"alchemist" poems
Disappointment is thrown strongly at my direction.
Blame gathers in large quantities like a pest infestation.
"It's your fault" and words like "You always make mistakes" evoke anger.
Anger which I want to take out on myself and take out on others.
I can excel in my work of choice, I know I'm more than average.
The bad gets pointed out more and little praise is given for the good.
Stunned by unmoving words. I'm like a prisoner sentenced to jail, released and expected to do worse.
Destruction emerges from my enraged emotions, i wish your words could offer a solution.
I want to be an alchemist and turn things into gold.
It's ironic how I am a creator of words but cant create better words in my critics.
Conversations lead to arguments because i want to be heard.
I'm sick of revolving doors, sick of being slammed by your atrocious comments.
"You have no common sense" you say to me, maybe I just prefer to be in a daydream, my mind drifting away because life is too dull.
Realize that what you say has an effect and that effect can drive somebody or stop them in motion.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
When I grow up, I want to be a dentist
Astronaut or mage apprentice.
I want to be a dancer, an artist, a king.
I'm hoping to stand on a stage and sing.
When I grow up, I want to be a lawyer,
Or have lead role in the play Tom Sawyer.
I'll be a comedian, and make people laugh!
Or the CEO with a thousand staff.
I'll be a waitress, a teacher, a vet.
Snow White's eighth dwarf that no one has met!
I might be a chef, or a scientist.
How about architect or alchemist?
When I grow up, I'll be a song writer
Or maybe your friendly, next-door firefighter.
I'll be a technician or pharmacy worker,
A fashion designer or New York stock broker.
I'm gonna be everything, just you wait and see!
But I think in the end I'm just gonna be me.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
Not an enigmatic smile
Like the constipated, condescending smirk
Adorning, and inexplicably adored, on the Mona Lisa's smug face;
But a smile to justify God's existence;
A smile that, when dazzlingly bestowed
Upon one fortunate soul, caught rabbit-like in its
Wondrous radiance, infinitesimally, and cumulatively,
Increases the World's joy. Where every living thing -
Whatever exists on the planet, imperceptibly hums
To a new, more celestial pitch -
An effervescent vibration celebrating Life's mysteries:
A reason for existence.
It's a smile to make an Alchemist cry -
Turning a leaden heart to gold in an instant.
It's a smile to make a mediocre poet struggle
To articulate an adequate description
Using all the hyperbole, simile and metaphor at his limited disposal.
Inestimably more brilliant, and more valuable,
Than the most flawless diamond ever found -
And, perhaps, just as rare.
Thankfully, a renewable resource,
Enabled to enlighten and heat
The recesses of any beneficiary's
Heart and invigorate their soul.
Helen may have caused a thousand ships to sail,
Destroying a nation as a consequence;
And Cleopatra nearly caused the collapse of an Empire;
But Tao's smile, unleashed in all its glory
Could melt the Antarctic ice-sheet -
Drowning us all in its magnificence.
Mayan's have a myth that states such a smile
Only comes around once every twelve thousand years,
In the Great Galactic turning.
Einstein's General Theory of Relativity
Is often mistakenly considered to concern gravity,
But is, in fact, concerned with one's relative position
To Tao's smile - an inescapable vortex of pleasure.
No music conceived of the fabled Celestial Spheres
Compares to the silent, ethereal harmonies tattooing my heart
Whenever, beacon-like, that smile flashes fleetingly in my direction.
And Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle has not a Quantum core,
But revolves around the statistical uncertainty of being blessed
With the ephemeral thrill of a benign grim.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *********
with a heart made of silver.
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:00 PM UTC
Make them suffer, fall in love
Words dripping with emotion
You're the singer....alchemist
Words and Music are your potion
Make them cry, laugh, and sing
Make them react to every line
Stir the *** some....Alchemist
On a tightrope made of rhyme
One chance is all you get
Working without a net
No one will hear you fall
You're tightrope is made of words
On stage at the Bluebird
You've only one chance...that's all
Write your thoughts out, share your dreams
Do it in three four time
Put it to music, bring them along
On your musical tightrope line
Go out and sell yourself, nightly
And make them feel what is inside
Remember, you're up on a tightrope
And each night, is a completely new ride
One chance is all you get
Working without a net
No one will hear you fall
You're tightrope is made of words
On stage at the Bluebird
You've only one chance...that's all
There's no support but words and music
At the Bluebird, you're on your own
Make them a part of you, do the best you can do
Make them all family, sing to them each...alone
Don't forget don't look down, just focus on the light
Come on now, Alchemist, stir the *** some more
Make them all cry again, make them remember when
Sing from the tightrope and they'll fall in love once more
One chance is all you get
Working without a net
No one will hear you fall
You're tightrope is made of words
On stage at the Bluebird
You've only one chance...that's all
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Once upon a time, a long time ago
There was a little boy with a grimy flow
I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday
And this is what I heard him say…….
He say **** like, he be like….
Ah! and I'm a *********** biter
The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya
You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers
Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva
I go so hard when I'm flowing
So cold my flows frozen
I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean
And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion
But dam, those explosions are so slow motion
So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees
Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between
A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D
Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly
I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious
A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes
Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish
Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it
Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates
I damage this establishment
They enacted bans on urban camping
If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is
Happily on mattresses
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right
A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay
He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown
Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound
A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives
He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes
He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw
He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
the gallon of arizona green tea that you only drank a fraction of.
the salt and pepper potato chips you meant to eat, but only did so in the dream i had last night.
the unmade bed that was still unmade when you flew back home, the one i still cannot bring myself to make.
the dyed green hairs i keep finding around the house.
the way you always pronounced 'mosquito' as 'mosk-it-toe' on purpose, and how you pronounced my cat's name 'sullumun' instead of 'solomon' on accident.
the partially closed closet door from the morning i drove you to the airport.
the faint smell of your sweat on my pillow left because of your hyperhidrosis.
the flannel you wore and the longsleeve shirt you doused in your aftershave, that is three sizes too big for me to realistically wear.
the empty taco bell cups in my car from your fourth day here.
the empty shopping bags from our impromptu mall trip.
the polaroids you really wanted to keep, but we couldn't find when you packed.
the pieces of you that you never meant for me to keep that i keep piecing together as though, like an alchemist, i could make you appear again though i cannot, and you are not here, you are gone.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
My bathroom,
the bedroom,
my living room and
the kitchen are all
spying on me daily,
seen my nakedness,
more than enough
to describe every
bit of me,
records my every
moment and daily visits,
day and night.
I'm not ashamed to display
my nakedness even
**** without decorum.
My bathroom mirror is the
first to see the show of
my new dance steps,
and i allowed it to see and
record the secret of my life.
So shamelessly I displayed
my secret acts in my bedroom,
doing all sorts of stuff,
things my mouth cannot
freely talk about.
In there in the closet
of my beloved bedroom
I committed all sorts of
crimes that even you will
be ashamed to watch if
you know what I mean.
In the privacy of my bedroom
no holes barred.
What do I say about my kitchen.
I became an alchemist
and a herbalist taught,
groomed and approve
by my mother.
On the cauldron as
a herbalist I mixed up
all kinds of herbs and spices
and come up with my alchemical concoction to help entertain
my family and friends and also
to feed and condition my body.
My living room now turned
into a theatre where I became
an actor to everyone who cared
to watch me display my prowess.
All these I do in quietness of
my small enclave where
my bathroom and Kitchen,
the bedroom and living room
witnessed and spy on my follies.
Did I tell you about Palomar the parrot and Kelly the German Shepard.
They can tell you my story if you
asked them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
Broken into a million pieces,
living in this fear to break into a million more,
Making sure to tread with caution,
making sure I don't scream when I step on the thorns,
making sure I couldn't recall the last time I felt pain and mourned.
But someone felt my void inside,
Someone taught me there are no mistakes that cannot be healed
She taught me “healing exists to connect and not to perfect beings”.
