#rags
A single lyric on a single song, sung, by one of my chosen ones, a brother and friend,
a brethren, whose hidden meanings are never hidden from me,
as we both, both gentle souls who, when lost, have been
lost
witnesses and also been witnessed:
weeping into the rags of remorse
this season is nearing conclusion, I know the sun rays penetrate, in a vain vanity of a last attempt to purify and make my soul stains,
a burnt offering, rising as smoke up to the wind,
my hearted words lifted,
letter by letter, to whence they came from
My senses are not cold, rhymes run, forgiving the sun for it’s inevitable disappearance, so it shall be displaced,
just lie us,
over then under, a nearby horizon,
with a sunset wave goodbye, a multi colored coat spectacle,
that reflects well off & on
my pallid skin
When it returns, it will be a different star, re-angled, in such a way that it can no longer do heavens work on my body and soul, both
kindred entities, each with each other,
a commemorative tree ring commonality,
a newly incised cain mark
sensitive locomotives ply between the sides of my head, knowing better than most the true meaning of fleeting, for although I am in my eighth decade now, and those words,
“there is nothing new under the sun,”
ring inherent inside like
they too newly born
but,
running on a track well worn,
now nearly scrap iron
yet clothed in my sinner’s wet rags, the remorse ever lingers,
directed to mine own mark of Cain,
awaiting the day when the sun touches my
forehead, and those loco- motives ride higher,
for their denouement, their untying(2)
Aug 30 2024
fini 2:17 pm
by the Sound
Aug 30, 2024
Aug 30, 2024 at 2:18 PM UTC
beneath the pale stars
your strong arms holding me tight
the clock strikes midnight
carriage returns to pumpkin
dress of silk and gold to rags
Feb 12, 2024
Feb 12, 2024 at 11:16 AM UTC
All that was fixed floated before
My eyes. Blood ridden rags flew like doves
Of peace outside my window.
Pictures of slaves framed as freedom
Ink in the pen replaced
With blood and yellow bile.
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 6:50 PM UTC
Behold the King upon His throne
Who utters judgments set in stone
He gives the wicked what they earn:
The death for which their own hearts yearn
Though oft for filthy, guilty men
Whose sins no scribe could tell by pen
This King, in love, steps off His throne
And trades their rags for His own robe
.
Jun 22, 2020
Jun 22, 2020 at 12:34 PM UTC
Here she lies
On the cold, hard ground
Crying to the wind
Trying to make a sound
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
A bundle of rags is what she is
Completely threadbare
The windows are aglow
With incandescent light
The townsfolk in merriment of Christmas night
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
There's no one outside
To neither hear nor care
She lights a match for herself
In defeat
The match flickers and dies
Like the light from her eyes
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
Her whispers stir
The chilly winter air
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
Your crusty new day eyes
Have long been opened wide.
You're not at home.
You're out in the world,
Where I can't hurt you.
I know our time has passed.
I can't bounce you on my knee;
Look into your eyes and see
No matter what mistakes there might have been;
That you love me.
I ain't always been a white hat guy.
I got no answer, if you ask me "Why?".
I'll never have a claim to innocence.
There's no excuse for it.
I've no right to write
What your heart has kept inside;
I can't be forgiven.
Though I'm no longer your monster,
I am your ghost.
Sometimes, I bet I'm screaming in your dreams.
I caused pain and much despair.
And I know it's too late to save our past.
But hopefully these few lines
Can spare other lives from similar despair.
I know our time has passed.
I can't bounce you on my knee;
Look into your eyes and see
No matter what mistakes there might has been;
That you love me.
I ain't always been a white hat guy.
I got no answer, if you ask me "Why?".
I'll never have a claim to innocence.
There's no excuse...
And it weighs on me
Like sopping rags
That cling to my body
When caught out in the storm.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
I'm interested in the prospect of exponential growth
and often wonder how some people are able to cope
when they find themselves in favour with all the hope
of realised dreams in life due to their efforts or oath.
Or where there has been a sudden increase of wealth
such as those we hear of who rise from rags to riches
for there are many true stories told of people's niches
and the way they have acquired a fortune by stealth.
______________________________
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 11:19 PM UTC
My words are fractured
but my thoughts are undivided.
My fingers are tapestry of both,
stitching them incompletely.
But to some these things make sense.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
They say that times were tough then
That money was very tight
But I remember my childhood
And I know that can't be right
Mom would cook our dinner
Dad came home at five
We were all sitting at the table
Waiting for him to arrive
We wouldn't eat from a microwave
Or a restaurant down the street
We all ate Mom's home cooking
And boy that can't be beat
We didn't eat in front of the TV
Or with a phone in our hand
We weren't plugged into a stereo
bopping to the latest band
We would all sit at the table
Everyone in their place
There were never any surprises
We recognized every face
Brothers to the left of me
Sisters to the right
That's the way we ate dinner
Every single night
We laughed we joked we talked we ate
We were a family don't you see
Though some may have been raised poor
You can see it wasn't me
We ate collards we ate biscuits
We ate fatback and blackeyed peas
We said yes sir we said no sir
We said thank you ma'am and please
So when you talk of family life
Or how it used to be
Though many had more money
None were as rich as me
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
Someone say
Filth, **** dirt,
Just ask me
I'll take off my shirt.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
The sugar, the ice, glazed upon the cream buns.
An array of plates of delicacies.
The roasted pig, grunted while being chewed.
Or perhaps, that was the man who chewed it.
She stood in rags waiting to be served.
'What would 2 pence get me?'
They snickered and giggled as she,
Bought a stick of butter for dinner.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
my clothes are not torn out,
so what?
i can still write a poem
hunger isn't killing me,
so what the ***k?
i will still write a poem.
i ain't clouded by poverty,
and there's no hole in the ceiling
to see the stars on a clear sky.
so fu****g what?
i will still write a poem.
i am 'poles apart' a condition
like the Pink Floyd's "Division Bell".
but i am still writing my poem.
i don't read them to people,
friends, strangers or everybody.
anybody? but nobody might read them,
and I still write the poem.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
Her rags become whole again,
As an ebony dress, beautifully woven,
Wraps around her frame.
Her cuts close, her bruises fade,
The aching pains that were her life have gone away,
Never to inflame.
Her boundaries are long gone,
As now she dances alone beneath the cold sun,
Of her empty world.
Her death is far behind her,
Only a distant memory remains of Earth,
As her wings unfurl.
*She flies, finally free,
But alone, her heart must freeze.*
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC