence to the land where flows
Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed
With narrow search; and with inspection deep
Considered every creature, which of all
Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found
The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.
Him after long debate, irresolute
Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose
Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom
To enter, and his dark suggestions hide
From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake
Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,
As from his wit and native subtlety
Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed,
Doubt might beget of diabolick power
Active within, beyond the sense of brute.
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief
His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built
With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred
For what God, after better, worse would build?
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens
That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps,
Light above light, for thee alone, as seems,
In thee concentring all their precious beams
Of sacred influence!  As God in Heaven
Is center, yet extends to all; so thou,
Centring, receivest from all those orbs: in thee,
Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears
Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth
Of creatures animate with gradual life
Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man.
With what delight could I have walked thee round,
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned,
Rocks, dens, and caves!  But I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heaven’s Supreme;
Nor hope to be myself less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts; and, him destroyed,
Or won to what may work his utter loss,
For whom all this was made, all this will soon
Follow, as to him linked in weal or woe;
In woe then; that destruction wide may range:
To me shall be the glory sole among
The infernal Powers, in one day to have marred
What he, Almighty styled, six nights and days
Continued making; and who knows how long
Before had been contriving? though perhaps
Not longer than since I, in one night, freed
From servitude inglorious well nigh half
The angelick name, and thinner left the throng
Of his adorers: He, to be avenged,
And to repair his numbers thus impaired,
Whether such virtue spent of old now failed
More Angels to create, if they at least
Are his created, or, to spite us more,
Determined to advance into our room
A creature formed of earth, and him endow,
Exalted from so base original,
With heavenly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed,
He effected; Man he made, and for him built
Magnificent this world, and earth his seat,
Him lord pronounced; and, O indignity!
Subjected to his service angel-wings,
And flaming ministers to watch and tend
Their earthly charge: Of these the vigilance
I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist
Of midnight vapour glide obscure, and pry
In every bush and brake, where hap may find
The serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds
To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.
O foul descent! that I, who erst contended
With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained
Into a beast; and, mixed with ******* slime,
This essence to incarnate and imbrute,
That to the highth of Deity aspired!
But what will not ambition and revenge
Descend to?  Who aspires, must down as low
As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last,
To basest things.  Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils:
Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed,
Since higher I fall short, on him who next
Provokes my envy, this new favourite
Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite,
Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised
From dust: Spite then with spite is best repaid.
So saying, through each thicket dank or dry,
Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on
His midnight-search, where soonest he might find
The serpent; him fast-sleeping soon he found
In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled,
His head the midst, well stored with subtile wiles:
Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den,
Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb,
Fearless unfeared he slept: in at his mouth
The Devil entered; and his brutal sense,
In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired
With act intelligential; but his sleep
Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.
Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed
Their morning incense, when all things, that breathe,
From the Earth’s great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
And joined their vocal worship to the quire
Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake
The season prime for sweetest scents and airs:
Then commune, how that day they best may ply
Their growing work: for much their work out-grew
The hands’ dispatch of two gardening so wide,
And Eve first to her husband thus began.
Adam, well may we labour still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower,
Our pleasant task enjoined; but, till more hands
Aid us, the work under our labour grows,
Luxurious by restraint; what we by day
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
One night or two with wanton growth derides
Tending to wild.  Thou therefore now advise,
Or bear what to my mind first thoughts present:
Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
For, while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
Our day’s work, brought to little, though begun
Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned?
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond
Compare above all living creatures dear!
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed,
How we might best fulfil the work which here
God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass
Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found
In woman, than to study houshold good,
And good works in her husband to promote.
Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
Labour, as to debar us when we need
Refreshment, whether food, or talk between,
Food of the mind, or this sweet *******
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food;
Love, not the lowest end of human life.
For not to irksome toil, but to delight,
He made us, and delight to reason joined.
These paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands
Will keep from wilderness with ease, as wide
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
Assist us; But, if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield:
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
Envying our happiness, and of his own
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
Whether his first design be to withdraw
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
To whom the ****** majesty of Eve,
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replied.
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth’s Lord!
That such an enemy we have, who seeks
Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,
And from the parting Angel over-heard,
As in a shady nook I stood behind,
Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
To God or thee, because we have a foe
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such
As we, not capable of death or pain,
Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire:
Not diffident of thee do I dissuade
Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid
The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
For he who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
The tempted with dishonour foul; supposed
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
Against temptation: Thou thyself with scorn
And anger wouldst resent the offered wrong,
Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,
If such affront I labour to avert
From thee alone, which on us both at once
The enemy, though bold, will hardly dare;
Or daring, first on me the assault shall light.
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn;
Subtle he needs must be, who could ******
Angels; nor think superfluous other’s aid.
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive
Access in every virtue; in thy sight
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel
When I am present, and thy trial choose
With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
So spake domestick Adam in his care
And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought
Less attributed to her faith sincere,
Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met;
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
By us? who rather double honour gain
From his surmise proved false; find peace within,
Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
Let us not then suspect our happy state
Left so imperfect by the Maker wise,
As not secure to single or combined.
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
O Woman, best are all things as the will
Of God ordained them: His creating hand
Nothing imperfect or deficient left
Of all that he created, much less Man,
Or aught that might his happy state secure,
Secure from outward force; within himself
The danger lies, yet lies within his power:
Against his will he can receive no harm.
But God left free the will; for what obeys
Reason, is free; and Reason he made right,
But bid her well be ware, and still *****;
Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised,
She dictate false; and mis-inform the will
To do what God expressly hath forbid.
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
And fall into deception unaware,
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
Go; for thy stay, not fre
Sally A Bayan Jun 2014
I never got to meet my father...
He died when I was nine months old,
But his presence, I always felt
While I was growing up,
Even up to this day...

He would often visit me in my dreams,
Told me not to worry or despair,
Took my hand,
Told me I could go with him..
Which I almost did...

A few times, in high school
I felt a light push on my back
When my Home Economics teacher
Almost caught me nodding...I was
Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons...

I was always saved from falling
Each time I climbed the guava tree...
I feel some kind of force stopping me,
Standing ahead of me,
Whenever I cross the street, even now...

My late aunt said she found me
Looking up and giggling
When at three or five years old,
I played by myself beside
My father's tall and sturdy book case...

I see his face when I go through
His dwindling collection of
Edgar Allan Poe books, including his
Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left,
All, with mottled pages now...

The matrimonial bed he shared
With my late mother is still in use...
His portrait is hung on our wall...
Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday,
I look through his eyes, and-----

In silence, I greet him,
"Happy birthday, papa,
Happy Father's Day, as well."
In my mind, my father lives,
And my own stories of him therein dwells...

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***Happy Father's Day to all fathers here on HP! ***
Oladeji popoola Jan 2019
This place was once God’s pious station.
Humanity is the song we sing to him.
The leaves praise him with peaceful African breeze, the breeze of our God.
The children of our mother earth were not left out of the feeling that planted oneness in the minds of the *******. Stone, that was what their minds were known for.

Life was then a simple sphere but now complicated and shapeless.
Life was then soft like unwithered breast but now a
granite. Then hearts was glaring but now, Africa and their black hearts.

See them,
They are crucifying humanity in the house of our God.
They are crucifying humanity in the court of law.
They are crucifying humanity on the matrimonial beds.
They are crucifying humanity on the aisle of power.
They are crucifying humanity for legal tenders.
They are crucifying humanity to be a god.
They are crucifying humanity in the struggle of religion.
They are crucifying humanity to calm the raging stomach.
They are crucifying humanity for thrones.
They are crucifying humanity in front of humanity.
They are crucifying humanity everywhere.
Now humanity is on the verge of death.
See them as they are whipping him.
See his skin as it swell to burst.
They are punching him, they want to punch him to
death.
Can you see those barbarian as they merry with the melody of crucifixion. Humanity is their scape goat.

Humanity is dead in theirs
but it is still alive in your heart,
It is still alive in your words.
Humanity must be alive in our home.
Let humanity live in Africa as free citizen.
If you are guilty of his death what do you gain?
Lunar Mar 2016
It was a rainy night. He took out his umbrella, opened it, and it soon engulfed the both of us. "Hey, you're getting wet," he said. He pulled me closer to him, his arms like the umbrella protecting me, protecting us from the drizzle.

I snapped out of my daydream to find him weirdly staring at me, and asked him, "What, do I have something on my face?"

"No, it's just... why are you staring into space?"

Our footsteps made little splashes, puddles reflected a thousand images of us. These pictures from nature will not last for a lifetime but the rain was our witness, as if the skies were crying at a matrimonial ceremony.

I took a step away from him to let the memory of him soak in me. He stands there in the rain innocently, with umbrella in hand, waiting for me to respond. Breathing out, I told him: "Ask me what I think of you right now."

"Wait, what? Are we going to play a game?" That usual what-is-going-on look still stupidly plastered on his angelic face. "Well, what do you think of me right now, then?"

I didn't hesitate and the first word that automatically left my lips were 'umbrella'.

"Umbrella? Do I look that thin to you, really?" He said dryly as he gave me an uninspired look. He shook his head in disbelief and pouted. "And I thought you'd relate me at least to the rain."

"Umbrella: definition for a protecting force or influence," I told him as I stood in place. I side-glanced at him to find a spark lighted up in his eyes as his shoulders loosened. "You're my umbrella because I need you in rainy days and sunny ones. Literally because of your stature to block the sun or cover me when it rains," I laughed. "And it's not because you're thin like one, silly. But how you comfortingly stretch out your arms to me when it's a bad day for me. How you guard me from others' icy remarks. It feels like a need to have you around wherever I go."

He cleared his throat jokingly and added, "Might I say I also take you high like Mary Poppins' umbrella." He burst out laughing as I glared at him for his poorly done innuendo.

But right there and then as I rolled my eyes at him, he dropped the umbrella, grabbed me by my waist and kissed me as light as the raindrops kissing our skin. He broke off after a while and said, "Getting wet, are we?"

Before I could claw at him for his second pun, he released me as I chased him down, not caring if I would get a fever later. But sometimes I just wonder how did I come to like, fall in love, and love him-- basically feel every emotion with him. In all truth, he wasn't just my umbrella, but also my home whom I'll always return to at the end of all my days. Umbrella or home, he is my shelter.
I have yet again attempted, and I don't think I went anywhere much with the ending, I'm so sorry to my readers and myself.

But yes. Wjh is my umbrella.
Jamie King Mar 2015
Matrimonial stars in aisles of Auroral rainbows. Mizzling rays of twilights, arraying bays with skylines of lucent waves.
  
A plethora of scarlet roses reposed in florid clouds. Ashore the Giddy ocean in a gentle motion, caressing Mali garnets, mirroring effulgent lights, kissing the mountaintops before refulgent nights.
lost in moments of bliss thinking There is beauty all around us earth is beautiful life is beautiful you're beautiful
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
This is one of the racier "Memories" poems by the great Barry Hodges, my alter ego.
It might well make you come involuntarily in your ******.

How happy was I once with the wind in my hair
Wandering o'er the dales with joyousness unmeasur'd,
In the sweet long passed innocent days of platonic love
When stolen gropes and kiss were to be treasured.

But all good and true things come to a sad close
And my poor first love lies in her grave so sorrowfully
Having been crushed to death by a runaway steamroller
Before I managed to go all the way quite thoroughly.

What a waste of delightful teenage flesh was that
Yet perhaps I had a narrow escape from the derangement
Which might have been mine had our trysting
Led to a semi-permanent matrimonial arrangement.

For I recall one afternoon in the old ABC cinema
In the delighful Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate,
Sitting next to my gorgeous love in the back row,
Exploring her not so very private parts on a hot date.

How I cursed the management's niggardly folly
In not showing a film with hot romantic blood
But saving pathetic pennies by putting on
Daffy ******* Duck and Elmer ******* Fudd.

But yet I perserved with my digital explorations
Unaware that the throbs my fingers felt were no dream
But darling Elsie laughing like a proverbial drain
At Daffy's hilarious anatine adventures on-screen.

'Twas then I began to wonder about the viscous liquid
I had hitherto imagined was Elsie's lovejuice flowing
(dear, dear reader, cease your perusal of my tale forthwith
if you are of a nervous disposition or prone to food up-throwing)*.

It was only a careful examination of my sopping knuckles
In the dimly lit gents after old Daffy's film was done and dusted
Which revealed that my dearly beloved had leaked
Big time out of both ends, leaving my fingers well encrusted.

O to think that, but for Daffy, I might have been lumbered
With a different kind of bird for whom double incontinence
Was a way of life (thus, the fatal steamroller she encountered
The very next day was a blessing from kindly Providence).
Marco ASF Couto Feb 2014
It's Raining but the Rain doesn't make me wet, or at least I don't really care if it gets me wet.
It's cold but the cold doesn't give me shivers, I'm too **** out of mercy to shake out of pitty.
Has anyone ever thought if the rain and the wind perhaps needed some matrimonial consulting?
Maybe I should get a Master's in "Reverse Psychology" and later try a Phd in "Sarcasm Applied to Tradicional Knowledge".
You see,I got a bachelor's in Cinema and TV Production when all I wanted was to write a story about a broken man who loved another human being too much, or perhaps in case of not enough budget, a dog.
Yes... I'm that frustrated if you fancy going around your mind wondering and doing wrong judgments on my personality.
**** I really think the rain and the wind need some matrimonial consulting.
Anyway...
How can you ask sorry to a clown for not laughing?
How can you ask sorry to a wife for not loving?
How can you ask sorry to humanity for waking up after 1pm?
How can you ask sorry to your own body for letting it get all soaked wet?
You would be surprised by the amount of people in the world that don't know how to take a decent coffee and still don't ask sorry for it.
It's not like I'm trying to justify my own bads but these people should definitely ask sorry for theirs.
Alright now, You may be wondering why am I here?
Well, I'm here because I dont have anywhere else to go.
I'm here because I told my now ex girlfriend that 'Im tired of doing everything around home when actually I do nothing at all, so she got all upset and told me to leave,then I told her I wouldnt leave since that was my apartment as well, when actually that was really only her apartment, which she has been paying the rent and bills with the good amount of cash she has been getting from her suprisingly good position at Mills&Albert; Lawyers Company.
She's been ******* the boss anyway...
Well I guess, can't prove it... actually I never thought of it before, just now.
Again not trying to justify anything here.
You know...I've been this kind of guy who spends too much time doing nothing and the rest of the time hiding books that I want, but I shall never read cuz Im too lazy, behind the shelves of the library, so no one can take them away from me.
It's all my fault anyway.
I should have become a doctor of some kind or an engineer or a movie star or a rock start(I knew how to play the bass really fine)but instead I chose to be a loser, and let me tell you that's a pretty hard decision to make... and a brave one as well.
It's like you are sacrificing all your talents in behalf of the world, because the world needs losers to pin down "shame levels" which you shouldn't reach.
Alright Maybe Im just trying to justify something here but anyway... now it's done, now it's too late, isn't it?
Talking about late... I don't think there are buses this late.
Mike Arms Dec 2011
In the wild
You are left to consider graffiti disasters
hatched from gypsy palates
Vanished in music through spiders

In a wilderness of orange viral light
Moths push from the lips of willow switch
Geishas who stargaze on
Matrimonial black powder

In our wilderness of birth the
Name of Fire is swallowed by moths
We are reborn in Geisha operas
Over the embers of burned invention

You sign the word for sand
In a lamplight hem
A voice skating chalk
Points over pearl

Its pitch wound in a white
Arched wax arm
Ticking the membrane
In her submerged bell
Autumn Oct 2014
Darling,
in the event of a zombie apocalypse,
I’m gonna marry you.
I know, that romantic testimonial
isn’t quite the matrimonial proposition
you were expecting,
but I’m projecting a lovely future for us!

You see, when the dead break free,
I’ll come save you.
I’ll be your knight in shining Kevlar,
your cranium-crushing crusader,
and safe in our barricaded bungalow,
we’ll match moans for groans
with the shambling horde outside.

We’ll make love ’til death do we part,
or at least til we start
to run out of supplies,
and if we get in a pinch,
I’ve got a surprise:
see, I’ll paralyze them with poetry,
’cause if there’s anything
a zombie understands, it’s desire.

Meanwhile,
you lay down suppressive fire
and we’ll take out as many as we can.
If in the end we are overrun,
I’ll let them take me
so you can get away.

They can have my brain–
it’s my heart that beats for you.
Ochiogu Kevin Feb 2010
Medical preys;
unwanted grasses
on female pasture;
yet over determined to exist.

Victims!
to pleasurable sins

Murdered!
by we who bekoned them.
To save faces

and intergrity;
To erase footprints
and outcome of our sins.
but you never cease to surface,
at any ****** call;

Never afraid of the death
warrant
nor the murderous act.
Brave unborn souls,
sacrificial lambs
of human immorality,
''cleansing off our sins''.
Yet answerable
to any ****** call
wishing it sinless
by matrimony.
Beauty of a marital love,
essence of a matrimonial
act.innocent
of all innocents,
One with God!,

Wisdom of the ancient!
The first measures
of purity.
But; where goes
the astral wisdoms
after the humanization?
where you compelled
to be born,
revoltless of the ******
of your unborn kind?
was it karmic purposed?
brandon nagley Feb 2016
i.

Alleluia, I proclaim, six month's it hath been, an eternestial
Keep. None need for word's to cometh out of mine mouth and lips, none need for mine sight to peep. For now; soundly do I sleep. Slumbering in mine dulcet Jane's deepest desires and wishes.

ii.

Every fibril of mineself, shalt be tucked away in her niches, warm and cozy therein I wilt abode; I wouldst selleth all possessions, to be next to her, though I knoweth patience hath
Us on hold.

iii.

In the meanwhile, we shalt cosmogyral, ground to air, a many whilsts. Creshinta lovenairs, O' another six month's wilt cometh again. A lifetime I looketh forward to, kindred spirit, best friend.

iv.

I will not cease, from building upon thee ourn bedrock, thus the ticking hand tick's away, and the minutes betray the clock's. In heaven amour, is where we do belong, with melodious angel's singing hymn's; and saint's to play ourn song. We wilt forever be, six month's from now, six year's, six generation's, six hundred fear's, six-thousand kisses, six million glares, six billon glimpses, of thee mine wife and me all ourn lives. In matrimonial bozeere.

©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
eternestial- is a word I made up, which means ( eternal and celestial) meaning eternal and heavenly.
Fibril- a small or slender fiber.
Niches- or niche- place or position....
Therein- means in that place.  
Abode- means stay...
Creshinta- is a word I made up meaning+( a love so true others can't and won't believe in it.. That's how good it is. (:::))))
cosmogyral means- whirling around the universe.
Whilst- means while. Whilsts- means more than a while lol.
lovenairs- is a word I made up- means lovers of the air.
Bedrock- fundamental principles in which somethings based!!
Bozeere- is last word I made up- it means- a bliss that can come from God alone. Not world's bliss.
Aiden Williams Jan 2013
Pure sweetness from natures *****,
It's true taste magnified by its beauty.
A Rose among nettles
Even a sample comes from a dreamscape of perfection.

Fresh from the combs of bee's,
A honey so thick,
An aroma so beautiful
It encompasses the mind
With the likeness of heaven itself.

Sugary sweet,
Like when two tongues meet
In a matrimonial ceremony of love.
There is no sweetness
Like the sweetness of
Brown sugar
Sugar that has been granted from up above.
Sam Hawkins Dec 2016
sensations of purples

streaks of luminous black
dashing my eyes

star woman her wisdom
my body

star man sliding into view

blissful laughter
echoing my heart

was it God Truth speaking?
Will you marry me?

Yes! Yes! I cried
And I shall marry you again
tomorrow
!
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Relationships are not easy-peasy,,
Some take work, some, self-sacrifice.

Some must overcome defects congenital,
Obstacles so great that the Roman Gods
Are asked to intervene,
Send down those hotties, the fiery Furies,
who punished crimes at the instigation
of the soon to be frozen victims

So to the chase,
let's cut,
My woman's has true blood,
H2O
In solid state.

Her body is icy, permanent frosty,
And requires regular de-icing
Before Take Off.
This condition being true of her
Every part except, her prima facie.

Even the bed complains,
Whining creeks and groans,
Sometimes it even screams,
When she get in sans pajamas.

I,
A bastion of extra human warmth,
As my poems bear witness,
Normal temp is 102,
I am the joy of her life,
For love, I make the
Ultimate sacrifice.

Her feet, medieval torture instruments,
Her bare hands, have
Killed lesser men and folkloric-ly,
Reputedly, she has flash froze and keeps
Some vampires in the basement fridge,
Suitable for reheating in the microwave.

You may think this charming,
This poem, an amuse-bouche,
But it ain't funny when I go to the
Emergency room for first degree burns.

Remember when Ralph's friend
Got his tongue stuck to the metal pole,
In "A Christmas Story"?
That was me, that was her!

But our together,
Approaching near five years,
Is a Survivor.
Two hurricanes, ******* named
Irene and Sandy,
A divorce from a mean spirited wbitch
That took so long
The Matrimonial Lawyers ***-ociation
Had my portrait painted over their fireplace.

Even the icicles otherwise know correctly as
Her Extremities,
Have not come between us

When my lips kiss her neck,
Surgically remove heart with poetic scalpels,
Hold it, fluttering and with both hands, warm.

Her eyes close, and neuronic messages
Commence firing, telegraphed, messengered,
To the far corners of every Purim Persian province,
Let the wicked witch melting begin,
Commence the holiday of
Her Festivities.

If you think any man,
Could perform said feat of endurance,
You better checkout again the name of the
Man who authored this story,
For his name, with special powers, endowed.
OnwardFlame Jul 2016
Gimmie that
Red, white, and blue
Guess ******* who
Sling and grenades on our backs
Hold down my hat
Dress her all up in white
He got his tie on
We gonna perform a lap dance
With our tinsels and our tongue.

Homeboy he so sweet, got me on repeat
If I could throw down all the safety nets
We wouldn't quit just yet
My nails long and strong
But I fear all the fuckboys doin' me wrong

We gonna
We gonna get
We gonna get married
I look so good, so sweet
Standing off to the side while you on stage
Kissed ya full on the lips
The night my movie dropped
Pop, pop goes the weasel
Our brains combined
Could create the best
Love child
But baby you my best friend, would create
Mayhem with or without you
But please don't go that way
Don't want you to ever not stay
And if we play this game
It might turn out that way.

I smoked some **** after we got off the phone
Drown myself in peanut butter
Got that writers block
At times I do, I think I'm just a thot
But we promise hugs galore
I would pray but I don't believe in God much
So I let my spirituality sweet sun rise
Kingdom, thinkin' and speakin'
Praises to the dirt, the earth, the sky
Make me new, make me new.

Its true, I do love you
But it can't be like that
No, it can't be like that
You ain't evil
But I got witches brew
Reply back with your rhymes and reason
If you brave.
Safana Aug 2021
The long distance
is coming shortly,
The time which
sun is waiting for
the stars to dance
is nearby, and the
promise made by
the by moon is at the
stage of fulfilment,
The day await is
nearby to witness
the matrimonial
ceremonies....
Raj Arumugam Jul 2011
now, I was just minding
my own business
brought up by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and graced with divine revelations;
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and so minding my own business
and vowed to matrimonial chastity in mind
never looking at another woman
and never thinking of another ever

I mean no one thought
looking at Mona Lisa
even in my younger days
was ever bad; they simply said:
Oh, Mona Lisa…what a painting!
so I went about years
chaste, pure and I think, angelic,
until these women come into art books
and now more readily in cyber-life
like Rembrandt’s Bathing Woman -
oh, how could I not look?
She, Hendrickje, more natural and
more come-here-you than
today’s airbrushed digitally enhanced beauties…
O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
entering the water
and lifting up her dress
so it won’t get wet
but O – was that really her intention?
Or perhaps to entice Rembrandt further?
Or to look at her own reflection?
and then what about us, full-blooded men of latter-days –
O Rembrandt, what have you done?
how can I not look, and look?
and come back to look again?
and under pretence of aesthetics I trace every
limb and curve of Hendrickje, O Hendrickje –
I become a Rembrandt of sorts,
just tracing lines on her image

O these cyberspace beauties
they corrupt my high ideals
And Rembrandt says across the ages:
Remember you your traditions and virtue…
And the morally upright say:
Hey! She was Rembrandt’s woman!
And I can only quip: Yeah - she was!

and leaving it at that
with O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
gazing at her own reflection
and I wondering what she sees –
well, after Hendrickje, O Hendrickje
am I safe? you think?
Then come the women of Japan –
for instance
A woman Applying Powder
while Hashiguchi Goyō sketched and mixed his paints -
and why? Oh why, Hashiguchi Goyō?
why do you release these sirens, these women
this Woman after her Bath
this Woman combing her hair -
O these mistresses of the arts
O why release them
on my sensitive and pure
and morally upright mind?
O why you do corrupt
such a one
such a noble mind
that centuries of spiritual values jousted one another
to produce? Such a delicate specimen as I am.
Or may be
all these women should be deleted from cyberspace
and only decent women with quizzical smiles like
Mona Lisa should prevail…
Sure, we don’t know what she’s smiling about
but at least Old Lisa’s not as dangerous
as youthful Hendrickje, O Hendrickje -
or
as the Woman Applying Powder
baring her shoulders and her Japanese *****…
I mean, how can I not look?
and come back again to look?
O my adulterous heart!
but delete them all
or black them out
or cover them all up from head to foot
(technology can do wonders nowadays)
so
I can just be minding
my own business
brought to you by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and divine revelations
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and I’ll end up in Heaven after all my Holy Days
and for my Eternal Holidays there
I’ll be given all the virgins I’ll ever want
companion print: Woman Applying Powder by Hashiguchi Goyō, 1918/also see Kamisuki (Combing the hair) in my previous poem; other works of art I wish I could show you: "Woman After Bath," 1920 by Hashiguchi Goyō; Rembrandt's Bathing woman, modelled by Hendrickje, 1654; Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci; the illustrated Kama Sutra; works and art and performances I cannot show you: various **** websites...
Chase Gagnon Jan 2015
I want to starve for my art with you
until our faces have sunk in
and our shy skeletons have shown themselves
through our skin, scarred with regrets and tattoos.
I want to write with you
until we hallucinate those skeletons leaping from our bodies
and waltzing with each other while we lay
limp and high on the floor —
until we have nothing left but each other
and stacks upon stacks of 99-cent notebooks
filled with testaments of our madness
and love
like some kind of unholy matrimonial vows
that bind us together
with a silver coil.

I want to paint on the walls with you
until our ****** apartment becomes a gallery
the best gallery in New York
that no one will know about,
at least until we OD
and the stench of our frail bodies leads them here
to these walls painted with the last of our strength.
Until you know how it feels to have death
breathing on your neck
and offering to buy you a drink
and take you home
to pick your mind like a gentleman.

Let’s write our story
then jump from the bridge of sanity
that connects the pointless gap between reality
and the brick wall on the other side
that looms over humanity—
so fall with me
until you know what it's like
to be loved by a poet
who most think is dead inside.
Until you know that I am beautiful
when you step into this little world
that I’ve made up like a god
with one big bang
of imagination and lies
spiraling forever into a darkness
that no one but me
will ever comprehend.
She is beautiful beyond measure, excellence
She is gorgeously brilliant,
Her skin reflects the heavens dark canvas.
Her essence illuminates
like the stars lighting up the skies,
journeying across the galaxies many years away.
I backstroke deep within the depths of
her ******* celestial milky ways. Wet Misty ocean spray erupts, splashing all over my body and face.
Her u ni versal magic causes all kinds of havoc.
She ferociously drags me under submerging me, deep in her underwater ballot. Keggle rip currents pulling me deeper into the depths of her dark melanin hole.
Behold I can feel her heartbeat.
Exhale, with asthmatic like breathing as we engaged together, unified harmoniously simutainulously. I can feel the vibrations of her eccentric, electric current flow.
I plugged into her slow, submerging into her soul. Surging to converged as one, Matrimonial we shall dance forever from dawn to dust until death do us part.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
free from the irishman's arbeit macht frei on the building site:
****** worked the tools for a few years, got promoted and started
to kiss pig snouts - thinks he's the god Merovingian,
people hallucinate a potato where
his head ought to be and laugh -
well, how the most of society is sheltered
from the construction site in the west:
foreigners out! willkommen... now you
get you spoofs to do the hardened labours -
see how they fair, poncy fairies couldn't
even lift a shitload of bricks: but there they
go into the temple of hamster wheels
and brass muscles and kissing bicep meat-heads...
they could be utilised to generate enough
power to provide energy for a corner shops -
so yeah, the Romanians were on holiday,
it took them 5 days to reach their village
flying from London to Bucharest -
the cultural improvement of the Kazakh nation
was filmed there, after 5 weeks free from
the shackles of the irishman's version of
Auschwitz: a regular staple around here,
i get the smuggled cigarettes -
but after smoking tobacco smuggled from
god knows where, these Benson & Hedges
feel like torpedoes between the index and middle...
odd what 3 packets of 50g tobacco does to
perception, for a while i was smoking chop-sticks,
next thing i'm smoking torpedoes thick bulging
sticks - the smoke v. drink dynamic changes...
is Mary Poppins about to teach me a lesson
in how the HM & Revenue is sacred?
i hated that nanny when she said: to preserve
the health of the public, and to invoke a need
for proper taxation... well... **** that...
ever smoke Беломорканал сигареты?
       (belomorkanal sigarety)?
i thought you haven't, i have, i wouldn't even know
where to begin if i had to lie and tell you
i visited the Lenin mausoleum -
Беломорканал сигареты though? see the neo-Greek
in Cyrillic, or as? talk about evolution, i'd talk
more about more recent events in linguistic,
how Greek evolved in Cyrillic and Latin into added
diacritical markings: English held onto puritan Latin
impression way too long, instead of diacritical markings
we have U.S.A. accents, Scottish Irish and Welsh accents,
regional accents in England, Australian and South African...
it's like this inverse sense of insomnia:
    the sun never, ever, ******* sets on English,
steroids and amphetamines, continually news -
must be hard to keep up, to keep the local reference
in a world adequately suited for the day-to-day
marching orders - but yeah, smoked those cigarettes -
they don't have filters, well, cardboard "filters" -
you squeezed the ends and smoked the workman's
tobacco - while you were digging that god awful trench:
the white sea-baltic canal - and she was the lovely
middle-class lady who introduced me into smoking
them, after she realised she had the poker hand -
it always happens when the middle-classes meddle
with someone originating in the working class
who wants to become a chemist... they say: work!
whip for a tongue... i swear you need shampoos and toothpaste...
oh right, i'm from the land of brick and mortar?
well, if you're going to maim me, damage me,
obviously i'll stage a rebellion utilising poetry...
should have left me after infringing the damage on me,
should have left me to do the work...
but no... she calls me up and exposes me to
a schizophrenic virus: i.e. the atypical symptom -
and i'm like: huh? voices? what are voices?
what do you meaning you're hearing voices?
i guess the conscience kicked in -
                         oh how angelic everyone thinks they are...
    i call these symptoms: a rotten conscience,
  the fact that anyone would appreciate having one
is already a miracle... but seeing it rotting
    is a bit like a Dorian Gray revelation -
shock! awe! but the picture is there!
                                               funny how people who
plan a baby sometimes never score,
              and funnier still how some people invoke
   getting impregnated without the state's laws
of matrimony to blackmail a man into matrimonial
laws, use the meanest, bleakest, bile-fuelled mechanism
to erase the person from all the pages of life,
   then spectacularly fail: a bit like Jesus on the third day,
and the person in question blahs his way into
   something resembling life -  the typical
Hollywood plot: they killed him, but he got away...
        now i'm just waiting for a Mr. Chapman to finish
the job properly - because he might say:
                                his talent started waning...
    oh sure... i'd love to reach threescore & ten -
  and wait for the gimmick post-: every year after that
   is god's blessing... can i speak to the god in Sudan?
   can i get an audience? no? ah ****.
better start planning early mortality plans
while others are thinking of retirement.
                **** me! i used to be so into life that i'd
probably have written a poem a month apart -
    and now i'm left with a ****** biography that
could be encompassed in a year...
   i'm not even obsessing about it, it's just an elephant
in a box room that started snorting ******* and
playing jazz real good -
                                 then they blamed me on marijuana,
   i'd be the laziest person alive if i overdid that drug...
and however much i tried to become a Catholic
apostate, not getting confirmed and what:
   i was forced into Christian lessons of forgiveness,
only because i didn't have enough money to
pursue an argument in court... grand... just pitch-***
perfect -              mind you, they are really ****** lessons,
    i wouldn't go banging them to anyone
  who hasn't experienced injustice in this world:
gravity is probably the only law we can all experience
with true justice... as you can see, gravity wasn't
man-made... so good luck arguing your cases
     with murderers not being punished
  thieves not having their hands cut off for stealing jewels...
   if anyone was god at the birth of Christianity,
it was only Pontius Pilate - he washed his hands clean
from the matter... to me that's who god was in that
story... i'm washing my hands of anything that
might come from this.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
how many decimal points would it take to create
                                                                ­a 2 = 2 scenario?
maybe the cultured swine in me asks such
questions, or perhaps i don't have
enough practical, matrimonial and
heterosexual worries in my life to ask
such a question in the first place?
would it take 2 = 2.00000000000000002?
how many denials
             then?
       maybe i'm asking a question like this
to start trending a nuanced vogue
amidst
            the most discriminated form of
humanity, namely white heterosexual men?
hmm... perhaps.
      last night i watched a movie adaptation
of a video game: can i just say that
Mario Bros. worked, but
the intricacy of game becoming movie can
only work when you get sore thumbs...
can these people: who play or design such games
ever write a novel? nearing two hours into
the movie and i was chanting with a variety
of onomatopoeias a zombie apocalypse
best summarised by the words: agony drool...
well d'uh.. e ragrammaton is a sneaky ******,
pops up everywhere in language,
      while looking for the post-Heraclitean logos
within the framework of phonos
  i came across the surd dynamic of four:
well, three, the H-twins and the trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, leaving Y as the tangen
and a focal point of convergence...
    and Jesus paid no respect the name -
i could tattoo pharisee on my *** and burp
    through it... there, four prime surds...
in Sanskrit: dhaal... you sort of jump over the h
and add a macron: dāl... but let's face it:
the aesthetic is sorta missing, what you hear
and what you see are cued combatants...
              why am i writing this? i just received
Monday's newspaper... could i be less
reactionary about the world inviting itself into
my pleb-bound world? can someone please
usher these gnats from my halo?
no... well... hence the reaction.
          and so much more vitality comes from
self-loathing than from self-love...
   life is more colourful, and so much less
lies-fudge-packed-between-the-sardines-to-an-ideology...
     catch you on a Friday night when it's not
so pristine? sure thing babe... sure thing my
tweaser plucked runny-mascara piglet...
we'll be snorkelling in mud by then.
could anyone think of a reason of mixing mayonnaise
with horseradish?
          but seriously... when did people forget
the concept of polyphony that Bach (ich?
see, the phonos already retracts the polygamy
shared by the same spelling) - say chequers and
cheese in german... chaka demus & pliers
and venting out a tension in the Caribbean quarter
of London, postscript August:
and it always rains... rains daggers and lip-kissing
anger of: ******, not enough scotch-**** chillies.
      and that's saying enough before Shaggy Dry Fuss
came on the scene with: wozzin' me.
   the real whizz kid right there... question is:
alter Paris? Jim Morrison's grave is taller than the Eiffel,
well, all the bums go there and steal the naive
    groupies leaving bottles of wine and joints at
the grave... but yeah... they called it cut-up post-Tzara
with Burroughs,     a zillion things that crept up on me
while i wasn't thinking about Juliet...
                and the reality of a shopping spree,
and all the cliches imaginable...
        perhaps truths too...
                    but even the writing said it was originally
theirs... Bach was already prescribing polyphony...
        let's say multilayered convo....
                       let's say: vogue of millennials'
distractive tendency... and that's so so so much clearer
than what poetry can become:
       a deaf man's tapping to a jazzy / hip-hop beat...
   a tenacious d's   one note song: ******* too,
rhyme... grr...         why do people write poetry as
if they're talking to Muhammad's Aisha prior to
skinning the grape?
                    why don't they talk to poetry as they might
talk to a *******?
                     who are "they" (yes, not paranoid, just
an obscurity with no vectors or index pointy pointy
*******
           the oyster)
                              which brings me to the controversy...
do you think rapists are masochists? or sado-masochists?
there was me on a date, i brought the movie and she
brought the bed and dinner...
                     see, i ask because something odd happened...
first of all was the Victorian practice of *******
under the bed-sheets rather than on top and all bulges
in full view like serpentine lizards (fat? i tend to
see it as seafood)...   yeah... but in the brothel
she would fake arousal for my eyes to see and slobber
her oyster in butter... or l'oreal cream...
   fair enough... but i'm wondering: this one time
she felt so so guilty after getting a genuine ****** on
the job... obviously that's hard... but on this one
authentic anglo-saxon date i got ****** by a dry ****...
       so either rapists are self-endorsing masochists
and all the women they **** have dry ***** due
to fear... or... yeah, that glistening or...
             is this a prescription piece? no, i'm just curious
why prostitutes smother their foreskins with
beauty cream so it doesn't hurt, and this one
pristine puritan babe was all Saharan pouch deepfryer...
                which is why i'm wondering...
   if a ******* can cream-up, and a good upstanding
girl with a decent job in a grammar school with
free accommodation on site can't....
                       you might as well shove your prometheus
        into a tube consisting of sandpaper.
                                         some also call it
    scratching your 5 o'clock shadow.
Miss Clofullia Oct 2015
I don’t wanna listen!
it was nice and all that
but my heart broke along the way and
three of its chambers are flooded.
no handy man can fix it now.
me and you.. IT don’ work!
it’s not an oxymoron, nor an enigma ! no!
the fact that I’m an ox, a *****, a pretentious ***** and you, an enigma..
that don’t change anything!
we are unable to begin again.
we made it once. we should be happy and look back in hunger.
we were on the first page of newspapers but,
somehow,
we ended up in
the matrimonial section – the place where
poetry ends.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
please,                           p'ooh bear,
oh but i did man-up,   "      "...
i thought it was a bit
******* to have a woman
by accident drop
a baby into the equation...
so i would stay attached
for her faults...
i have faults of my own...
but playing the gamble,
of throwing a baby into
the equation,
i.e. faking taking contraceptives?!
i already said i was willing
to explore the realm outside
the ****** with a latex suit...
i "manned-up"...
took to self-imposed celibacy...
what sort of woman
would impose the *******
strap-apparatus,
thinking you're the perfect
father material like that?
never a problem with
prostitutes when it comes
to wearing a ******...
odd as it might sound:
quiet the responsible woman
masquerading in the role
of *****...
      go figure...
       the more liberated
as also the more: making
pretenses...
       no fuckie-fuckie when
no mañana...
come tomorrow / a today?
here's the dough...
   manning up...
so that's...
when you get a surprise
pregnancy...
and... she's russian,
you've acquired a British citizenry...
and...
there's a transnational
moral debate to be had?
it's the moral deposit of
arguing pro-life
    when... better stick to
the cosmopolitan cocktail,
for the: fun & shakes...
  ****... less trouble with
prostitutes when it comes to:
well... no ******* would ever
attempt to, "by accident" fall
pregnant...
    and i can regenerate
only ******* twice a year...
or once... depending whether
or not i remembered to trim
my ***** for ******* etiquette...
sure... no "thrill of the chase"...
but sure as **** "things"
are transparent...
      some of us also thought
that...
going to a catholic school,
we'd settle, marry,
and **** in full grip of
the matrimonial oaths of a wedding...
you impose the rules,
some will rebel...
   the way i see it...
the entry of Islam,
the whole orientation around
the introduction of Islam
in Europe...
  they probably know,
what i already know...
the gap...
        the fertile gap of
ideological filling...
        whatever Islam is trying
to do, i already know what
is behind their impetus...
the fact that so many Christians
haven't read
the nag hammadi library...
   i've read it...
Islam solves nothing...
   it doesn't bridge or fill the gap...
between orthodox writings,
and the "heretical" writings,
unearthed from Egypt in 1945...
Islam doesn't feed the hunger
in me...
what does feed me...
is the entirety of St. Thomas' Gospel...
the fact that the four canonical
gospels,
are a Greek reinterpretation
of the tetragrammaton?
    once upon a time it was called
religious indoctrination,
the Janissary Dogma...
brainwashing...
so little has changed...
science simply calls it, cloning;
daft, defiance, unto death...
mother death...
let me see beyond
the feminine bias...
   i might have a mother,
and i might see a mother in
women, but i have no consciousness
worthy of such acknowledgement
of said stature...
      mother death:
    i am to complete my
entry into your womb,
come for me...
     when i am,
all but undeniably most eager,
as un-expecting;
because why would i give
a cherub's cherry's load
of *******' worth of my life
to the glorification of woman?
women give birth to women
as well as men, no?
hence?
                   mother death...
who...
               becomes fertile...
                from a lived life,
impregnated by
   the ******* insurgence of
a plethora of pain...
  mother death...
            a womb,
the complexity of a universe...
and all die, certain:
a woman, as i,
a man, as i,
                     unto mother death,
like kosher salt additions
of exacting a pain,
a life, a pinch,
            and their names,
lost, upon the additional
scrutinies of droplets,
into a vast, yawning sea of time.
Raj Arumugam Jul 2011
now, I was just minding
my own business
brought up by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and graced with divine revelations;
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and so minding my own business
and vowed to matrimonial chastity in mind
never looking at another woman
and never thinking of another ever

I mean no one thought
looking at Mona Lisa
even in my younger days
was ever bad; they simply said:
Oh, Mona Lisa…what a painting!
so I went about years
chaste, pure and I think, angelic,
until these women come into art books
and now more readily in cyber-life
like Rembrandt’s Bathing Woman -
oh, how could I not look?
She, Hendrickje, more natural and
more come-here-you than
today’s airbrushed digitally enhanced beauties…
O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
entering the water
and lifting up her dress
so it won’t get wet
but O – was that really her intention?
Or perhaps to entice Rembrandt further?
Or to look at her own reflection?
and then what about us, full-blooded men of latter-days –
O Rembrandt, what have you done?
how can I not look, and look?
and come back to look again?
and under pretence of aesthetics I trace every
limb and curve of Hendrickje, O Hendrickje –
I become a Rembrandt of sorts,
just tracing lines on her image

O these cyberspace beauties
they corrupt my high ideals
And Rembrandt says across the ages:
“Remember you your traditions and virtue…”
And the morally upright say:
“Hey! She was Rembrandt’s woman!”
And I can only quip: “Yeah - she was!”

and leaving it at that
with O Hendrickje, Hendrickje,
gazing at her own reflection
and I wondering what she sees –
well, after Hendrickje, O Hendrickje
am I safe? you think?
Then come the women of Japan –
for instance
A woman Applying Powder
while Hashiguchi Goyō sketched and mixed his paints -
and why? Oh why, Hashiguchi Goyō?
why do you release these sirens, these women
this Woman after her Bath
this Woman combing her hair -
O these mistresses of the arts
O why release them
on my sensitive and pure
and morally upright mind?
O why you do corrupt
such a one
such a noble mind
that centuries of spiritual values jousted one another
to produce? Such a delicate specimen as I am.
Or may be
all these women should be deleted from cyberspace
and only decent women with quizzical smiles like
Mona Lisa should prevail…
Sure, we don’t know what she’s smiling about
but at least Old Lisa’s not as dangerous
as youthful Hendrickje, O Hendrickje -
or
as the Woman Applying Powder
baring her shoulders and her Japanese *****…
I mean, how can I not look?
and come back again to look?
O my adulterous heart!
but delete them all
or black them out
or cover them all up from head to foot
(technology can do wonders nowadays)
so
I can just be minding
my own business
brought to you by very virtuous parents
steeped in a culture ancient and proper
and divine revelations
the lotus forever growing pure
even in muddied waters;
and I’ll end up in Heaven after all my Holy Days
and for my Eternal Holidays there
I’ll be given all the virgins I’ll ever want
companion print: Woman Applying Powder by Hashiguchi Goyō, 1918/also see Kamisuki (Combing the hair) in my previous poem; other works of art I wish I could show you: "Woman After Bath," 1920 by Hashiguchi Goyō; Rembrandt's Bathing woman, modelled by Hendrickje, 1654; Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci; the illustrated Kama Sutra; works and art and performances I cannot show you: various **** websites...
Julie Grenness Apr 2016
Yes, it was a hot day for a black wedding,
I swapped my life for a golden ring,
I did not check those sinister omens,
As I volunteered to change my cognomen,
All our families, garbed in black,
Once hitched, there was no turning back,
A fateful dark matrimonial,
Indeed, a disastrous ceremonial.
'Twas already a dim bleak wedlock,
Nuptials in black was a shock,
So much for my late spouse,
Yelling at me to clean his house,
Is biology destiny? I used to ask,
Is housework only a woman's task?
Once, I swapped my soul for a golden ring,
Yes, it was a hot day for black wedding.
(Tough!).
Feedback welcome.
Atlas Rover Jan 2014
They say blood is thicker than water.
They say family matters the most.
I am the child of matrimonial diplomacy,
A ritual to bind the two ends of human nature,
I am a child of brutal union.
One of flesh, not of minds and hearts.
Yet now, as I am a relic of shattered times,
The world around me heals.
I am a painful reminder of the time I was ravaged.
I am a stranger to houses with warm hearths.
They say family gives you roots.
But what us the fruit of the plant whose roots have found no place?
Always misunderstood.
Never sad, unknown to joy.
I am a stranger to those who have lent me their blood and name.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2014
for Laura and David

so the story goes...

of a long ago silly fight and
then a Boston Bay boat ride,
magical moments of a simple interrogation repeated,
that recalled a man beach combing for what,
he knew he,
already possessed,
a permanent bezel for his love
that secured with human strength
their togethered life

You! You Two!

recall best
the forest,
not the trees,
not the ring,
the freedom from a symbolic beeper drowned


recall best
the ring's tale,
your unfinished yet-storied,
mid-trip bay borne voyage of denouement,
a retirement and a reaffirmation,
marked best not by any stone,
but by
the knowing  women,
all surrounding,
with righteous exclamations of envy for

his loving words,
his words!

the value of living,
raconteuring memorized mutual wisdom,
no diamond could ere cut a deeper groove
than his spoken words

words etched in flesh,
immutable and undying,
far exceeding
rubies and diamonds,
their gain, their loss,
merely pecuniary,
could never speak or prove
a love far better
than those special holy words
a spoken capstone,
tribute gladly given
to his shipmate,
his fellow voyageur,
his story of them delivered
but happily incomplete

of this I know
with utter certainty,
for more than twice,
with his eyes cast down upon
igneous ankle-twisters,
while overstepping
lazy sea lions,
invisible iguanas,
heard him tell me,
the frigates and the *******
and the head-popping turtles,
all who came
to see and hear as well,
them too,
all jealous of
what he spoke,
even then...

