#pieta - Hello Poetry

And what of the thick-thighed woman who held a dying god in her lap? History has silenced her grief to stone. But what of endurance as sharp as love? Do Zeus’s tears still stain her dress? Her atlas hands guide thorned crowns To rest, as the weight of heaven forsaken, collapses. Womb made machine; Reach out your hand and feel the crimson–– Hips that birthed the civilizations of the world, I worship the god called woman.

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Apr 30, 2016

Apr 30, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC

hannahi9

Ave Maria, Pieta

And what of the thick-thighed woman who held a dying god in her lap? History has silenced her grief to stone. But what of endurance as sharp as love? Do Zeus’s tears still stain her dress? Her atlas hands guide thorned crowns To rest, as the weight of heaven forsaken, collapses. Womb made machine; Reach out your hand and feel the crimson–– Hips that birthed the civilizations of the world, I worship the god called woman.

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Eyes so serene as your body relaxed, your passing never passed until a gravestone was all I had. An edged slab of marble unwelcoming, cold, won't compare to the lingering life so close to behold. I miss how I missed you when I missed you the most, as love's just crux howls only when losing its host. Thus through such virtue I could lastly accept mine, enough so to nurture, and cry for my Pieta one last time.

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Jan 25, 2015

Jan 25, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC

price_poetics

My Pieta

Eyes so serene as your body relaxed, your passing never passed until a gravestone was all I had. An edged slab of marble unwelcoming, cold, won't compare to the lingering life so close to behold. I miss how I missed you when I missed you the most, as love's just crux howls only when losing its host. Thus through such virtue I could lastly accept mine, enough so to nurture, and cry for my Pieta one last time.

16

The words of the King, said long ago and towards a vision of he who no longer breathes, Of a future where different colored children are intertwined and men sees but not seethes, Spoken by a man of dark skin who rose to be the king of freedom and equality and love, Spoken in front of tall white buildings and spoken below a flying white dove. He said, “I have a dream,” and those four words became a legend told to the next century He raised his hands and shouted to the sky above, “Freedom and liberty!” Even as decades went by those words were repeated and repeated, darkness into dawn, And when children ask for the source, men say, “The Luther King is his name” to the fawns. Yet of new times, southern states are still with loaded shotguns, ebonic skin shun red in the sun Voices heard, yet brown children still fall seperated and their killers still hold loaded guns Their mother(less)s hold them—Pietà—and shout to the sky above, “Freedom and liberty!” And marches with signs saying “Black Lives Matter” carry the wake and funeral for equality. Reaper comes to take the child, yet in death's place is the plants of a possible future of hope Where society rebuilds and remakes and rehashes and restores, for light we wish to ***** “Is justice and righteousness rolling down?” "Is it like a mighty river who saves?” We the people ask, and the King wonders too—the King, your king, who watches from his grave.

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Apr 27, 2020

Apr 27, 2020 at 10:41 AM UTC

zoomertry

(In)Justice

The words of the King, said long ago and towards a vision of he who no longer breathes, Of a future where different colored children are intertwined and men sees but not seethes, Spoken by a man of dark skin who rose to be the king of freedom and equality and love, Spoken in front of tall white buildings and spoken below a flying white dove. He said, “I have a dream,” and those four words became a legend told to the next century He raised his hands and shouted to the sky above, “Freedom and liberty!” Even as decades went by those words were repeated and repeated, darkness into dawn, And when children ask for the source, men say, “The Luther King is his name” to the fawns. Yet of new times, southern states are still with loaded shotguns, ebonic skin shun red in the sun Voices heard, yet brown children still fall seperated and their killers still hold loaded guns Their mother(less)s hold them—Pietà—and shout to the sky above, “Freedom and liberty!” And marches with signs saying “Black Lives Matter” carry the wake and funeral for equality. Reaper comes to take the child, yet in death's place is the plants of a possible future of hope Where society rebuilds and remakes and rehashes and restores, for light we wish to ***** “Is justice and righteousness rolling down?” "Is it like a mighty river who saves?” We the people ask, and the King wonders too—the King, your king, who watches from his grave.

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