I have found someone that makes me adore these fragments in me.
She is an alchemist working with gold,
healing those imperfections,
not hiding them in deep,
shaping them with trust,
molding them to fit back in,
trying to restore me with her palms,
blessing her magic on me
with that sacred art of Kintsugi.
Now the healed scars are in the shape of roses and daffodils,
now the vulnerabilities look gorgeous in me.
Her love is bridging my broken pieces,
now those lost and empty pieces are looking vivid.
Kissing those palms which made me believe,
breathing under her serenity,
now I felt peace in my reality.
Every imperfection seems unique to me.
Fragility, strength, and beauty,
now seem almost synonymous to one another.
To the one who rooted this resilience in me,
you mean the world to me.
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
Imagine alchemist and doctors brought life to mannequins
Question: will we pay them for wearing fashionable trends
Or will they forever be enslaved from beginning to end?
I speak on this because history shows the unfairness of men.
I speak on this because hatred still exist like sin.
Be free mannequin
Be free
What will be the social contract for new life that appear aware
Remember ...
Great Cesar's ghost/ Rise of the planet of the apes -escapes.
Cesar got lock up and spoke signs with an orangutang/ the long arm ape. That was pure sci fi at its best, I mention that movie because I can see the first mannequin arrest.
News at 10:00
Mannequins protest.
Be free mannequin
Be free
Who was meant to be here
You!?
How about you?
Social structure brings forth /false indivisibility.
Segregation because of plastic skin
Sophism due to those who can't see pass what's within.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
I've abandoned a withered state, fumbling
Toward your ecstasy - opening windows to
A brave new world: What a scene to behold!
My heart has calmed consuming life’s tonic -
I'm filled with attraction, alike an alchemist
disposition to discover their personal legend
How far, do thoughts travel? Become aware,
we’ve covered only but a few hours of sleep
The vicissitudes of motion - by faith we move
At luminal speed, ’til visions dawn and we’re
Before a sky clearing moon
Shall we recline in that loft above?
While it be suspended in the fetal position?
Or tarry until morn’ when reflections are reborn
From spurts of spontaneity, to cycles of growth
Apprehending blessings so as to appreciate the
distance of our obstacles
For camaraderie's had since severed –
And authenticity perfidiously pilfered –
And liars became prosecutors of liars
Pregnant with delusions of grandeur
Freedom is the temporal prison for
Revolutionaries wails of conditions
Psalms of sentimentalism provoke
An emotional tug of war, conscripting
another soldier of love – wearing a fig
Leaf of inhibition and foul remains of
passed transgressions...
Where to turn to when you’re cold?
Intransigent echoes give no warmth
I’ve fallen into the (d)earth of sanity
Erstwhile
Fumbling
Toward
Ecstasy
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
I'm not a person who collects things
I live a very minimalist's life
But I have a bag of treasures
I keep close to me day and night
I sleep on an old painted daybed
It squeaks softly as I lay down
Most of my clothes are second hand
And my shoes a little worn down
But I have some precious treasures
Hidden in bags of different names
Fendi, Burberry and Prada
Leathers and fabrics of worldly fame
My treasures are hidden deep inside
In makeup bags and zippered pockets
Shiny compacts full of velvety colors
From Paris, Milan and Rome
A black cloth bag of 8 tiny bottles
Protected from the sun and rain
Bottles of perfume oils made in an alchemist's lab
With names like Dragon's Milk, Snow White and Bliss
A Christian Dior handkerchief or two
Hangs delicately inside the bag
In case the breeze brings on a sneeze
Or I notice a tear in the eye of a friend
by Mark Lj
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
Beyond the past,
Beyond our future.
Evolution is inevitable.
Change,
Will always be apart of,
THIS sand of time.
AS the dreams commence,
As our path becomes clear.
The treasuring reward,
Is within the crystal sphere.
One finds its true dream,
Within the universe that bonds.
Finding Thy Destiny,
Beyond the red sands.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
Alchemist make for me
conjure an elixir
that tastes of his tongue
his tenderness
his mouth.
Alchemist make for me
conjure an elixir
that smells of his skin
like the breathing of his essence
his love.
Alchemist make for me
conjure an elixir
a balm for these memories
that burn me and make me yearn.
Heal me of him Alchemist
conjure an elixir
or bring him home....
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
There is no night like a bayou night,
the air pregnant with expectancy and
mystery, mingling scents of wisteria,
trumpet honeysuckle and gumbo mud -
a Dark Ages alchemist seeking an elusive
golden fragrance. It's a night dark despite
the nearly full moon, a night in which
fireflies pulsate as so many flickering
neon bulbs and the cacophony of insects
reaches toward an unattainable crescendo.
Mammoth cypress trees line the bayous,
letting fall Spanish moss as strands of ghostly
gray-green hair, and the oppression of dark
is waiting just beyond the searching lantern.
At times the wind moans like a sated lover,
at other times it howls wildly, but it's always
present and always vocal to those who
would listen. There could be fear in such nights,
or there can be a love of the mysteries inherent
with the bayous - I choose the love of the bayous.
*I lived in Louisiana about nine years,
and there are many things about that
state I still love - bayous being one of them.*
--
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC
The alchemist,
See's what others do not see,
Finds peace in the pursuit of their quest,
Endeavors to do what others say cannot be done,
Thinks internally and is not swayed by the views and opinions of others,
Knows that the path is more important than the goal.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I still have too long a life ahead
To get rid of these feelings, right?
I want to try doing over
The things I've left undone.
I thought I was running after
Something carried over from my dreams.
Yet I'm stumbling into people
On this narrow, winding road.
It's not like I want to go back
To the way things were back then.
I'm just searching for the sky
I've been losing.
Here's hoping you'll understand.
Stop making that sad face
As though you were a victim.
Sins don't end with tears
You have to carry the pain forever.
Who am I waiting for, in this maze of emotions
With no way out in sight?
I want to purge myself more simply
As if writing in a blank notebook.
What is it I want to escape from..
...Is it reality?
It makes me want to scream that we're alive
For things to come true.
Can you hear me?
I can't put up with playing it safe.
I've got nowhere to go home to.
I'm always grateful for kindness
That's why I want to grow stronger.
(I'm on my way)
I even welcome this pain
For the things I miss.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
golden threads this autumn bears
waves of thin despair at your iron door
Show Time, says Fosse, heart on the floor
when sunlit window gently flares
a crispy wind, a frivolous sunrise
oh, dance along, your fragile neck so white
Show Time, says Fosse, aglow with light
please, dance with me, and look into my eyes
golden threads this autumn bears
in every leaf, in every grain of dust
Show Time, says Fosse, it's my final lust
melancholy's dripping venom deadly glares.
"Autunno, se vuoi cogliere la frutta della mia anima, ti prego di non esaurire ancora il sole, il filo d'oro della vita, il filo d'oro della danza." - Gianluca Masi, known as the Dancing Alchemist, Firenze, the second half of the XVI-th century
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
What do you know me as?
Some know me
as a doctor,
some know me
as a pastor,
some know me
as a poet,
an author,
Others know me
as a Naturopath,
Most know me
as a herbalist,
Some others know me
as an alchemist,
some know me
as a mystic,
some know me
as a beloved hierophant,
a high priest,
Some know me
as a metaphysician,
Some know me
as a crisis counselor,
some as a
human rights activist,
some as a martial artist,
some don't even
know me,
I'm different things
to different people.
My life is complex
and dynamic,
and very interesting
with incessant activities
that surrounds it,
debonair and a teetotaler.
But with all the
complicated complexities,
I am profoundly so simple,
amiable and easy to placate,
with a great sense of humor,
purposeful mingled with
a no nonsense attitude.
I know who I am.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.
Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.
Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and sex-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.
Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--
Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.
The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--
Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--
Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.
The door opens.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC