"ablutions" poems
~for the one who will know it was written for her~
muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled
have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?
the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear
this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature
I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif
muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess
even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman
*I am here, waiting patiently, though long time
no see
like ever,
absentia, dementia,
both self-censure:
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her,
my sun, my sun, my son,
yet she, as well,
is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating
my muddled mind*
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
तत् त्वम् असि
*for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo*
(*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*)
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
I am the warm lips of sun, that kiss your dew drenched petals,
when you in self oblivion try to embrace, I've gone faraway,
playing with love struck clouds, dancing, their slips flying,
I am the fire making your body burn with desire,slyly planted
I am the wind, licking pollen off your stamen softly, making you
want me to do that more, sowing goosebumps all over
I am the movement of desire, moving through that time of the day
languid in mornings,spreading fervor at noons and in darkness
coils like a serpent that searches for burrow to snuggle in til dawn
Flow of water am I, that carries you along easily throughout,
you could ease in to me, I am the bed and the fingers caressing,
in my dreams you are the sneaking fingers of my naughty lover,
in you are my ablutions, my fire is quenched by your flows.
I ooze,fluids of many scents sometimes a sprouting spring.
I trickle with pleasure, lubricate,cross one level to the other.
(C)
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
She has sunshine
in her hair,
like sun
on fields of corn.
I walk there,
brushing my fingers
through the softness.
She welcomes me in,
in I swim
through the waves
of her love;
she is my siren,
I, a drowning ******
Her lips are as fruit,
I am upon them
as a child greedy
for sustenance;
her moistness
embraces me.
Her thighs are ocean-like,
I bathe as one
needing salvation,
ablutions to a new end,
will this release
the dead me
or mend?
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
If I offered you blood,
The screed light of moon,
In tempest night of storm,
As nigh as my faint heart,
Would you pray penances,
Acknowledge new ablutions,
At creed, alter of strands,
Of oceans and seas alight,
Under a moon so struck,
With fires of salted water,
Tears that rain from within
And wrest your old troubles
In the beams on my love,
If I offered you blood?
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
Bath bomb You
Erupted
In my bath tonight
Like a volcano...
I enjoyed watching you
As you
Bubbled away.
You ignited
With so much sweetness
And scent... floral essence!
The
Petals within
Floated
To the surface
Like a Garland
Toward the shore.
Bath bomb
You gave me the universe
And more
You
Bath bomb
I adore.
SPLASH!
By Violet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like
one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug
taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside
her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her
back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by
the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,
seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,
foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway
her hips and **** hands swinging,
gesturing. She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in
his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a ***** a druggie slapper, she
said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.
He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,
smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and
she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
I found a wise old man
over the weekend.
He was not condescending;
the wise man was my friend.
And I did not climb stairways
to meet my learned elder,
I fell o’er a threadbare cat;
listened, whilst I held her.
He crooked a swollen finger,
for he was hard of hearing,
far off eyes, a vapour blue;
not empty, and not leering.
And he chuckled in my ear:
All the answers he had found,
which the flowers chinese whispered
across the foreign grounds.
The way he told it showed me
how his gentle life solutions
were distorted and quite faded
after those emotional ablutions.
Yet each tale was a comfort;
marked one pretty girl, long lost;
beside him, pretty, every day,
despite the draining cost.
Then the blue sky clouded over
his eyes scruted the garden
I questioned ‘Are you well…?’
see the flesh cracks harden.
***** you? Leave me; GET OUT”
for I was not his friend.
And then the nurses came,
though his confusion did not end.
I walked down to the front
for the afternoon was finished;
he no longer knew my name,
though I’d seen his mind diminish.
What a panging pain it is
to share with him cream tea,
whilst his mind is being taken
by that calm, corrosive sea.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
.
Still pale grey earth is turned,
Deep is the loam moisted,
Lone by the Ploughman.
The rows of the brushed patches,
Sweating the breakneck blood,
Are painted by labours.
Messiah doors out cathedral,
With iron plod anoints the soil,
Exposed unto mercy sun.
His hands are knobbed in stone,
His eyes searing of the star,
His face dark as deep loam.
Each day ablutions of sod earth,
Heaved out tilling unfree wills,
Burdens of harnessed beast.
Dark is the turned loam moisted,
Water flame heat of veined mist,
Seeds sown explode to bloom.