for well they and I
heard him say,
in a whisper
intended just for me,
but overheard,
and legally witnessed and thereby,
and herein attested hereby
by many citizens
of the Galapagos and
even one from the great
State of New York

those loving words,
those words

without her, I am lost,
with her, I am gained,
repeating in his way,
Proverbs 31:10:
A worthy woman who can find?
For her price is far above rubies*


so accept this as a free release
from one who listened to the
poetry of a ring's story,
and though he cannot recall the
appearance of the accoutrement,
the words, the words
they spoke,
the whispery smile she let escape,
never left, never could,
that being the thing of greatest
worth
the poet
deemed most worthy
of recording for posterity

__________


this expert poetic witness testimony
in the matter of matrimonial affairs
now entered into permanent part of the record of
Laura and David,
notarized, signed and sealed,
and internet delivered,
truthfully writ this day,
December 20, 2014
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
it usually starts with a canvas of white,
frowned upon,
but later, the canvas endears
     and makes anyone the flag-bearing
idiot to ensure that everyone: keeps marching,
    rather than procrastinating -
on and on and on...
    it's not out of defeatism -
                           regardless -
can you imagine Hamlet meeting Macbeth?
    i do, pretty much all the time,
that's why i am not: matrimonial.
    i can't think of having a woman and then
think of providing her a kettle, or
an ironing board...
                           'tis music, that gratifies the soul...
there's no: more more more! in music,
there's either eloquence... or silence...
such as the pleb-kindred musings
of someone who inherited a soul in
a different tongue, and the same inheritor,
dragging such fakery into the abyss...
on a navy pattern patent of St. Andrews:
Aphrodite sat and whispered -
that her heart stopped beating.
  punctuation marks, eye... worth a measure
unparalleled in man to ditto in
a millimetre, centimetre, kilometre...
and so forth...
but diacritical marks! a hot bagel conundrum!
are punctuation marks kindred of
diacritical marks?
to my suspicion, they are...
    Cow Gate... Edinburgh, where the filth
throngs in abandoned churches...
and everyone gesticulates: to a haggis
we'll just juggle... pardon pairing
ol' mctweed - we'll just juggle.
thankfully the anglicans didn't anticipate
anything having worth beyond a comma
with what went above a letter, rather than
in-between words;
    maybe the semicolon is a clue,
as to why it wasn't translated into
               diacritics? the Greeks are utilising
the "squared" version of punctuation...
why aren't you?
    borrowing from German i see...
let's take a word from German and hyphen!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
               what's the word?
  don't know... any skilled cobbler would
tell you: hoof! you cranky ol' *****!
and when did it matter to be "hateful" of women?
well... when someone mattered in saying:
that man desires to pass on his genes.
****! was i ever so vain as to claim a need
for passing my genes toward a chronology?
then again... what's the most important
logical compound that saturates and signifies
existentialism? etymology...
why? well... etymology is an incubator module...
it constricts the eyes to see what's
fervent in claiming building blocks...
the rest is bound to the neanderthal wall
called: Israel here... Palestine with balaclava
over there...
        you gonna count matchsticks with
a neanderthal before you create a campfire?
flint-stones away! bazooka that array
of fireworks! soundtrack provided by
Handel!
    so can i sop? Darwinism has exhausted
itself... but etymology hasn't...
we know that by proximity-resemblance
we turned to ape to shake, the narcissus...
and a thousand ape-**** tantrums later
we're mobilised reason...
         fair enough...
i still think ape is not worth a question
about concerning diapers...
how did the **** and bladder muscles
devolve, for the tongue to evolve...
my goodness!
       a trinity, holy! and glorified on
the groundwork of leeches succumbing to penance
and dieting!
        we gave away the prowess of
       a sturdy ****, to invite a strengthening
of the tongue, and subsequent amusement:
homosexuality... kangaroo fight-talk.
      but it got me going,
watching 20 useful idiots, and etymology.
some words aren't really bound to etymology,
as one can say: diacritical marks ensure
  that words (not sentences) are prescribed
ciphers of punctuational demand... or rhythm.
       the title? the diacritical mark used?
      Denmark in polish: Dania.
  England in polish: Anglia.
                  Germany in polish: Niemcy.
   Dane in polish: Duńczyk.
an englishman (anglo) in polish: anglik
  a german in polish: niemiec.
  orthography is orthodoxy, a strict authority,
orthography stresses when an when
diacritical marks ought to be used,
so it all looks pretty, and well dressed...
what's the synonym of orthography translated
into post-syllable punctuation?
       a dependency to create fakes...
we create these punctuation marks by faking
a breath... or keeping one under water...
   ... = just an ambiguity of trailing whereby
neither . nor , nor ; nor : really matter.
       they are though, indicators in how
one could write a whole book whereby
punctuation marks don't exist,
               or at least a chapter, like Joyce,
and everything would turn out
to be a drumroll crescendo of applause...
but then again, insert but one diacritical mark
into a body of Joyce's Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake...
and the whole thing disintegrates...
  just one diacritical mark on a letter,
and as sure as ****... the whole poncy
artifice of not using punctuation marks is
double exposure as to not have used
diacritical marks, and exposed the world
to Australian, American, Canadian,
New Zealander, Irvine Scōtish and Velsh...
      sure, what's the big deal?
the very subtle way of saying ethnic cleansing...
     no, not a leftist sorta: oh deary me
type of Mary Poppins...
      it's crass, because it's lazy...
and the fact that English creates so much
diacritical diversity, is because it doesn't use
it when encoding... which makes it perfect!
for emoticons and acronyms,
   and all manner of linguistic mayhem!
it was only about syllables mate... to be honest,
it only took a comma above a letter to
say whether it needed pinching a higher-tier
of a sound that originated in a ch sound...
never mind you eroding your memory
to say cheap vs. Chopin...
         and there goes bilbo baggins...
                             in a shopping trolley.
F White Mar 2014
I say goodbye to you often,
in letters and scribbled clouds, penned and hidden
under the keyboard on your desk.
tucked small and sleepy, as I pack in
your wake.

and just as frequently,
per month,
you greet with
wishful kisses, me teetering
unbalanced, off the escalator,
luggage strap, cold nose, bags dangling.

a myriad collection, sealed with "love you" texts,
taxi chits and spoon wrappers.
is this our way now?
our days, a matrimonial, cross-country conundrum.
a strung together , part time marriage,
intermittently stamped by the vested men,
marked by my travel clock,
wrapped in your worn out coat
and bolstered by the broken bed...

back to our separate hemispheres,
in such a hurry.
Copyright fhw, 2014
hold me tight,
with your lips
take me to your paradise.
let's sing this hymn
in unity, with one voice,
on a well-designed podium.
lift me up, sing to my ears songs
with the sweetness in a baby's voice,
call me to order.
like a police officer, parade me
into your crime world -
you the protagonist
$ I, the antagonist.
let's fight this war together -
i'll be the sword $ you'll be the shield
and we'll win the battles as warriors.

Asake,
let's create a story
on this matrimonial platform
that would be stained by your red kiss.
let me voyage through your homeland,
visit your kinsmen
with my mightiness.

— The End —