"baptizes" poems - Hello Poetry

to kiss you senseless until i am a seaglass buried deep inside your skin. to lick salt off your palms with paper-cut lips, until each breath has gone haywire. to quietly sigh your name until it baptizes my heathen tongue. oh, the wars i would start; the wars i would end — darling, there is something soothing about all the violent ways i can love you.

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Jan 7, 2021

Jan 7, 2021 at 4:05 AM UTC

femininedeath

redamancy

to kiss you senseless until i am a seaglass buried deep inside your skin. to lick salt off your palms with paper-cut lips, until each breath has gone haywire. to quietly sigh your name until it baptizes my heathen tongue. oh, the wars i would start; the wars i would end — darling, there is something soothing about all the violent ways i can love you.

1

I’ve found religion in your smile. Trusted the way it curves, practicing the lines in my mind with delicacy, ripening your image until it’s sore. Your throat baptizes me, replaces the devil of my intentions with sweet, rosy breath, curling my inhibitions until they dive back into me and I express my very desires openly on a blanket-- and it’s no sin because I love the way your spine stands like a perfect cross, carrying me to the vision you have of a better me than what I used to be. I’ve prayed for your thighs in naughty ways, but you’ve taken my hands, folded them into shapes I can’t comprehend and kissed my fingertips until I was crying out of confusion and catharsis, finally understanding what it feels like to count people, you, as a blessing. I see God when you make instruments out of blades of grass, or how that strap slides off your shoulders when the wind graces the moment with a whisper. He gave me an angel disguised as a woman with too many pillows on her bed and coffee breath, but you pull me from point to point like taffy, slowly, lagging, molding me into the gift you never wished for. I, bestowed at His feet, unwilling found a soul and a heartbeat louder than any of my unforgiving words.

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Sep 2, 2014

Sep 2, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC

sophie-herzing

Emma

I’ve found religion in your smile. Trusted the way it curves, practicing the lines in my mind with delicacy, ripening your image until it’s sore. Your throat baptizes me, replaces the devil of my intentions with sweet, rosy breath, curling my inhibitions until they dive back into me and I express my very desires openly on a blanket-- and it’s no sin because I love the way your spine stands like a perfect cross, carrying me to the vision you have of a better me than what I used to be. I’ve prayed for your thighs in naughty ways, but you’ve taken my hands, folded them into shapes I can’t comprehend and kissed my fingertips until I was crying out of confusion and catharsis, finally understanding what it feels like to count people, you, as a blessing. I see God when you make instruments out of blades of grass, or how that strap slides off your shoulders when the wind graces the moment with a whisper. He gave me an angel disguised as a woman with too many pillows on her bed and coffee breath, but you pull me from point to point like taffy, slowly, lagging, molding me into the gift you never wished for. I, bestowed at His feet, unwilling found a soul and a heartbeat louder than any of my unforgiving words.

33

Lifes a ride; Gripping it tight And screaming Laughter makes the journey Mine, and sharing the pieces Smashed with a smile Baptizes my soul With Yours; Love Us If you dare to live Wild and free Within the waves We make a~part Together.

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Jul 6, 2018

Jul 6, 2018 at 10:47 PM UTC

n0r

Oceans

Lifes a ride; Gripping it tight And screaming Laughter makes the journey Mine, and sharing the pieces Smashed with a smile Baptizes my soul With Yours; Love Us If you dare to live Wild and free Within the waves We make a~part Together.

13

Does the migrating duck truly know what it is that he wants; or is he caught up in peer pressure when he conquers indecision, and spreads his wings to fly south? Is it possible that as he soars, like Icarus, that he is accosted by doubt while the late autumn sun baptizes him? And when he finally crashes down, in some forgotten pond, warmed by a tropical clime; that he wonders what might have been, and is overcome by regret?

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Jun 12, 2014

Jun 12, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC

matthew-berkshire

Like Icarus

Does the migrating duck truly know what it is that he wants; or is he caught up in peer pressure when he conquers indecision, and spreads his wings to fly south? Is it possible that as he soars, like Icarus, that he is accosted by doubt while the late autumn sun baptizes him? And when he finally crashes down, in some forgotten pond, warmed by a tropical clime; that he wonders what might have been, and is overcome by regret?

16

503 Better—than Music! For I—who heard it— I was used—to the Birds—before— This—was different—’Twas Translation— Of all tunes I knew—and more— ’Twasn’t contained—like other stanza— No one could play it—the second time— But the Composer—perfect Mozart— Perish with him—that Keyless Rhyme! So—Children—told how Brooks in Eden— Bubbled a better—Melody— Quaintly infer—Eve’s great surrender— Urging the feet—that would—not—fly— Children—matured—are wiser—mostly— Eden—a legend—dimly told— Eve—and the Anguish—Grandame’s story— But—I was telling a tune—I heard— Not such a strain—the Church—baptizes— When the last Saint—goes up the Aisles— Not such a stanza splits the silence— When the Redemption strikes her Bells— Let me not spill—its smallest cadence— Humming—for promise—when alone— Humming—until my faint Rehearsal— Drop into tune—around the Throne—

0

1.1k

Emily Dickinson

Better—than Music! For I—who heard it

503 Better—than Music! For I—who heard it— I was used—to the Birds—before— This—was different—’Twas Translation— Of all tunes I knew—and more— ’Twasn’t contained—like other stanza— No one could play it—the second time— But the Composer—perfect Mozart— Perish with him—that Keyless Rhyme! So—Children—told how Brooks in Eden— Bubbled a better—Melody— Quaintly infer—Eve’s great surrender— Urging the feet—that would—not—fly— Children—matured—are wiser—mostly— Eden—a legend—dimly told— Eve—and the Anguish—Grandame’s story— But—I was telling a tune—I heard— Not such a strain—the Church—baptizes— When the last Saint—goes up the Aisles— Not such a stanza splits the silence— When the Redemption strikes her Bells— Let me not spill—its smallest cadence— Humming—for promise—when alone— Humming—until my faint Rehearsal— Drop into tune—around the Throne—

25

I was not, yet there I go-- a childhood re-invented, one rabbit's foot and skeletons of ghosts line my pockets. Where the carnival puppets pressed their thorns and had torn my flesh. Chariots always grotesquely alter at midnight. His night drunkenness rekindled the flames of my hell. I could smell daddy down the hall-- He and his tenderness disorder. I always scream on the inside when he walks in my room. In a slaves frenzy, I kick! Poisonous memories, rancid and acidic, that burning flow, drips thick inside my brain. Devouring everything I thought was good in this world. --Black and white, black and white. Everything is black and white! The impure child, once more baptizes the devil into eternity. Whiskey lake laps at the shore as the gypsy angels are crying. I was not, yet there I go...

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May 21, 2012

May 21, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC

redbarchettadrive

The Gypsy Angels Are Crying (I Was Not, Yet There I Go)

I was not, yet there I go-- a childhood re-invented, one rabbit's foot and skeletons of ghosts line my pockets. Where the carnival puppets pressed their thorns and had torn my flesh. Chariots always grotesquely alter at midnight. His night drunkenness rekindled the flames of my hell. I could smell daddy down the hall-- He and his tenderness disorder. I always scream on the inside when he walks in my room. In a slaves frenzy, I kick! Poisonous memories, rancid and acidic, that burning flow, drips thick inside my brain. Devouring everything I thought was good in this world. --Black and white, black and white. Everything is black and white! The impure child, once more baptizes the devil into eternity. Whiskey lake laps at the shore as the gypsy angels are crying. I was not, yet there I go...

28

Yes, I am the same God that dwells among you Grace incarnate again and again in times and among peoples various as the stars if that mighty being beyond all description but experience ever begat anything it is but me, me, love and grace wherever the heart shrinks and tyranny reigns and lust and greed masquerade as law into that parched desert do I descend, when Jordan baptizes the soul Ichthys of God, I make twelve the anglers of fisherfolk who cast their nets wide and catch me in their soul so they can behold Him, that I am, no greater miracle than this was ever made

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Mar 7, 2016

Mar 7, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC

prabhu-iyer

Ichthys of God | Easter Poem

Yes, I am the same God that dwells among you Grace incarnate again and again in times and among peoples various as the stars if that mighty being beyond all description but experience ever begat anything it is but me, me, love and grace wherever the heart shrinks and tyranny reigns and lust and greed masquerade as law into that parched desert do I descend, when Jordan baptizes the soul Ichthys of God, I make twelve the anglers of fisherfolk who cast their nets wide and catch me in their soul so they can behold Him, that I am, no greater miracle than this was ever made

27

I was there when you fell from heaven the fire in the sky burns, blazoned by the jade tint of satan's Greek fire the air was poisoned with the unholiness of you it's easy to blame coincidence if I am broken, perhaps I cannot fix you my eyes are replaced with slabs of molten rock and the soulfire gaze sears your shadow from your towering image you are yourself and reflection an end and a beginning the steps toward dawn and it's sunbleached essence baptizes and breathes death into life but dusk comes not long after closer than sin thicker than bad blood there's no light at the end of the tunnel just the passing glimmer of your one last wish there's no light at the end of the tunnel i won't dance with the devil there will be no one last kiss

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Feb 10, 2016

Feb 10, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC

nightsea

dead man

I was there when you fell from heaven the fire in the sky burns, blazoned by the jade tint of satan's Greek fire the air was poisoned with the unholiness of you it's easy to blame coincidence if I am broken, perhaps I cannot fix you my eyes are replaced with slabs of molten rock and the soulfire gaze sears your shadow from your towering image you are yourself and reflection an end and a beginning the steps toward dawn and it's sunbleached essence baptizes and breathes death into life but dusk comes not long after closer than sin thicker than bad blood there's no light at the end of the tunnel just the passing glimmer of your one last wish there's no light at the end of the tunnel i won't dance with the devil there will be no one last kiss

25

blue fire surrounds you tints you sacred extends itself in waves to all who meet you saves them from their ignorance and the a-theism of their minds saves them from their dis-ease of the heart begins to bond them to themselves and baptizes them in the Blood this is no strange fire it is the fire of the burning bush the fire that leads by night and is smoke by day ever present in the wilderness of exodus: the blue fire of Love c. 2023 Roberta Compton Rainwater

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Nov 23, 2023

Nov 23, 2023 at 8:12 PM UTC

roberta-compton-rainwater

strange fire

blue fire surrounds you tints you sacred extends itself in waves to all who meet you saves them from their ignorance and the a-theism of their minds saves them from their dis-ease of the heart begins to bond them to themselves and baptizes them in the Blood this is no strange fire it is the fire of the burning bush the fire that leads by night and is smoke by day ever present in the wilderness of exodus: the blue fire of Love c. 2023 Roberta Compton Rainwater

19

i have never believed in god, the bible is a series of stanzas, which i could never translate into meaning. it is poetry which never made my spine tremble, usually i can feel when words piece together the fragments of my heart, like tectonic plates making love underneath the earth's sheets. and if it doesn't remind me that my body is not just an instrument for respiration, it is not poetry to me. if it does not remind me of the first time someone made a church out of my lips, or the last time someone threw rocks at the stained glass windows of my soul. if it does not replicate the sensation of falling to my death, and then being resurrected as the feeling of adrenaline baptizes my body. i don't want to hear it. somehow the prophets have only reminded me of the home where my childhood is buried in the backyard. a breeding space for loneliness. i have always wished on stars, and prayed to the moon, because at least for eight hours of the day, i can see them. at least i know they're actually there, my life has been a series of conversations with walls, i've been on hold for twenty years. this life has showed me enough of building walls, and how to make graveyards and abandoned buildings out of my own bones. i've spent enough time sipping wine, and breaking apart my insides, and somehow still making it look like a celebration, isn't that what people do at church anyway? instead i construct stanzas out of my pain, i architect the universe into a church because rain and holy water taste the same to me, except the rain does not taste like my ex-lovers lies burning the back of my throat. i refuse to let more strangers into my life, just to remind me that my voice has never been loud enough, that a scream is just a sound when no one is listening. what kind of god sacrifices his own son, my father sacrificed his daughter's sanity for the bottle, and there isn't a scripture that can make that story hurt any less. there isn't a god that can precipitate the salt from my wounds, but the moon is a streetlight in a darkened alleyway, it is a lighthouse in a turbulent sea of sorrow. so yes i worship the stars. because all these years they still remind me that, there is beauty in burning, that i do not have to wait around to be saved, and the moon is the only god i will ever need because it reminds me that i have already saved myself, every day.

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Dec 11, 2018

Dec 11, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC

madison-curran

MOON CHILD

i have never believed in god, the bible is a series of stanzas, which i could never translate into meaning. it is poetry which never made my spine tremble, usually i can feel when words piece together the fragments of my heart, like tectonic plates making love underneath the earth's sheets. and if it doesn't remind me that my body is not just an instrument for respiration, it is not poetry to me. if it does not remind me of the first time someone made a church out of my lips, or the last time someone threw rocks at the stained glass windows of my soul. if it does not replicate the sensation of falling to my death, and then being resurrected as the feeling of adrenaline baptizes my body. i don't want to hear it. somehow the prophets have only reminded me of the home where my childhood is buried in the backyard. a breeding space for loneliness. i have always wished on stars, and prayed to the moon, because at least for eight hours of the day, i can see them. at least i know they're actually there, my life has been a series of conversations with walls, i've been on hold for twenty years. this life has showed me enough of building walls, and how to make graveyards and abandoned buildings out of my own bones. i've spent enough time sipping wine, and breaking apart my insides, and somehow still making it look like a celebration, isn't that what people do at church anyway? instead i construct stanzas out of my pain, i architect the universe into a church because rain and holy water taste the same to me, except the rain does not taste like my ex-lovers lies burning the back of my throat. i refuse to let more strangers into my life, just to remind me that my voice has never been loud enough, that a scream is just a sound when no one is listening. what kind of god sacrifices his own son, my father sacrificed his daughter's sanity for the bottle, and there isn't a scripture that can make that story hurt any less. there isn't a god that can precipitate the salt from my wounds, but the moon is a streetlight in a darkened alleyway, it is a lighthouse in a turbulent sea of sorrow. so yes i worship the stars. because all these years they still remind me that, there is beauty in burning, that i do not have to wait around to be saved, and the moon is the only god i will ever need because it reminds me that i have already saved myself, every day.

50

To be or not to be... What is it that is so captivating of a tree The plants that stand in Noble stance To have no eyes But to see more than the eyes can see To uphold a roof that all dwell under Filtering the abominations in the sky What would we be without air... We must take time to slow down and care The buffet for our lungs to sing what must be sung and to feed the flame of the Mighty bright heat of a fire that perspires to warm my flesh An invention of the gods to make variant dishes more edible that aren't so fresh The guiding light in dark cold nights To lead me to the water that baptizes my organs to keep me floating in a mental elemental paradise Oh how wise to recognise and appreciate the fate of the gifts in this elemental paradise The soul glides through it's endeavors The ether it's home Come back to me and melt with the crone

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Dec 29, 2018

Dec 29, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC

Nikellebiancaredwood

Elementally mental

To be or not to be... What is it that is so captivating of a tree The plants that stand in Noble stance To have no eyes But to see more than the eyes can see To uphold a roof that all dwell under Filtering the abominations in the sky What would we be without air... We must take time to slow down and care The buffet for our lungs to sing what must be sung and to feed the flame of the Mighty bright heat of a fire that perspires to warm my flesh An invention of the gods to make variant dishes more edible that aren't so fresh The guiding light in dark cold nights To lead me to the water that baptizes my organs to keep me floating in a mental elemental paradise Oh how wise to recognise and appreciate the fate of the gifts in this elemental paradise The soul glides through it's endeavors The ether it's home Come back to me and melt with the crone

17