After thorny works, crowned blood,
Sun leaves to wine red fruition,
Ploughman maker is done.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
I hate it when my biscuit commits suicide
in my cup of tea.
I hate that TV is about celebrity, banality
and reality.
I hate that even though I have a job, money
still alludes me.
I hate being woken up and going to
bed in a bad mood.
I hate adverts on the radio.
I hate stupidity
facebook debates and vanity.
I hate people who think I'm a traffic light
and those oblivious to where they're going.
People who can't stop relentlessly moaning!
I hate that learning's on the decline
I hate shopping , boredom
and "being dolled up to the nines."
I hate that everybody just waits for
things to get better.
I hate that a 'good' hair day depends
on the weather.
I hate assumptions, non-conclusions
and skin ablutions that don't work.
I hate that the art of conversation is
adrift in this technological generation
I hate time-wasters, calories and kid with
no respects for elders.
I hate that journalism's no longer 'cutting edge'
or about the truth.
I hate profound sayings about too many cooks
and spoiled broth.
That I'm incapable of telling people with clipboards
to **** OFF!
I hate martyrs , can't be arse-ters,
ignorance, arrogance and man-made disasters
The non-stickiness of plasters!
I hate public transport, rush hour
and being stuck inside.
I hate people who wear tracksuits but
never exercise.
I hate queuing and clichés
I hate opinions on mental health
and those who just can't help them-self.
I hate people who relentlessly moan
who can't stop trying to sell stuff over the phone.
But most of all I hate it when
....
Ah! Forget it .
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
Center in the Atmosphere
Breathe me in.
Huff-huff and go
we don’t belong here.
It’s in the air around you.
The scent of the spice
exudes from your pores.
Hiding your clothes is no longer effective.
Give in.
They tell you to try harder,
to shower before you walk to their house.
Your constant ablutions mean nothing.
Who are you fooling?
You worked to perfect their clipped accent,
but you shortened the wrong vowels
and they know.
Assuage.
The word tripped you up and dragged you down
so have some more. Rise yourself up
but not like that, enough of the silliness.
It won’t **** you.
Say your mother was *****
you might as well whisper it to them.
They’ll believe anything.
A moment more.
The days will drag by
and your face will crack
and the Children of the Sky will look down.
Their gaze will seek to strip you;
your raspy breath will betray you.
Don't exhale.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
He is her first love,
the love which makes
her want to open her
arms to the early day,
hear bird song, wash
in the cold water the
maid brings, breaking
the ice, her hand scooping
up the coldness to her
face, and the o yes this
is it, feel, in her. Before
him there were only dull
mornings, icy ablutions,
boring birds singing, and
her father lecturing at
the morning table about
the horses or the birds
for the shoot or how well
his dogs hunt. This first love,
this exciting explosion,
this wanting to run through
the fields undressed and
sing loudly, this new born,
fresh as a lamb kind of love,
this tingling through the veins
and nerves feeling, this is
what the poet’s name love,
their words ticking off the
virtues, their voices calling
across shires, hills and seas.
She wants him to come,
wants his arms about her,
his lips on hers, she thinks of
him each moment of her day,
senses him in each touch her
body feels, in each smell of air.
She wants him there. Before him
there was just the routine of daily
visits to the poor of the parish
with he mother’s gossip, picking
of flowers, the dull witted wit of
her tiresome brothers, before this
first love she almost drowned in
the daily drudge, but now she feels
each second’s tick, each moment’s
***** the over feel of air and breath
and him maybe being there to watch
her dress (unseen of course) and
all the little things that first love brings.
The maid helps her dress, buttons
up at the back, brushes the hair, o
o she wishes it were the first love
there unbuttoning her dress and
making her neatly done hair in a mess.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
~~~
"Fact about me: You design me"
line from a poem published here on Nov. 30, 2013
part I of a trilogy
nml
~~~
6:33am
9 minutes left
in the AM hour of my tribulation,
the re-design time,
redoing my outer shell
legs pounding,
towel sodden soggy,
soon return to home
do my morning ablutions
followed by a frosty walk
to the multiple screens
for trading things
makeover, do-over,
but you can only easy
shed and cleanse
exterior surfaces,
shape and appearance,
the inside stuff,
that's the gut wrencher
don't be so hard on yourself
kid!
nah ain't gonna
kid
myself
too old, too much a wise guy
to show much forgiveness to self,
of untruly yours,
whose design was only 50% mine
someone is dying,^
my cocktail of
words and emotions
more muddled than my
usual abnormal,
while sweating off
the golden baddies
to the golden oldies
so where exactly is the
truth burden?^^
somewhere between sad
and a curt "no cares"
my physical reformation,
is part and parceled,
of my regeneration,
the one who gave me
the desire to die before my time,
is dead before her time,
and I don't know the clear water truth
of my variable emotions
design me?
she is deigning to
design me still
with her untimely death
so I cycle even harder
to release the anxiety of
mis-everything
regretting what was lost,
now missed,
that too was, and is,
part of my design,
part of
burden of truths
that design who we
were, are, and yet
may be
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
We set off for a long weekend,
Does this Carmageddon ever end?
Eventually, we arrive,
That was a long hot drive!
See our tent as it collapses!
"He" does bust all his synapses!
I unpack, rain commences,
"Let's go home!" he mentions,
Yeah, right, now the dog wants loo,
Did I bring a coat and gumboots too?
Armed escort of mosquitoes,
Forgot insect repellent, oh Woe!
Never mind, not long to go,
Finally made it all the way home,
A weekend of staring at the rain,
Last word to him I say,
"I am never going camping again!"
(And no more I did)... from my brain,
The poet in someone's heart,
From indoor ablutions, I'll never part.........
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
To me, this sounded so final and trite,
But his wife, she said, left him,
Cause she couldn't be a wife.
There's a fine epitaph to carve,
On the stone above his life:
*My wife, they say, left me,
Cause she couldn't be a wife;
That's all she ever wanted,
To be this dead man's wife*.
A couple passing by the script,
Might read an enigmatic drift.
What kind of wife, the woman asked,
I wonder what he meant by that.
One who'd drink and drink some more,
Smoke and eat and grow so fat
On Caesar's Salad and chocolate.
Could she nurse through any sickness;
See it for what it is;
For what it was;
Work with the outcome,
Not the cause.
And yet, it's true, all along,
He wasn't in control.
Not abuse, or waywardness,
But the drink that dries the soul.
What could that wife do
In the fight.
They each promised,
Each meant each life;
Does she get to choose the sickness?
What kind of wife gets to pick it?
I know he didn't give objection,
As many husbands do,
When she raised ablutions
To false gods she eschewed;
They promised on the temple pinnacle
That all is theirs, if she submits,
To the pyramids that promise riches.
Till death do us part.
Now that's a lark,
In a song of lament.
She could have been any wife
She'd deem to choose in her life;
She chose,
For a limited time,
On a definition
He declined.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC
The dream always beckons with a resolution,
while a new day holds unimagined sights.
Yet, the dream resolves only into continuation
ad nauseam through another wasted morning’s light.
While a new day holds unimagined sights,
I awaken mainly to delay alarms
ad nauseam through another wasted morning’s light,
stumbling blindly with an outstretched arm.
I awaken mainly to delay alarms
Yawning through bleary eyes into still weather,
stumbling blindly with an outstretched arm -
the clear morning looks a hopeless endeavor.
Yawning through bleary eyes into still weather,
I eventually haul these stiff limbs through ablutions.
The clear morning looks a hopeless endeavor,
though I can begin to glimpse possible solutions.
I eventually haul these stiff limbs through ablutions,
because the dream resolves only into continuation.
Though I can begin to glimpse possible solutions,
the dream always beckons with a resolution.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
I opened the shutters
of my room
and the 5am morning
welcomed me
with dawn chorus,
the bell tower stood
like a giant in the mist
viewed from my window,
Deus movet me,
the abbey toilet was empty
and I filled my basin
with cold water
for ablutions,
lavabis me sunt
alba sicut nix,
my cup runs over
she said and laughed
after *** and so did I,
Dom James spoke
of learning Latin for plainsong
and to practise reading
aloud in church
and I dreaded such,
nous avons un Dieu écoute
the French monk said
as he showed me
how to lay out
the vestments for Mass,
George talked of the way
the dawn light
brightens up the abbey
in mornings and I said
I had seen,
kiss me here she said
and pointed with her finger
and I did
and did again,
ohne Gott gibt es nichts
the Austrian monk said
as we walked back
to the abbey after
our walk on the Thursday,
I brushed my hand along
the brick wall
in the cloister
sensing the roughness
and the smoothness,
Hugh said the Scottish monk
had funny ways
liked knitting in his
spare time and once
played the bagpipes
so I heard,
why must we suffer?
because here below
pure Love cannot exist
without suffering
said St Bernadette
so I read some place,
un peccatore pentito
the Italian monk said
lo siamo anche noi,
I tolled the bell
for the office of Sext
my stomach rumbling,
we are what we repeatedly do
excellence is not an act
but a habit Gareth said
quoting Aristotle
as we sat on the beach
in the abbey grounds
watching the tide roll in,
I counted her ribs
with my tongue
and she was pleased,
the monk reading
in the refectory read
on Mary Queen of Scots
in monotone
his eyes scanning
the pages of the book,
see this she said
as she undressed
and I turned around
and had to look.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
I woke
withal
the rain
-like snow-
It fell in
ablutions
around me
Paris
est-ce que
voudrais
boire une
verre de vin?
Sucia
ciudad
llena de
las filles y
los hombres
y moi
Dans mon
chambre
-alone-
despierto
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
Moonlight washes me
through the window.
Reaching out cupped hands,
I gather it...drink it...bathe my face.
Silky ablutions.
Moonbeams strike the silver in my hair,
throwing back a milky reflection.
For a moment I am a Goddess
instead of an old lady.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
People talk about death
As if it is the end
Sometimes I see it as a beginning
They tell me that a person expires
When there role is played
And they have done there part
Sometimes I think this body of ours
Is made of wood
The older it grows the more it has to offer
Many people die before their time
People talk of death among other things
These are the very people who should be allowed to grow
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 2:54 PM UTC
this, only a feeling,
or time demanding to be owned,
desiring occupation
for its relevance is something
that space tenders us.
amongst the peerless lampposts
stabbing the silence with
daggers of light bent to
infinite smallness, so breakable
and so falsely fabulated, is this
scene demanding a name:
flooded are the elliptical interstices my heart's waysides, close to bursting
with waters rendering me repetitions of ablutions, pain is as thorough as a mother meticulously
thwarting dust off of sacred things.
these abated breaths rehearse
their oblivions.
these hands pardon their
callouses for holding too tightly,
the craggy exterior of something
that quavers to be freed.
and the soul turns to leave,
crossing a fine line of distance,
midway pivots to squint at a still vibrant recollection then
pretends as if
nothing has happened.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
It is often said
That living is the rarest thing
Some people merely exist
I can promise myself this
That the rivers will flow
And the trees will bring wood
Fish don't have feelings
But, innocence fades
That is what clears my conscience
The iota of ephemeral contrast
I can sustain a worthy purpose
Which may have a fleeting foundation
One of immense virtue
That a plebeian approach cannot understand
If I take the crooked path
I can walk among my peers
Who have been waiting
For me
To live free as well
But stand strong I must
As I gaze into an abyss
Without purpose
Undoubtedly determined
I can do something, methinks
Instead of doubting my own perception
Yet, I cannot predict
When the diurnal birds will go in abmigration
I simply forget
Some skip south much of autumn
I cannot remember
When will the solitary tree lie bare
The weather behaves like an intelligent child
No one knows where the wind goes
If you ask why, you question your wisdom
Only you and yourself
Can find the purpose
For the phenomena within
That tells you to move on forward
Contrary to popular wisdom
Until the final beat of an unseen presence
Ushers you into its arms
And like an abyss staring back at you
Tells you there is no rainbow down there
To confirm your fears
Or affirm your immense virtue
Your glory fades
When death holds you closer
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 3:58 PM UTC
Always wash
your hands
before meals
Auntie said
and do not speak
with your mouth full
and stand
when a lady
enters the room
and be silent
when adult's speak
and I listened
and washed
my hands
in the small
white sink
and ate the breakfast
in a silent gaze
and stood
when Auntie came
in the room
and she said
not me Benny
you needn't
stand for me
I'm just your auntie
and no lady
but she was to me
but I never
said so not
with my mouth full
and my hands
still damp
from my short ablutions
and I scant knew
of the world's way
or far off revolutions.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
Sunrise bathes me with His gold
my complexion has turned a golden hue
my hairs are rays of light now
and lips amber gems
gaze into my eyes beloved
pools of sweet honey swirl
come sit by this blushing lotus pond
and we will sing luminous songs of the Sun
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC