"admonition" poems
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Quiet crickets.
Quiet light of moon
Quiet cars along the road
--Go'n be home soon
Quiet AC on too late
Quiet humming charger in the outlet
Quiet bathroom 'cross the hall, water dripping from the faucet
Quiet floors while set'ling in
You're too old for all that whinin'
Quiet creatures awake before the sun
The signals when it's shinin'
Quiet indistinguishable shadow still yet so foreboding
Oh, you're just a pile of clothes that I never got to folding
Quiet drafty window singing with such vigor and such soul
Catch a chill from that night air
Might catch a runny nose
Quiet thoughts-that handsome stranger, worries, deadlines, dreams, 'n stuff
Quiet bedtime playlist streaming
Clearly you were'nt good enough
Quiet poem bursting from me my
Admonition of defeat
quiet quiet.
too much quiet-
quiet, would you let me sleep?
2:46am 8.30.18
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
790
Nature—the Gentlest Mother is,
Impatient of no Child—
The feeblest—or the waywardest—
Her Admonition mild—
In Forest—and the Hill—
By Traveller—be heard—
Restraining Rampant Squirrel—
Or too impetuous Bird—
How fair Her Conversation—
A Summer Afternoon—
Her Household—Her Assembly—
And when the Sung go down—
Her Voice among the Aisles
Incite the timid prayer
Of the minutest Cricket—
The most unworthy Flower—
When all the Children sleep—
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light Her lamps—
Then bending from the Sky—
With infinite Affection—
And infiniter Care—
Her Golden finger on Her lip—
Wills Silence—Everywhere—
3.7k
There’s a battle raging through my head,
So much that it knocked me off my bed.
There’s a war raging through the thoughts;
Diverse and dismayed neither I can sort.
Haste is the time that spent wasting
Entertained by such pacifistic maiming.
Ideating the norm and realizing the storm
had just started as I shut the squirm.
Conscience speaks the threat at hand,
the head does not agree the time it spanned.
Where there are more things on heaven and earth;
there are more dreadforth than my brain sports.
The enemy lurks the darkness in me,
passing by the realm of my inability.
I had to open eyes wide to invite the Light
while at the same time shut from plain sight.
Recall the Words spoken to me,
realize there is much for me to see.
The villain emerge from the dark of the moon -
the cerebral crater dormant from the day’s form
“You – are not – real.
You are just a figment;
an imagination, a fantasy,
one that I let you haunt me.”
The One I know died for,
Lived and loved me through the core.
Lies no longer seem redemptive nor elegant nor sped;
Flee not the grace and flee the grave though instead.
Jolt to wake myself up,
admonition that all along I was held at a stop.
The battle becomes the sleep yet decided;
settled more for the Love had invited.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
Suicide is not an option
Everything has to be done with caution
Be it wrong accusation or depression
Taking your life will reduce our population
Believe me, all you need is affection
Speak to someone who'll relieve you of your oppression
Who'll give you nothing but compassion
You may need trust and care in addition
When facing life challenges and tribulation
Take not suicide for a compensation
Try to have a little comprehension
Of the afterlife using your discretion
And also have a little conversation
Involving you and your intuition
Considering suicide may be as a result of impression
Or thought in abstraction
Or even to punish a relation
No matter the condition
It doesn't worth your life as a rendition
If you do plan of taking this action
I beg you take this into consideration
And do a bit of cogitation
That suicide is not an option
Though, it's taking it toll on the nation
Leading many to quick expiration
My fella, suicide is not an option
Try to do some reconciliation
And make sure to somebody you mention
To get your mind in a good position
Or perhaps it might change your situation
And set you in a new direction
Again I say suicide is not an option
Take this into admonition
That your afterlife may as well be in inversion
That live each day with vision
Devote smile to your face a portion
Do activities in admiration and jubilation
And in you life begins a resurrection
Thereby killing the ulterior notion
And also averting a possible perdition
Because suicide is never an option.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 5:07 AM UTC
You carry your life on your shoulders; a swing in a park in a city, with a lonely, shadowy, ghost of you sitting so delicately. As people pass you, they stop and look, and words come to their minds such as "passion" and "sorrow," "broken benches," "spilled dreams" and they couldn't even tell you why.
You wear your heart safety-pinned to your sleeve; a grave declaration that you are not your own person. Someone has marked you, taken something without asking; this you show everyone, not meaning to, in hopes of finding a semblance of relatability. Was it normal, what happened to you? Is this a dark fog everyone lives in? You hope not.
You have an everpresent effervescence of the wrong kind. It's a nervous habit, a shuffling of the feet and a glance to the sky. It's the reincarnation of life before that day, with the tender rips of who you are now. One can only paint over paint so much; mix the colors, they will all become grey.
You've a vague sense of relief when you look around and see no one. It's a talisman, a testimony to your independence, and your dependence on lots of human-free air. It's the writing on your arm, words you shan't forget, words like delicate innocence shame tragedy naivete melody sorrow blame identity apology and the biggest, boldest of all heartbeat.
