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“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,


the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
Hadiy Syakir Mar 2018
I want to open a business
but I will never trade
every words of sanctity
for it.

Teach me,
on how to open a shop
without a table
without a sign
without a premise
is it all done just
to break the promise?

I want to be like them
but I can't sell my words
on a tee, on a tele
becoming part of
the rotten machinery
is a sign of chaos
and profligacy.

even if I have to wait
at the end of the line
, I will do that.
girl diffused Oct 2017

Wolves hide among the fragrant flowers
Skulk, stalk, pounce, and bite into their prey
****** their maws, their canine, their fang
Don the fleece of the white sheep
Rip out the innards
Garbed in white
Draped like a cloak of purity

Wolves hide in cathedrals
Stalk among the pews
Furs streaked with blood, coated
Defile sanctity
Impregnate
Virginity with something vile
Dark, putrid, and false

She sees the wolf in you
Hears it in words that you utter
Sees it in words that you write
Drunk, sober, aware, unaware
Smells the blood on your maw
Smells the pennies in your breath
Faint, odorous
*
Wolves like you
Hiding in fleece
This came as a direct result of something I experienced last night. It shook me internally to my core and the culmination of those words, the emotions that stirred up as a result, culminated in this piece.

The wolf is Man. Not every man. It can be a singular man for a woman or even a man or anyone, you can change the gender of the "she" to whomever you like. The wolf remains the same. The "fleece" is a covering, a disguise, a shroud of "purity" and deceit that it/He disguises himself in.

The "cathedral" is a place of reverence and worship. I took the age-old adage of "your body is a temple" and turned it into something more historically significant and possibly controversial (for those of us who are iffy on religion. I am actually, but I respect those are who spiritual and religious. I respect their beliefs and stances). The cathedral is Woman's body. It is seen as a place that can be tarnished or worshiped within. It can be ransacked and defiled or vandalized.

IN any case, the poem has its themes of purity and Sin. There aren't many religious undertones here. It's just the slimy and even disturbing feelings a man can conjure up with words. It defines what a woman may experience when she's even revered by someone that presents themselves in one way but is truthfully like a majority of "wolves" out there. They're there for blood and prey.
to the life in your eyes
and the sadness in your eyelids
home was never made of stone
inside your cheekbones it was
and will forever be,
My mother.

to the lady in your youth
the eyes falling on my swollen eyelid
home was never of stone
in the grief over your living father
it was and will forever be
Carmen.

to the celebrated golden boy,
and the saddening lack of feeling
home was never made of stone
in the aimless fight for what is right
it was and will forever be,
Myself.
A little girl in handmade dress.
           Black shoes with  
White knee-high stockings.
                       Shy eyes framed
By and hiding behind
            Long  curly
            Blonde locks,
Waiting with me at
                   The bus stop
Each school morning.

Vulnerable  
             Protected from the harsh
Outside world.
               But nothing can completely
Shut out its
                             Cruel essence.

The outside
                       Can creep in or the
Inside holds dormant
                      Outside influence
Like the eggs of the proverbial tree
                      Lizard laid among the
Other eggs in a
Bird's nest  
             Remaining dormant to eventually
Hatch to feed on the newly born fowl.


Faith soothes the pain
                      Daily standing
On the sidelines
                     Of the pantomime
Of the mundane

As lush dense
Ivy reaches
                         For the sky but must
First slowly crawl
                              Over a cold
Gray wall of stone  
                               Reaching
For dreams and ideals
                          Once clearly seen
On the horizon of the
                      Unobscured  plains
Of childhood.
                    A bit harder at the myopic
Foothills of youth.  
                       Now harder than ever

At the jagged  
                  Snowcapped mountains of
Adulthood.


The curly locked
                             Little girl still lives
After all these years.  
                             Lives on to
                         Balance the weight
Of disappointments
                    Compressed by daily
Reminders of that

Once dormant inside
                       Influence unleashed
In the innermost
                      Sanctity of trust. Lives

In the security
                        Of ideals gradually
Becoming reality.

                       That place in the heart
That no one can touch  
                             That no one can
Invade.

Thank God that home is where the heart is!

                  --Daniel Irwin Tucker

                                   ¤¤¤
He is
My Azure Dreambird,
(The Sovereign of Songbirds)
That soars upon
Skies of Resonance.
His sapphire wings
Weightless by valor,
Hallowed every doubt
That
Cursed my shadow
Until credence reigned.

He is
The Musicality of my Soul,
That I climbed as
A stairway
Into
Gates of Aether
Upon
Porcelain keys
Of an impearled
Grand Piano.

His sound emittance
Ascended in frequency until
Pitch became subliminal
For height
ceased to be
Height,
And depth,
Ceased to be
Depth,
It was
Ineffable harmony
And resolution became effortless
With
The touch of his hand.

He is
The Wings of the Dawn,
A Sweeping Rapture
That raised
Me
Beyond the stratosphere
Until graced by
Untarnished embrace
Of the Baptistery of the Sun.

I burst
From Light’s Intemerate Womb,
Renewed and
Gazed upon Terraqueous Gaia
Then for once,
(Yes, for all eternity)
Succumbed to
Faith in the Transcendence
Of his tender affections.

Woe was existence
Before His lightwaves radiated
Within my heart,
For when I purged my pulse
Of that quaking rhythm
And
Hollow cries
Upon his ears,
He stood moved
And remained
Doughty in his devotion
To me.

In that moment
I fathomed his soul
Glistened
O, for he had not forsook me.

I bear a pilgrimage.
One sought to be
Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Breathed,
And
Divined
By my
Once
Somnolent spirit
Been
Roused
By the incendiary thew of
His ardor.

My revenant soul
Hath emerged from
The Chrysalis of Time as
The Apotheosis of Astral Flame
(A Reverberation of the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
That since
The Days of Time Immemorial
Guided by the
Whisper of the stars,
I now cleave
To that celestial susurrus:

To the solace buried beneath
The Soil of Afflicition
(For anguish was all I knew)
In repose
Yet yearning to be
Resurrected
In The Dream of Acquisition,
To for eternity behold
The timeless fervor
That doth layeth
In His heart
Hey guys!! So basically this poem in it's quintessence is an incarnation. Of what? The transcendence I have acquired by means of the love of another (For whom I carry romantic sentiments towards). The inspiration was the moment in which he placed his hand upon my shoulder. His touch etherealized me. I felt as though I became a new creation forged of crystal and yet as light as air. I saw life with mystical eyes that were fascinated with things that had been of no consequence before. The stars became more resplendent, the wind became a benevolent caress, each breath was rejuvenating, and so on.
      
So basically, as cliche' as it sounds... *Braces himself, coughing to clear his throat and announcing his cliche' with a British accent* I have been transformed from a life of black and white, to one of manifold colors by the thew of love! *cringes in pain lollllllll* I hope you guys enjoy. I also hope that somehow, this piece inspires you to forge a creative diamond from your own experiences (as well as display the valor to adorn the world with your diamonds). Thank you all so much for your support! God bless!
Hao Nguyen Apr 2016
Your commitments and word
Are inks stained on cold skin
Taken without pain sacrificed,
Easily washed away in water:
Simple imitations...
That at its essence
Mock the sanctity and identity
of actual tattoos.
Every time I run
into your everlastinng arms,
it feels like I'm running
Home.
Liam C Calhoun Jan 2016
For each and every other,
There's something to be said.

There’s something to be said for –
The security guards
With coke nails.

There something to be said for –
The alcoholics
That moonlight as bartenders.

There’s something to be said for –
The huddled mother,
Cradled child and cusped copper.

There’s something to said for –
The recluse with word,
Broken atop a glass of wine.

For each and every other,
There’s something to be said,

But one knows not another word.
This is what I see when I walk down the street, "bop-bop-bah-do-bop!"
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