Voidward, Sindark, starknell, Seraphim Wow! Weird words woven in each other Neither librarian nor dictionary can help To figure them out, you have to ask him All against Imagist instructions - Where is common language? – Poem needs to alter its definitions! Will intellect select help? Can we get out of the vague cage? Look! One of the words shaken Burden of ambiguity, taken Scorpions shout: send me an angel! Calm down singer! I said Look the last word, it’s indeed an angel! Coming down from heaven with a mantel red No one can’t help watching, even dead This is Seraphim! Don’t hesitate to ask him! Said player of Being wearing ****** red But I extremely fear of him It may be a devil in disguise Like a child I take refuge in ***** of my mom, kim Although it’s against what done by all other guys
1- This poem was inspired by Nightscape composed by James Joyce in 1915. 2- A seraph is a type of celestial or heavenly being originating in Ancient Judaism. The term plays a role in subsequent Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The singular "seraph" is a back-formation from the Hebrew plural-form "seraphim", whereas in Hebrew the singular is "saraph". 3- Scorpions are a German heavy metal band formed in 1964 in Hanover by Rudolf Schenker.[ and “send me
“A veil!” someone shouted. I remember the cry. Agreement surged from gasping elders and wide-eyed youths alike. The first man to move snatched a scarf from his startled daughter and threw it at me to wrap over your head. He couldn’t imagine touching you himself.
We had to find a veil to cover your shining face. We couldn’t have the people blinded. Radiation, of course, must be contained. We didn’t have anyone infected. It stuck to your forehead at first, your sweat thick like the dew the cold morning after a thunderstorm. Wrinkles whiskered as your face strained into expressions few mortals have had.
That mountain was saturated in every form of electromagnetic radiation and energies unknown. It bludgeons the heart. Melts the eyes. The people could not bear the sight of anyone who had come so close to such a power. I think their hearts need a good bludgeoning.
The wind streaked your hair for a micro-eternity. It retained the swept-up form for nearly an hour, though no one could tell once you put on the veil. Have you touched it to see if it is still cold?
Your fingers—what was on them? Smoke, or earth? Melted stone? Incinerated atmosphere? Pure carbon, black as the abyss and under nearly enough pressure to crystalize into diamonds rarer than hope? When you grabbed my arm with those fingers, I nearly screamed. You left black marks everywhere.
What does the veil cover now? It's edges are no longer like the cracks beneath Heaven's doors. What is it you wish to hide? Isn’t it time for this mask to be cleft by a seraph's sword?
This is one of my favorite things I've ever written. I hope it's enjoyable to read as it was to write. I started scribbling down lines for an exercise in poetry class, modified it into an assignment, and edited it a whole bunch. I'm finally getting around to posting it now, but I'm too afraid to actually read it again. I don't want to start doubting it and I don't want to work on it any more.
To judge, to write to scribble in the daylight and crumple at midnight To account for placid instincts with the strength of an eagle's sight The blue ink, the golden pen, and the satchel white That is all my birth-right
Belated world poetry day. Mash up chitragupta and a poet. I wanted to put this out sooner but just got caught up in a lot of work from home. Stay safe, everyone.
without whom we wouldn’t be standing under umbrellas with baren spines as the thunderous angry skies fully open upon us
Presidential now, are we? Yoda would posit To the game, late you are #45
THE SKY IS FALLING as wall street is
we shelter in place
social animals that we are
self isolate worry catastrophize ignore
attempts to hold on
we reach out to comfort to be comforted
get out your cards throw the i ching the runes program & grid your crystals
wash your hands cover your mouth maintain isolation social distance daren’t cough sneeze touch
try not to breathe
thru all this cling to sanity
looks like we just
stepped on the carousel
i rate write social commentary, but i joined in@amycuddy’s #allwritetogether isolation writing hour one day this week and after a year+ writers block scribbled this rough first draft. absolutely welcome any instructive criticisms and ideas. i’m totally out of my realm here. thanks so much for reading!
My heart beating alone in a Ghosttown, dhak dhak The ringing phone in an empty house, ring ring The dripping of water in an abandoned home, drip drop The soft breeze rustling the curtains in an isolated place, swoosh.
My soul in a Ghosttown, cry. Sylvia in her kitchen, cut. Whitney in her bathtub, drug. Lucy Jordan in her house, laugh.
My love in a Ghosttown Hades in Tartarus Hestia at the Hearth Kitty Genovese in New York.
Adam and Eve in Eden. Zeus and Hera at Olympus. Marilyn and John in the White house. A Ball, A Ballad, A Masquerade.
A Dove in Normandy. An Olive branch in Kashmir. A communist in America in 1940. Dreamers & Idealists in existence.
Mahatma Gandhi in 1948. John F. Kennedy in 1963. Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968. John Lennon in 1980.
Imagine I have a dream that one day we need men who can dream where there is love, there if life.
A heart beating beats of isolation. A soul weeping the tears of loneliness.
My Soul My Love My Heart all in a Ghosttown.
This poem is ultimately about chronic and deep isolation and loneliness. A poem about the deprivation and lack of love from the person.