It's a short cry from here to insanity and you remind yourself that your heart beats in pride, in admonition to the evil. "I am alive. You couldn't **** me. You won't **** me. I have a heartbeat."
I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. And the little girl on the swing smiles to the sky, a premonition of her future, a confirmation of her strength.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
In a distant dystopia, it towers above all.
It radiates a dim blue glow, that
Transfixes eyes and minds alike.
Pulling with the gravity of 20,000 suns,
Its force cannot be rivaled.
An irresistible, iridescent abomination, and
An admonition unto the autonomy of thought.
Weaving tapestries of illusory illustrations,
Into the indigent intellect of its unsuspecticng viewers.
It's images penetrate the psyche like magic, as
Minds are manipulated into the madness, of
Mass consumption of manufactured "needs."
Its reporters replace reason with rhetoric, for
Objectivity is no obeject in an age of sound bites.
It demonizes difference, distracts, and desensitizes.
Apathy becomes queen, and facile pleasures become king.
Remember your vigilance.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
It has never been my intension
nor was it ever a bone of contention
to alter or disrupt the social convention
but now is the time to pay close attention
to the decline of the human condition
Responsibility rescinded creating moral decomposition
accountability abandoned causing legal repercussion
right and wrong are muddled in a malicious juxtaposition
public opposition has festered into social imperfection
the omission of tradition by politician’s redefinition
HEED THIS ADMONITION OR ARDENT APPREHENSION
SAGACIOUS SUSPICION AND PERSISTANT PREVENTION
Of the decommission of the Physician, Pediatrician
the Technician, and the Mathematician
and give this acquisition to those with no ambition
even those under suspicion of sedition
or held in detention without fear of restitution
This is the deception of the devolution
of the middle classification
and the total destruction
of American personification
praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Put this matter with trowel and ***
Into the dark and fertile ground,
With each hit, he loosed the soil
A once happy man thou condemned to uselessly toil
His claws, cracked and broken shells
Jaundiced with the duty long days that did require
Lamed by grief and forced to work
Here, till the end of days, within this garden, this mire.
Deep does a ****** live here, past the clay and bedrock
Like the pride and valor and resolute spirit of the domineering ****
Or so her mien, it does beget
Or some other erroneous sentiment
That she, not he, were to bear this labor.
Within the ground, he did remember, in his spritely youth,
He planted, and thought none of, but a seed,
Into this verdant splendor, which bore that infernal ****
And, thence, thereof came a fruit,
Of malignity infinite,
All the while it poisoned the Virgin’s white and water’s pure,
As its eerie little spines proceeded to take root.
Her garments poised to emulate white, instead
The ****** to him, had lost her white
Or never had white at all,
The ****** to him, had lost her white,
To him, the ****** was dead.
The fruit and seed, effulgent and pretty, to those who saw them bloom
Attractive were they so to them, irresistible to behold
That they, to him with great chagrin, did immediately consume.
“But the ****** he cried. “The ****** has poisoned them!”
Yet they continued to eat.
“We do not believe you,” they replied, and slept ceaselessly on their feet.
One by one did they all collapse from the toxin of its juice.
The ****** watched and laughed, of caution was there no use.
Powerless and sullen, he stood, for remedy was far passed.
The ****** now regarded with delight,
Has he, poor, poor man, to tend to his blight.
The garden gone, its cleanliness perverted,
His words were ignored, and thrown wayside,
His admonition he so heatedly asserted,
The ****** her words never to be trusted
Had won over the people, whose homes she sought to entreat,
And with her rite, so treasured, so adored,
They enslaved and force him to his mire, to tend to the rag and filthy lands
Where he would remain with the garden
His words, his skin so like the sands
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
I had a 750 Suzuki Katana, gray machine
learned like a young man 350, then 650 then that 750cc of course
in the mid eighties, paid cash but then my mom expected the worst,
I was in the army, I said Army, military single man
I could handle the motorbike well enough,
I knew my limits,
too slow one day
on a sharp parking lot turn
and I earned a
cracked signal light casing,
too early in the
season an April Easter trek
home, turned
around in Manning Park,
near that summit,
snow and ice made it dicey
and the police wanted me to prove I had
chains and snow tires for this late season
fall of snow is
all, so I turned and went back to the base,
too much competitive spirit one day
and I thread the needle between a moving
car and a parked car, well how to say this,
with the driver's door opened wide,
in that instant I passed by at thirty miles an hour
my Life Cycle almost stopped,
my thoughts were driven to,
maybe I should go back to
bicycles, instead...
but I won the race
back to the base
and both the admiration
and admonition of my peers
whom I beat.
©DWE102013
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
A trek to the golden peak,
of clarity of every kind,
she had taken up earnestly
as her singular mission all along.
Near the upper reaches,
at the difficult terrain,
without any admonition,
an avalanche.
Her ego, frozen and hardened,
rushed towards her,
blocked further progress,
for ever,
like a wall of resistance.
She tried her best
to venture forward,
but she had lost the path
completely by then
and didn't know which way to turn.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
*Odium above all odiums, I have militancy of you now
For I own isochronism; A vigor grim dispute; not now
Your slaying too vile
Uncouth by demands
Which was the admonition I had previously
Whod've known I'd command
Garble after garble, I'm Dexterrized where I stand
Dun and gnaw your way out, go on
The un-zoetic soon will spawn
Out with gyp of hints that dwindle
Furbishing these tinges; out the window of innuendos*
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
Isolated, trapped in a dark abyss,
Remained under her lulled admonition;
Never wished to depart, but to depress,
Grieve then be stiff, yielded in damnation.
Cut off away from the world’s speed of light,
Off she choked a too petty eulogy;
Swore never to venture off from its sight,
Deprive hope, ****** apathy with elegy.
The dark poet’s ode continues to cruise,
Spills & spreads to her frail soul like poison;
Intoxicate & numbs her as a bruise,
Nullifies every positive motion.
Go better off now, my little sweet one,
The world has just locked away your sunshine;
Forget about help, you’re banished & gone,
Sleep it all away, not one can outshine.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
remove
your
beguiling
nose stud,
I am
going
crazy !
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
How do you tell a 19 year old boy that he is in Love?
More importantly, how does he tell himself?
At this point in life, that admonition is more life self-incrimination,
Than the natural steps for a smitten heart.
For so long the lone wold has roamed the range,
And now that one has been found that feels the same,
The instinct to go run and hide away
Must be corralled and eliminated from the brain,
With proper manners, class, and tact instilled in its place.
Though he feels so strongly, and always sees her face,
And with thoughts of her never far from reach
- Hovering on the edge of consciousness for easy access -
The ripping sound is his being being torn apart, heart and mind at odds with each other.
This self-perpetuating war in those maturing from boys into men,
These internal struggles time and again testing their carriers' mental fortitude.
Eventually will he just give up?
Or does he tend to fold and give in to the strain?
Could he possibly soldier on, keeping shredded thoughts to himself?
I sure would like to get a hint if you know,
T'would save me a lot of trouble, time, pain, and sorrow.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 12:28 AM UTC
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
1
it is astonishing
in spite of so much progress
in space exploration
the general population
(Yea, ye puny earthlings)
has so little grounding in space facts
(come on - face facts!)
2
which reminds me of the sun
which for years refused to get an education
because it claimed it’d already got
a million degrees;
but humbled by my admonition
the sun now goes to school
to get brighter;
and for reading it’s got plenty of comet books
and all day( there’s no night)
it learns all about its children:
it learns that a tick on the moon
is called a luna-tick;
that the moon is heaviest
when it’s full;
and all these planets exchange songs
they secretly call Nep-tunes;
and that Mars tries to get fresh
with Saturn by saying often:
“Give me a ring sometime!”
And more,
the sun learns about the light year
which is really a year with less calories;
that the cows have a distinguished
space history -
after all, the first animal in space
was the cow that jumped over the moon;
but really, its main aim
was to get all the way to the milky way
3
more of these facts? –
you lazy ostriches,
get off your heavy bottoms
and dig into a wormhole yourself
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
1364
How know it from a Summer’s Day?
Its Fervors are as firm—
And nothing in the Countenance
But scintillates the same—
Yet Birds examine it and flee—
And Vans without a name
Inspect the Admonition
And sunder as they came—
1k
gasping for air
deep in the nitrite-laden murk
grasping at what lurks
in the reeds
needing the darkness lightened
the haze brightened and
offering clarity and
the rarity of an honest phrase
the razing of a debt that weighs
that brays its neighing and nagging reminder
a tick-tock doll wanting you to wind her
a quick chalk scrawl of admonition
desperate incitement and sedition
left breathless by your rescission
by your willing dispair
I'm left
gasping for air
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
We were looking for an admonition.
Trying to find the end of the tape.
Now it’s like,
all we see is a dim image.
I exist based on what my environment tells me
I became the guardian of a great river.
I see convictionless men
around me,
mere mortals.
We have to purge the glamour.
We dance
around
Slowly moving figures.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
my mind grasps for words
floating on the wind
thoughts come and go
like great indifferent clouds
ignorant to
the insignificant miasma
roiling in the petri dish
below
temptation and trepidation
volition and admonition
regretful countenances
conduct the vessel
while gently noted
by something beneath
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
She sits….waits, ponders as the darkness arises
She’s lost in a sea of emotions, an overwhelming surge of melancholy
She hears them calling her, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the known
She hides and tries her best to block them out
Alas, they're near, closing in with every second that passes
Fear of denunciation, fear of admonition
The ghastly forms they take at night is enough to drive her mad
Yet all she does is sit and watch them as they burn her dreams before her eyes
Her talents gone in what seemed like seconds
Her heart a ****** bath of wrongs and rights
What can she do to make them go away? To make them all just disappear?
She’s in a never ending circle contemplating the one thing all her values go against
Her religion, her beliefs urges her to stand strong and not give in, why should it even be an option?
Yet every day the scars go deeper and deeper; it calls to her during the night
It makes her think and ponder that if she takes that ticket out everything will be alright
It’s a one way ticket straight to hell but is this not what that is?
It goes on and on and never ends, should she commit suicide or stand strong till the end?
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC