#whitman
Jesus Christ came back with a new Gospel declaring that *** is innocent
And two naked teeny lovers are innocent for their Nakedness is like that of newborn babes
Who are blameless even in light of original sin.
“But their copulation has nothing to do with procreation” said the so-called Christians who doubted Jesus.
“The essence of ****** freedom is the unashamed ability to use *** as play” said Jesus
Still some Christians who condemned the young libertines were confused.
“Let the teeny lovers play in their hearts for play is the essence of Children. For to such belongs the Kingdom of God.
Let the children come to me; do not hinder them.
Have faith like children.”
Those that understood removed their clothes
And so was born a pants-less generation unto Heaven who smashed their genitals together in the worship of Christ
A naked Mary Magdalene finds Jesus ***** in the tomb and welcomes him into her ***** in a moment where He becomes fully human.
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 9:55 PM UTC
~Jan. 9, 2025~NYC
<•>
The words of Walt Whitman (1)
~~~~
The origin of all poems!
Oh what a sweeping promise
does Whitman, proffer,
you to entice, to succor.
ease out from within yourself,
that which is therein ready,,
to organize
what be the
fermenting stack of seeded cells of
fomenting
stacked
multiple
simultaneous
observations,
poetry lurking, thine owned senses,
a catalyst cataloging constantly
and you happily despair to
capture, retain, s u s t a i n,
the pieces of a whole that
knowing only you possess,
that only you can
perfect as the combo
expression of
your
pre~owned assembly
as a solitary protagonist, witness,
and audience!
*Understand the origins of the poem,
because it is* original *to you,
comprehension of this principle,
means that you will never be
starved for inspiration,
record the ordinary and the peculiar,
the off drink that when mixed,*
shaken and stirred
that only you
can pour and better yet ,
s h a r e!
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 1:06 PM UTC
Emerson and Fuller,
Thoreau and Whitman,
Again and again, it has been written:
Nothing ever ends, death is no
Impasse;
So when you’re gone we’ll look for you,
In our Leaves Of Grass.
Jul 30, 2024
Jul 30, 2024 at 11:44 AM UTC
Solemn sweet pipes of de o'gan
Heav'nly music I've hyead play,
But I'll tell you somefin' truly
Certain ez is Judgment Day:
Angels present at de service
Ev'ry Sunday spread dey wings,
Lif' dey hands, an' witness glory
When Malindy sings.
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 1:43 PM UTC
I contain multitudes I will
it so
multitudes more than I maybe
can contain comfortably I
seek comfort in
discomfort
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 12:10 AM UTC
Aug. 03, 2022 06:43am
Peconic Bay, Shelter Island
*Open my poetry bible to random page,
Whitman possibilities endless, his inspirations
of human essences distilled, a parfum of
sounds and smells, touched words, an airborne
mist of spray penetrating deep, tickling cells’ walls*.
*In Whitman, where all my journeys end, the luster
of all that presents to the half-dressed eye is restored
to its original color, a reverse osmosis where the coatings
of crusty salts that nightly accumulate, word-washed away.*
miracle!
*The restorer~forgers freshen original hues,
a creator’s helpers, workpeople tasked by
whom
matters not,
for even those
whose all senses impaired,
inhale new born air that informs
the body entire that the natural
shadings have been renewed.
as if
*a virginal placenta
of pure best has cracked open,
refilling the palette of the morning, colorists
of new dab pretending it’s a first time re-gifting,
an original vista, sanctifying all who welcome-willing,
finding new combinations words to etch and fetch what
is deliciously indescribable, what is given freely, but to whom?
To each.
To each of us.
within each
our own
leaves of grass.
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 9:24 AM UTC
Thoughts begin to racquetball,
of Ginsberg’s peaches and Whitman’s lilacs
in a field of green and Diane Di Prima,
just Diane Di Prima, in her translucent garb,
completely exposed
as vulnerable as can be, breaking a heart
in every line
Then they bounce off to other places,
like the milk you forgot to buy,
or the mildewed laundry you’ll have to hang
on the flank-y drying rack
in the afternoon moon,
or that long-awaited
message
from a friend
taking up space,
while dust bunnies flop around,
left and right, with every hesitant
primordial blow
that you feed them
Then again, back to
Auden’s weighing clocks, ticking away
at something you can’t quite grasp
or would like to, as the signal
returns
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 12:53 PM UTC
even temporarily, this day, your emeralding grass handkerchief,
equates our dispositions, so differently identical,
your name, our initials, in opposing corners, embroidered,
your grass tapestry upon this troubled earth, a scented, joint, poetic
remembrance, that though it’s but words that bind us, we! we know!
the songs we sing of ourselves, we sing in synchrony harmony.*
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 3:42 PM UTC
misty days
of moisture and sun rays
grass as tall as tree trunks
rolling by
a breeze fills my eyes
with skunk
nose blind
we roll on
and on we roll
between the weeds
this private show
no one need no
what goes
on and on and on
inside misty
days of mine
kisses by the sun define
golden brown backs
where nails scratch
eggs hatch
we lay
message relay
you cannot escape fate
nor hide truth
but one thing you can do
is be you
honest and true
no matter where you learn
nor from who
relay races
ideas and encompassed facts
as a matter of lies
I feel that
this poem is out of wack
started writing
what I want
the universe only gives
what I need
always pleased to know
I need not much
but provided
and more and more
I remain faithful to you
and more and more
I give to you
you give me too
Full circle
everything everlasting
dance and sing
from night till morning
these are my days
rich and plentiful
watch as my garden grows
under the misty rays of my
moisture
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 5:48 PM UTC
<>
“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon
these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame
they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human
this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!
take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate. a shrill disease, the TV liars...*
§§§§§
May
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
there is a vastness here
where a small breeze,
the size of a decaying sorrow
wakes the cold again
which may be all that’s left of me.
where a diamond pale haze of stars goes on eternal
like sound that has found a final silent shape
on a black sky where it means everything
It cannot speak off.
it’s empty out here, and cold.
cold enough to reconcile
the frozen cries, the kidnapped voices
and the silences that move
with certain cadaveric contractions
along the frozen emptiness
and In the morning when I look out
the previous evening remains
in its blank, cold, unforgiveness
even though I sang for them in
the eternal extensiveness of
the freezing cold, the stones
still cry with mouths opened wide
while the small icy wind and unsympathetic
moon subdue the apricot flowers,
Now the piercing cold day Is no longer enough
For all comprehension escapes me
suddenly jumps with fury hurling terrible hostilities to the sky,
as wandering ice spirits without homeland
begin to groan with a vast and vacant voice.
And frozen hearses, with muffled drums
and tragic music, slowly pass in my being
conquered, weeping, freezing
this atrocious iced and despotic place
plants its black flag in my soul
Now I do confess through boreal breath
I don’t think I will ever see the
Red Tulips again
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
We on Hello Poetry
and all sites of poetic nature
are a family.
We Bond with the best
Poe, Dickinson Whitman
Frost, Platt and Cummings
All those whose heart
expelled masterpieces
that world celebrates.
Who know how to tame the written word.
We are all lion tamers
where are pens are whips
and fortitude outweighs fear.
Grand Family, move over
I the poet is born
growing stronger everyday.
Move over for I claim
my place as you hug me
in ethers of forever.
The rest of the world
just doesn't see me yet.
But they will. They will.
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC
and just how far have you gone for the sake of your "camaraderie," my friend?
their half-glow hearts and prejudiced minds could have swallowed you whole,
or abandoned you, wit be-damned, and genius be-damned, you
might have died a pauper—
I hear they’d **** a man much more guarded than you, they might string him up,
tie his broken body to a fencepost, leave him ******
satisfy a tyranny under the watchful eye of a loving God,
trade a boy in Laramie for a jet-black brutal odium,
**** a kid and wonder what his mother did to steer him wrong—
but still you wrote of calamus and of holding hands and handsome lovers,
still you gave us songs to sing back to our lovers, gentle songs,
despite the shame and censorship they cursed you with, despite
the threat that everything could be undone, despite the scripture,
well I must say, dear Good Gray Poet, before I fold my hand,
thank you, Walt, for giving us what you never had.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
In the backseat of two-door cars,
Cackling at the fog,
Admiring frosted trees;
The bizarre glories of the world
Lay before in stone-cold vibrations.
Go back Jack, do it again,
Watch the wheels turn round and round
To goodwill tidings on clear cut highways,
Circumventing the haze of the suburbs
In odors of gasoline and burnt wheels.
Potholes bounce under foot,
E.D billboards taunting men
On voyage to shopping malls.
Days off and lay offs,
Getting the light and stopped on red,
Gazing at the sun to let the comfort in
To infinity and be-be-beyond.
Lofty goals atop cascading mountains,
Lined with jagged rocks,
Going to **** in mighty avalanches.
Calling back to the fall back of worry,
Our troubled souls running against the wind
As we mountain-goat up cliffs
Looking pitiful bathed in
The northern lights.
Oh how the heavens opened up,
How coastline of rocky ridges
Exploded in mental ecstasy,
Perceived through sagging eyes
Damp with the excess of life.
We're back, Jack, doing it again,
Travelling down well-worn roads where
You and I, He and she and they,
And ancient enclaves of ancestors
Journeyed through joy and sorrow
And the millions of pixels of grey area in between.
We've walked, run, and drove,
Talking madly to ourselves
In the tired eyes of those who want
To do the same and with them we continue.
We live in ourselves,
In candy-coated falsehoods of our own design,
Happy with good reason and lovingness.
And at it all, in the scope of our truth,
We laugh.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
I take a breath and close my eyes with pride.
His comments seek a lodging in my soul;
The hurt I feel from all he spits, I hide.
He’ll never know he’s found my numb heart’s holes.
“Forever” was his biggest lie to me,
One word, a feeble promise left unkept.
My heart should learn the way his drums beat free.
I’m captive to the trebled tears I’ve wept.
Do you recall when Whitman said “Beat! Beat! Drums!”?
Too bad the drums could always beat, beat us.
At least I got kisses ‘tween rounds of ***
But still, to him, I’d grown superfluous.
I simply craved some adult discussion.
I guess he preferred to play his percussion.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
I saw a good person do a bad thing once
I thought I was a good person but I did a bad thing once, too
Have you ever seen a good person do a bad thing?
Have you ever been the good person doing a bad thing (on occasion)?
Have you ever seen...
<>the bars that imprison you?<>
Have you ever been...
<>the bars that imprison you?<>
There is a potential to be stuck behind the words & letters...
of this Song to the Open Road
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
But look at the stars
| | | |
And look at the bars
|A|n|d| |re|a|l|i|z|e| |t|h|e| |j|a|i|l|e|r| |i|s| |y|o|u|
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:41 PM UTC
I am the dog, collared and chained,
deemed useless and left alone.
I am the nail in the wall left unhammered, jutting to snag at your sleeve.
I am the hole in your line through which all of your energy will be filtered or lost.
I am heavy with meaning and weightless with meaning and grounded in someone else's reality.
I am that reality, while my own remains silent and hidden and threatening.
I am a threat to some, no one to someone, and everything to one.
I am the card in play, always, even
when you leave the table and
I will be there when you get back.
Also, I am the deck and few cards are missing.
I am the mirror in which you might one day see yourself and startle your eyes into misrecognition.
I am the cup that overfloweth,
and the child guilty for wanting.
I am the season which seems like it will never let up.
I am the sun casting rays of golden relief on the faces of many lonely strangers.
I am the forgotten sun, just as well.
I am the ruin of those who came here before me and the stain they left on the white fabric of time.
I am the fabric, loose and changing
in the winds of perpetuity.
I am a glass sphere in the midst of a landscape, puzzling and divine and uncanny alike.
I am a door left unopened.
I am a line with no end and a point with no beginning and I will let it be known that I am here seeking all.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 9:09 PM UTC
Oh stranger,
this pain and love, this pain of love,
everything's been getting unendurable.
The charge of my soul gets heavier
through the passing of time,
our clocks stand still,
though we share the same time frame.
Blindfolded confined in a labyrinth,
any given time
I found myself drawn towards
your lonesome and gloomy shadow,
drifting to be yielded to you.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
To behold the daybreak!
-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself from Leaves of Grass
In days like this one,
when rain drops so light
& everything dips
into weeping grey
my sanity longs for memories.
My sanity longs
like impulsive recalling
of plummeting sadness
in greying day
sashaying mournful recollects
from sunrise to daybreak.
Remembering vanishes
in the joyful marrow of life.
There, forgetting lives.
Tell me the last time
bliss comforts your soul.
It is a transient tick
too stiff to evoke.
What about the last time
pain feigns your saneness.
Memories turned into bullets
slitting shrapnel
warping into my soul.
Happiness lasts for a second.
Sadness, a lifetime.
Tell me how to get rid
the hurting clout of ache
existing as a blunt fragment
benign yet reminisced.
Daybreak pours so hard
and my sanity like a waning light
crawls back in a miasmatic cave
along the river known
to be a home of a witch
& her cursing narrative
of throwing silver saucers
making her a spotless shadow
through vestal times
never again a thriving spirit.
Forget Blake. Forget Whitman.
Only in daybreak
where everything
churns into life,
my sanity shrinking back
collapsing
into surreal gaps.
Here & there,
my sanity longs for memories.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
After the dazzle of day is gone,
Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars;
After the clangor of ***** majestic, or chorus, or perfect band,
Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC