Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
eight gutted rattlesnakes

neatly wrapped around

a Saguaro Cactus.

bound like a barren


extreme temperature

fluctuation installed a

potent strain of darkened


strobing moths, the breadth

of a baby's open hand--

off the air as quick as their

first debut.

pinned to every needle.
Ever get that feeling
where you're walking
and you don't know
what you're hitting

And then you stumble
perhaps someone pushed you
caught you off balance
and then you fall

Now you're flat on your face
and cannot stand up
in this pitiful darkness
You're stuck on the floor

That's when truth appears
and with concern says
you were acting irrationally
walking blindly

It's time to wake up
You were chasing a dream
without noticing
what was under your feet

Get up
It's time to move on
You'll get other chances
We all make mistakes
The joy of life
never faded for me
There's so much beauty
in all I see
The love in me
is heaven sent
I give my love
to you, the recipient
My love is pure
Don't want anything in return
For you dear reader
my love does burn
There's so much love
It can fill a sea
I pass it on
through poetry
In love I hope
For love I live
Whatever you need
I will try to give
To you I give
This heartfelt smile
so we can share
our joy a while
Oh forgetfulness!
When I taste of your nectar so sweet
I feel a loving embrace that numbs my anguish
I am afflicted by bruises that never heal
Made victim of people I can't openly accuse
My sober mind has become a den of horror
My loved ones do not feel any sympathy for me
Out in the cold streets is where I belong
Living in a tent surrounded by trees and the elements
For I could not manage my own house
Reality is a blur for the addict
It's hard to tell what's real or imaginary
Small acts of disrespect I blow out of proportion
Small agitations make me inclined to violence
I fear myself more than anything
If I were to be honest with God
I would tell him I am no longer useful
My words slump to the ground
There is no vigour or persuasiveness in them
My relationships have all ended in failure
Too many burned bridges lead to dead ends
I wander aimlessly without direction
Like an abandoned and ***** dog am I
I hope to find any scrap of belonging
People pass me without any knowledge
That I was once a vibrant little boy
Worthy of a bright future but alas!
I am a deeply disturbed man
All these thoughts never leave me alone
I confess to the moon
The object that got me fly
On repeat to the sky
I called out my name
If she's still excite,
Of the things she embrace the most
I confess to the moon
Where the stars locate
My heart that beats
The beads to my soul
I confess to the moon
If ever your far away from me
Let me hold your hands
When it's cold
Because of winter and spring
I am nothing but a speck of light
Striving to examine the dark
The spell that I cast
Upon terrains and waters alike
Spread the legacy of my spirit's mark
In my dreams I see sanctuary of joy
In waking hours, only a ray of hope.

Father of all fathers Lord of the Universe
Are you alone or have companions
My feelings lead me to believe
That you are solitary
But my reasoning says otherwise
My reason and emotion
Lock horns most of the time
Is this where madness come from?

I only possess a modest strength
So I turn to imagination for uplift
I imagine of flowing
Toward the center of Universe
If such thing ever exists
I imagine of being a star
In the deepest dark
Glowing with everlasting equanimity
Which soothes the rebel in my heart
I dream of me wandering like the breeze
Hoping to strike the meadows
Of undisturbed peace
Where humanity blossoms.

I'm free of hate but fighting
With reasons of fate
I'm free of chain yet faced with
Seasons of pain
Shadows that surround me in despair
Are too many to defy
So I listen and absorb the craft
Which renders me exposed
But the hopes of Hope lie in the loop
For no minutes and seconds shall pass
Without terminating the past.

After all the fleeting years
I'm here breathing still
And nothing to show for
Except the strength of my faith
Embracing the unearthly temple
Of spiritual fire.
One cannot perceptively
And comprehensively write about death
And the obvious reason is
One is alive when doing it
Death remains an idea
For as long as breathing exists
And ideas are as innumerable
As the grains of sand
Even when individuals,
Preferably adroit writers or good poets,
Who have undergone
Near-death experiences
Can't fully set forth the ins and outs
Of death because they were not
Privy to the total experience.

The fact remains that we must all die
And be done away with our ****** forms
And transcend the physical world
And where our souls go is up for debate
They surely go somewhere to become
Part of an incomprehensible whole
And whether we come back to Earth
Or remain out there is another subject
Giving rise to theories or assumptions.

Death is favored by the ones tethered
With terminal illnesses
Unwavering cruelties, emotional agonies
And a host of other circumstances
Involving evil
So contrary to the popular belief
Death can be gratifying even magical
And I would go as far as saying
That death is a cure a panpharmacon
For implacable sufferings stemming
From the imperfections of this world.

I do not have a preference for where I go
After I die as long as it is not
A place described by world religions
Other than that, the road to
Indistinct reality is wide open for me
My spirit maybe zapped
To a poetic paradise
Due to the curse of being a poet
Then again, I may end up in Dante's
Inferno which wouldn't surprise me
For I have not been a very good
And upright man in my affairs
I wanted to be decent and virtuous
But I couldn't, I couldn't because
The world around me wouldn't allow it
Despite all my efforts
To disentangle myself from its reality
That wrapped itself around me
Like a vise grip
I'm a human, weak and unpossessing
Of iron strength after all
So I surrendered to pressure
And entered the turf of temptation.
Hens scampering in the village of Parma
Appeasing the rooster's pride

An acre of corn nestling
The soft serving Earth

Some light years away
The explosion of a star
Extends the reign of darkness

Kristina in her T-shirt
Looking at her **** in the mirror
Wondering how much firmer they get
She is nineteen years old
And wants to become an artist
But her mother has other ideas

The clock chimes the midnight hour
And Tom is sitting in the dark
Debating whether to do it or not
Whether to dispel the itch or wallow in it
He is idyllic and knows nothing
Of politics, nothing of religion
And nothing of death

In the street corner
Harlots talk about tricks
Talk about positional preference
And talk about cunning
One day they are the masters
Of their worlds and the next
Objects of subjugation

A ****** of crows circle overhead
The pitch of their cawing growing

The clergyman wearing a purple robe
Pays tribute to ****** Mary
He is positive that his moralizing sermon
Would enlarge his drove of disciples
His submission to the Cross
Is double-edged: one about God's work
And the other about mammon

An osprey swoops down
And catches a trout

Silver and gold are bought and sold
In the marketplace
Asteroids surge through
The incalculable space
Time effects and erases
Prospects of understanding

Mason is an obscured poet
He admires Rilke's philosophy of writing
Even though he is well educated
In aesthetics of language
His own poetry verges on insanity
He says: either mad or dead

The General brushes his mustache
He is about to give a farewell speech
To his subordinates
He is not going to ignite them
With bravery or his achievements
Instead, he is going to stab their spirits
What do they know
These fancy pants of generalship

The lioness fails to make a ****
Oh, but there is another prey

The Heart aches for peace
For eternal release from the binds of
Temporal tricks
The Mind, whether a master or slave
Miscalculates the essential needs
And the Body, sanctuary of soul,
Craves for food, ***, rest and breeding

Czeslaw Milosz would have been
The President of the World
Joseph Brodsky:
His Secretary of Independence
Robert Frost:
His Secretary of Freedom
William Butler Yeats:
His Secretary of Peace
Pablo Neruda:
His Secretary of Pleasure
Only if Fate had been kind enough.
Ba-doom,  Ba-doom,  Ba-doom-doom-doom

In my weary soul I hear the drums
That mark the cadence of expiring.
The beat is irresistible
And though my feet are torn and bloodied
I can not but take another steep.

Ba-doom,  Ba-doom,  Ba-doom-doom-doom

The road has been a rocky path
With danger just around the bends
And bandits in the roadside trees
Notching arrows to their bows.

Ba-doom,  Ba-doom,  Ba-doom-doom-doom

Another day, another hour.
How many minutes are left to me.
How many more steps must I take
Before the drum turn into violins
And I am free to join the Minuet.

Ba-doom,  Ba-doom,  Ba-doom-doom-doom
Started last year, finished last week. I like it.  Has a good beat.
I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.

Leonard Cohen

the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of

the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare

this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.

but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a

As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting

be longing.
some of you know that our paths nearly crossed
by virtue of the intersecting diagrams of the circle
of three degrees of separation, and our similarity of
upbringing  overlapped in ways that molded instant
recognition of our commonality and community…I
saw both the house and the factory, when visiting
Montreal in the 80’s

“Whenever I blow into Montreal, I manage to take a look at the old house. It’s that large Tudor-style at the bottom of Belmont Avenue, right beside the park. It looks the same. Maybe the elms on the front lawn are taller, but they were always monumental to me. I wouldn’t hold on to the place or the factory and properties that went with it.” Leonard Cohen
Next page