"augury" poems
In tunnelled darks, pastes of reminisce
Outward disjoint points to irrelevance
Spooned and coned in cold mountaintops
The darks of sorrows and trails of struggles
Persistence patterns of self satire in gloom
Sunken in identity crisis of broad oceans
Stormy seas spotlighted by beatific stars
Trajectory of spilled ice in recurrent motions
A mere past cocooned by fears and tears
Clouded in thoughts that cruise and decline
Greyed white imprinted by sudden sadness
Madness echoes on arched ancient bricks
Checkered maniacs of fulfilled passions
Filed and iced in cased prolific memories
Cascades of sunshine tickles to warmth
Orchards of glow that bloom and grow
Picked, ticked and unpacked from boxes
Attacked, nurtured and stored in bliss
Eventful lessons unfolds in untold augury
A mission as the known permeates and fade
Windowed eyes all line up in parade
Mirrored lights digest the haunted haste
A stranger to self, an ally to another
A dance of bright entwine a twist of blur
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Neither in the vividness of the arches of a cathedral,
Nor in the dangling bells and echoing rituals of a temple,
Neither on the holiest banks of Nile or Ganges,
Nor among the peaks of the grandest Mountain,
There is no augury, there is no God, is there no God? And if there is,
Why are the eyes of lives haunted by the cruel dreams of disbelief?
Why is banishment tangled around the feet of a truth seeker?
Why the perverse thoughts and deeds ruling the Mankind?
Why the pious body and mind are today full of grief?
If there’s God, Why is this sea of cold blood on a high tide?
If there’s God, Why are the innocent lives being wasted?
If there’s God, Why are the good being handcuffed?
If there’s God, Why the darkness is today the source of light?
The slaps of violence on the face of peace is a sign of doom,
If there’s no God, then these drops of bloods cry for whom?
But GOD is that moment which is beyond knowledge and wit,
That one cipher which has taken centuries and yet not deciphered,
That one point of thought where the minds seize to think,
That one decision which stops a man from giving up,
That one drop of tear from the eyes of an Oppressed,
That one source of energy which makes us to take a stand,
That one voice of truth which demolishes the works of lie,
That one smile of innocence which equals a million shouts,
That one silver lining which makes us believe in ourselves,
Calls Aloud and makes us believe, that there is A GOD,
And He’s Everywhere, With everyone, and Will always be.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
Ye who have passed Death’s haggard hills; and ye
Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease to know
And still stand silent:—is it all a show,
A wisp that laughs upon the wall?—decree
Of some inexorable supremacy
Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise
From depth to ominous depth, looks past his eyes,
Sphinx-faced with unabashed augury?
Nay, rather question the Earth’s self. Invoke
The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown to-day
Whose roots are hillocks where the children play;
Or ask the silver sapling ’neath what yoke
Those stars, his spray-crown’s clustering gems, shall wage
Their journey still when his boughs shrink with age.
3.5k
The road was long and rough
It was a passageway of words
A parade of letters and prose
The touch of invisible pleasure
I moulted like a snake in season
I dreamt on a cruiser of reign as we
opened my pandora box in the cave
The road was smooth and right
It was a third eye paradise of seers
A mire of misery and blowing wind
The tears flew like fireflies on heat
I met the shrinks of souls in salt bed
I waved the rain as it washed my sins
On that sight of the pandora box
The road of wrongness and rightness
It was an unfolded augury of life
An awakened sleeper roared in dreams
The days when I touched the skies
I took the broken house and mended
I saw the clouds as bright as crimson
Inside the box when I met my twin
The road of love, lust, love, longness
It was when the ember coal was wild
A blaze of soul collision and resonance
The days when doubt taunted in mazes
I wrested my mind and the heart knew
I tested the precipice and intuition led
Inside the unconditional pandora box
The road where I hid and felt alive
It was a paradise of shining trees
A place where our loneliness merged
The safest heaven on barren lands
I saw my warrior and he shielded
I sat as he ran away with fear and pride
On that very opened pandora box
The road of unforgotten forever
It was a triangulation of continents
An immersion of difference and indifference
The open table of a scarce connective mess
I shed my naive bed and hardened
I shut the wild untwisted world
On that very inevitable pandora
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
Parsimony Antipathy or Prudent Hostility
Locked-up Cuspid Of the One Celled Organism
As the Augury tends to its Auspices oddities
One Weak Ordeal and your reward will be handsome
Ceteris paribus when Ockham’s blade gets dull
Get a loan from your Karma or come back as amoebae
Hearts won’t be practical until they’re unbreakable.
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Salivating tadpoles for Hegemony crickets
All imprisoned here with this repressionist peasant
By a singular stroke into Jove’s black booklet
Lucidly errant, who hasn’t been flippant?
Clever Arachne, my love, oh thou immodest spider
All I ever wanted, she picked a fine time to leave us
My days squandered eavesdropping Apocalypse riders
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
All us children of the Millennial
awaiting an omen,
seeking out the last augury,
weaving among the boomers
who present us with a forgery.
Stay strong, my children!
We are the last missionaries,
the last lost lovers,
are the rarest breed indeed,
above us a genuine gospel hovers.
Stay authentic, my friends!
Set out with unmatched veracity,
imperfection glistens these days but,
we see through the deceiving fog with rectitude,
we refuse to be mislead.
Steer the course, my children!
These maps made for us yield no
sensible shape or design when traced,
we forge our own compass.
Forgetting north south east west,
undulating inwards with a steady pace.
"We are the lovers, we are the last of our kind, so hold my hand and keep your chin up and I swear we'll be just fine."
We desire no recompense, only truth.
On sour soiled presidential soliloquies we muster strength again and again to chew, repeatedly breaking a tooth.
With roots above and branches below,
we capture our affections in nature's photo booth
but,
furrow our brows in a sordid mirror reflection.
Stay clean, my sweet princes!
Dart ahead to meet me and my words I will not mince.
Hold steadfast to the healing hope hovering above our masts,
steer this ship with steady hands,
fear not the undertow.
A voyage which is long and treacherous,
but this is no ship of floating fools.
Be proud, my children!
We have sailed successfully into the millennium,
leaving in our wake the outdated value systems of the past.
We are the strong
We are the brave
We are the lovers
The last of our kind
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
*yonder wave wants to come on in
can't make it go away
try so hard to chase away
steel reserve*
1.
don't come cryin' on yo broken shins
who dat talkin' ova der?
yo muvva just ain't home rite now
take ya scraggy bags
and vamoose outta here
pick up dem rings 'round yo trappin' eyes
and lasso 'em round dat red fin
tackle yo chapped lips
afore dem ships fall in yo calyx-cracks
quit dat naggin' bitch-mouth
here, have dis apple, ma piggie
and dems eyes o' yours dat shine so brite
might as well switch off dat lite
hide dem leather-hands dat look like dry branches
wat, even da desert don't win dis contest
pack dat stupid head in a box
der ain't nuttin' inside a see-through noggin
hide dem silly hopes under a hevvy sea
or bury it under da soles of yo crazi hart
take yo blasted treadin' to some udder place
some dark mine where dey can use yo help
and all dem purty words on pages yo just lurve a-spewin'
ain't no party here for fools no more
2.
den, der some funny rhydm 'gainst ma door
pushin' dat big wave
pushin' dat big wave
I'm a-pushing back jest as hard
but dat wrestlin' wave jest a-growin'
keeps a-knockin'
always rockin'
gonna come crashin' rite in
*ain't no good wishing, ma beloved darlin'
so many fine dreams
running silent
in dem luvverly veins under yo kick-startin' tongue*
yah, yonder waves gonna make a breakthrough
some day...
(mebbe)
S T, 21 augury 2013
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Yesterday, the sun set at midday,
a lot of rivers lost their flows
as confusion engulfed us in conflagration of confusion
Today the sunrise has chased away
the fiery sundown into the abyss
What a glorious augury overshadowing the dark shadow in the labyrinth of the unknown to come.
It's the power of the Power beyond!
Jul 27, 2023
Jul 27, 2023 at 8:59 AM UTC
Of a nefarious shadow that followed
Her eyes of blue serene were nonchalant
As she wended the verdant lanes.
.
The lanes she trod like an esplanade
Her ears could perceive no rant
Of a nefarious shadow that followed.
.
The phantom to her was an Adonis
And yet, oblivion to herself she did grant
As she wended the verdant lanes.
.
The undefined was lurking closer
Unacquainted while on her errant
Of a nefarious shadow that followed.
.
That aisle could pave way to her hearse
Unaware she; of the dangers nearing every instant
As she wended the verdant lanes.
.
That peaceful sienna her eyes were at
Oblivious of the slow augury chant
Of a nefarious shadow that followed
As she wended the verdant lanes.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Pawny, the orange stray played with her
That was odd
The crows chattered outside her window
The mynas silently observed from the fence
Dear Mr. Cooper never left her side
It was not unusual that the day was cloudy
It often is here in the equatorial
The accompanying heavy gloom in the sky
and all around was not the norm though
As passers-by seemed to mention
The smell of fresh jasmine was in the air
So much fragrance couldn't possibly come
from one plant
The chatter of the sparrows were toned down today
But only a clever observer could have noticed
She called everyone to say hi
She never calls, everyone knows
Still the others didn't know, couldn't have known
Even she didn't know
That today was to be her last day as a physical being
She went to bed just like on many other nights
Tossing for a while playing her sudoku
Which usually lulled her to sleep
When she awoke, though she thought
it was morning, it seemed like she was sitting near the sun
She looked around, her old friends, dead friends
were all around
Kimmy was there and so was Pompy
She felt so happy, she didn't even bother to ask
Only the sound of loud wailing
shook her a little
and there in the cloud she saw
a moving picture
Of her dear ones crying
And she laying there, almost smiling
As lifeless as the flowers placed on her
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
as darkness cradles
its palpability encompasses
dreams
a moments sway...
inebriates as images of him
passes through salient memories
of Him and I
those moments spun like silk...
his visage visible; an augury to me
dreams allusion dallies like
gossamer in gentle breezes
teasing, taunting in its promise
of fulfillment
dreams alight...
his ambling soft, blush arises as
I bow into maleness, where
urgency slides, tasting silken
curvatures; that stare into hazel
eyes beckon lips
memories caress...
rise and fall of gasped breaths
unleashed wilder dreams
beneath thirst of his eyes,
swallowed by seduction
those naked memories...
flush, deep within our hunger;
a rush fed into sweet pulses,
bodies rise; cognizance slips
back, wetness effusive
drenched...
entwined, legs, hips fingertip
forages; his breath mine mingle
and whispered moans
abandoned...
those dreams linger still
in darkness of midnight
calling his name in want
a remembered taste...
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
The Ides of March had come
but its Sun was not yet cold
when Spurinna reminded me
what his augury had foretold
Some good men tried to warn me
About the risks I take-
But Caesar has no need of guards
I look Death in the face.
Calpurnia asked me not to go
Based on her silly dream
But the Parthian war won’t be derailed
By some Republican’s scheme
The supplicants surround me with petitions,
Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away.
Casca grabbed the draping of my toga
and bared me, awkwardly, to start the fray.
The first dagger found my flesh
and left a superficial wound.
I wrested the dagger from his hands
and swept the blade to clear some room.
They are too many that surround me.
Too many of their thrusts strike home
Brutus my son, “Et Tu, Brute”
I cover my face to die alone.
Bleeding, powerless, dying,
No one must see me as I lay.
My dignity must be preserved
for I am uncommon clay.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 8:26 PM UTC
Glacial, the gaze of wintry viridian irides
Silken, the heavenly flesh
Lurid, the flames of a paradise awry
Mourning all the sinister angels have blessed
With their tainted perfection, their hideous lies
Hope shines so thinly in an eonian land barren of all love
Great men become emptied, the tormented cry
Amidst desolation, a beautiful dove
Becomes alive, voicing a longing call
Amongst forgotten pantheons, a saviour resides
Though, broken, gashed, beaten, and threshed
Awakened by beautiful birdsong, driven to reply
Was this an augury? He must strike out to answer this call from above
To redeem some grace, from the woe of it all
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 2:50 AM UTC
GEMINI:
The creases on your palms are
valleys full of quicksand; your hands
have sunken through my skin and
into my bones. You opened your fists in
mid-autumn and by mid-winter, our heart lines,
our lifelines, had fused. Dear Pollux, sometimes
I wonder how you could not know that
on those cold February nights, it is not
puffs of air that escape your Cupid’s bow, but rather
wisps of fetal star, swirling and curling up and up
into new constellations—ones depicting
Cleopatra and Antony
Paris and Helen
you and I.
The looking glass in my mother’s washroom no longer
displays emerald orbs; they have been melted down
from a solid to a liquid to a stacking, twirling vapor
that I can no longer see, nor feel. But the thing about you,
Dear Pollux, is that somehow, though it is beyond me how,
you have captured her scalloping memory and turned
everything to smoky quartz—
you reflect the placidity I hope she found.
The sinkhole in my abdomen that mother dearest created has
been gorged with your quicksand, and I am gluttonous for you. There’s
a part of me that thinks you to be the eighth wonder of the world
with your wide eyes and your slight dimples and your
ability to generate earthquakes in my bones with a
snap of your fingers. But Pollux, sweetheart, there’s a nagging
suspicion I have that deems you to be the eighth deadly sin—
your lips branding my neck;
your hands burrowing through the flesh of my hips;
the pearls you create from the grains of sand I carry.
I oftentimes wonder how you figured out the secret of
melting my amethyst crested core.
Your horoscope will tell you that you are wishy washy, but
I will tell you that you are dynamic and paramount. You
will be told that today “you must wrestle your past before
communicating with your future,” and I shall roll my eyes and
tell you that the only thing you must wrestle is my affection.
Your fate is not in the stars, Pollux, darling;
your fate has nothing to do with the Year of the Pig or
the Gemini constellation that is so ruled by Mercury—
the fortune tellers we made in elementary school were
accurate representations of coincidence.
You will find your destiny in
the palms of your hands and I will
find my destiny within you.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
Cresol dusk imbued to rustic hypnosis,
The civic stroll outside,zombified with
What must be glorious ataxia.
The masquerade hosted by dust,
An implicit surrender to the elements,
Basked in nocturnia-- lo,
The elements ceased having meaning
When I learnt I could not hold control
over them.
See the sky ramp and shiver,shuffling stars
In a showcase to those loving,an augury to those
Self-appointed sinners--
And see me,disconnected and without a care,
I surrender my breath as limboid tangents
And the elements do not rebut.
I am homed in becoming alone,
I am possessed in converse and I am lost
without the choice to be otherwise.
I watch the gimcrack mannerisms loop effably,
Understanding the road to omniscience is tipped
In ego alone--
One must not surrender,rather accept
And work a way round the system.
The cosmic map is eidetic,it's lanuage
dares not pander to speech,
it's sleep is one day needed
and complimentary to our own--
I listen to the madrigal and no longer seek to compose it,
I choose to believe that nothing is chosen.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 3:22 PM UTC
taut the barb which my heart
flung away and adorned – such language is black while
many others have their places that silence
had fractured.
the punctual shadow of the night,
I converse in them
through the pulse of the roots and their
consistent counter-beats.
the many others, whose centers encircle
heavy in their viscera:
enisled as a conference of birds
in plenitudes of brindled mouths – the augury
that sees itself, my full being – this nocturne
of stone-flight. the cosmic working of the sky
that hands me, a necklace of stars which implausible pearls
simmer in fond gleaming: these foundlings that are
dreamt away, and named innumerably across
many other anonymities we recall with a throng of sound.
in my hands the night folds like an origami
conscious of its florid ikebana,
as there could be another splendid thing
like the calm: glimpsed, coveted like the light
of all things grave in darkness.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
How often
Have they tried
To make up
Our minds?
Ironed our options
Steamed our opinions
And sewed on
A few missing buttons
Onto our threadbare perceptions.
Some of us
have escaped
Their tender mercies.
By taking on the vocation
Of an under- stuffed scarecrows.
What do we know
About The mechanics
The inerrancies of glitter .
The creaky sanction
Below our thoughts.
But whatever
Dark ceremonies
They plan
With the diagrams
Of dances
On hearth of our stone hearts.
The chicken , the robot
The winter dragon boogie…
They may miss
Subtracting the soul
From the bell curve.
Their imagination is understaffed
And the augury of their footsteps
Need a certain dark polish.
No matter our the spelling
Of our zany misshapen alphabets.
There are always a few
Crows to stalk the stanzas
The script of the Fields
We guard in our slumber
As our garments
Burn
In sun’s morning duty.
Adversaries ready to steal
With dark feathers
The plump opportunities
The fruit from
The green leafy lines
Of our unicorn free fountains.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
“A malignant adversary invader of my soul,
Conge deceitful lust the augury of artifice,
Mongrel horrid rancor glutton of enthralled rage,
She was fervent with only one ambition afore,
A grand mistake on my part a gazebo of treachery,
Chattels contrary to my reasoning of my desires,
An indisposed viper camouflaged covered in blossoms,
Progenitor of gasps an assassin tarrying in quietude,
A sea shower of sorrows from whence she was drawn,
As the salty drops adorn my sorrows of woe and despair,
Bellowing a fever of the mind from the vile deceit and rage,
As a fish linked adorned to an alluring virulent,
Fabric as the adumbration of the suns shines remorse,
A rapacious blaze leaving thou shuddering in angst,
I have traveled on a road lead to pitfalls and misery,
Imbroglio with no emotion renders windy clouds afore,
A citadel thwarts wane of melancholy and remorse,
That which reason doubtful allows my malignant adversary”
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/1/2018 ©
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
I’ll tread this crystal mud,
set a while to peer through veils
to make poor assumptions of what’s to come
As augury I’ve asked the birds
but shy of the same woodpecking rattle,
they stay schtum
I’ll indulge in haruspicy
in making dinner, sure
that no steak and kidney mouthful tells
Glass in hand, hepatoscopy
defines the coming year
where new is frozen
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 8:00 AM UTC
To cry of Love like poets do
Is my aspiration, destiny
To sing of what's divine and true
Instinctual to me
My song shall weary world regale
Heaven's descant mine to wield
An augury the bards will hail
Its words to God appeal
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 3:01 AM UTC
"By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love among yourselves.” (John 13:35) This commandment is The Messianic Dictum. Sometimes I wonder upon how far aloft my flight my zenith may lie. What dost the apex of my pilgrimage bear?
We all have a future. Love is the ultimate religion. Why? Because “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” (1st Corinthians 13: 7, 8) When we love, we taste eternity upon our palates. Love is the elixir of the soul.
When my life is over, I hope to gaze upon the visage of those who I hold dear. I want to know that I’ve made a difference in the lives of those encompassing me. We all carry subjective burdens, subjective blights. This suffering is the commonality of all creation. Whence we ail together, The Catholicon of Ancients exalts us as one.
The Faith of Dreams is a worldwide denomination, within which we need fellowship. The Universe is our temple, our Cathedral of Dreams. Beneath the firmaments, we all have an abode.
We are all Sparks of the Divine. Fulgurant lovelight glistens in each one of us. The most bedarkened soul can house a diaphanous blaze of light. In light, there is darkness; moreover, in the night, there can reside light.
Dreams can still serve a purpose to the entity inhibited by a worldly lusting. Ultimately, desirelessness is catalyzed by cathexis to the Deifically Divine. We must cleanse ourselves of corporeal desires until we wax holy. “I dream; therefore, I am,” said the sage. If this is true, the substance, the essence, the elixir of life is in upon the Dreamscape.
In truth, any temporal expanse spent in The Chrysalis of the Astral is commensurable with augury. A dream is celestial summoning. Therefore, persevere amidst hardship, borne of tribulation is prophetic fulfillment.
(Se' lah)
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 10:57 AM UTC
Another glass to fill the void,
The pair cavort and make more noise.
In the picture I stood with this brash man,
he thought he was part of my story
but he was merely part of my plan.
He boasted of his profligate ways
and his tenacious stance was enough to run away.
I told him to cease the pablum jumping from his lips,
he told me he would,
if I would give him one more kiss.
But one was enough
and even that was the mistake,
a fool I was but these decisions we do make.
We drank and spoke so I could forget the past
the acrimony within me, it couldn't last.
His affectation did not pass me by,
But I let him be garrulous as I looked in his eye,
besides what was the harm,
I was only trying to pass time,
desperately trying to move forward
as I couldn't rewind.
A glass broke as we spoke
An augury? I hope not,
I've had it all,
I've had my lot.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
There's a star I know
You'll never see
A blue star I carry with me
Heavy for my hands to hold
Too heavy to drop
I want to cut the clouds of wings
And this permitted archery
Fermenting summer augury
Late september thoughts
Flying through confetti skies
The wings are made of knives
Ripping and shredding at horizons
Until the mosaic has lost all meaning
There's a star I know
And a purple night
Becoming empty without it
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC