"begetter" poems
sword-shaped
wild iris leaves
pierce the meadow sod,
reaching outwards
from cold reclusive shelter
beneath native strawberry
carpeted repose
juxtaposed ― smoke rises
to the sun
like the basal verdures
of fleeting winter's escape;
crawling up an invisible
spiral staircase seeking
the azure heavens
r e n a s c e n c e
a nexus ―
stormy winter’s windfall
and,
irony of a wooden match,
gathered winter tinder
inflamed, sacrificed
to the heraldic spring skies
of the begetter;
just like
the wistful soul
beheld a simple man
that impatiently rests
on the threshold
of a dream,..
unnoticed
by the billowing silence
of evanescent
winter exile:
daydreaming
a peaceful ascendance;
dissipating puffs of smoke
drifting away
unto the ether,
weightless as light
harlon rivers ... spring 1st, 2018
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white *** come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
****** the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token ***** of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I **** and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !
3.2k
Dangerman
—a buyer and seller
of mostly himself
Petticoat
—a ***** on the take
and about to slip
Each made promises to the other
but both loved journeys
and valleys
and limericks
and turntables
and spirits
and skirt-raising
and slowdives
and lip-biting
and come-hither
more than their here-and-now vow
Trigger-happy begetter
with an ax to grind
killing captives slowly
with jagged little things
it's the strangest sound
in spite of the plight of
the ringing in his ears
it never fades away
I reckon numbers and lead are arbitrary
to a button man
whose wheels turn circles
mainly in his skull
revolving/rouletting
as infinite go-around
Never mind though, the time must be now
for a show of hands
Motherhood waited in the ship's hold
until the treasure hunt
brought her to this final island
a choice between gold
and the aging ******
The young who suckle at her breast
might one day run mum through
with the sword at Payback
—that unsteady little homestead
where profit and loss
share the same face
Never mind though, the moment must be now
to ring the bell
And raise redemption
like a burning flag of regret
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 10:03 AM UTC
Sea captain who brings with him an air of comfort,
first mate, confetti egg shell,
metal-framed reservoir.
Cradle my head, pull my hand,
Stand.
Solve the equation for me. Don't.
Be my carriage horse. Roam free.
Burn the papers. Lock them away.
Join the feast. Serve us, **** the beast.
Begot, begetter
A stain-glass window, more like a painting
wet with thinner.
Broken calculator, hard-to-getter.
Man the weather--man the ship. Don't, I can do it myself.
Hideous, antique bird-feeder
favoring the magpies above all and doves the least.
Join the feast. Let us leave the little
beast alone, they've done nothing truly bad! because
Just a little cut doesn't hurt.
As long as the blood doesn't spurt.
As long as Sylvia is my dead friend.
As long as you're an indescribable friend,
always there among the bramble
of the old flower field, abandoned long ago.
In the 30s.
Sea captain who brings sun, my
first mate of all singing first mates, of
all operatic dancers.
Dance with me.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
you're a work of art; for only the begetter could understand you completely
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
This is from the mind of the deranged--
Little did I know, I had a pleasure for carnage.
It always made me intoxicated.
To conceive the crying children,
As they pray to their begetter--
For a place of refuge.
I explicitly annotate--
It's not me who you resent.
I have so much tribulation--
I wish I was habitual.
But I'm afraid I am a bit melancholy--
Which leads me to foresee.
Many deaths that are to be--
Between this fraudulent identity.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
The stars shift in the sky around our home,
and we shift in the sky around theirs,
like some great cosmic cog wheel.
Interlocking forces and components....
galactic nuts and bolts in some giant machine that we call the universe.
Operating in perfect unison.....
vast orbs spinning and weaving,
movements perfectly timed and executed,
like a great heavenly dance.
Begetter of mysteries .......
nameless alien entities, eddies of cosmic dust,
circulating through the perpetual, cryptic darkness.
Flawless configuration......
minuscule components in a vast and complex system,
yet each one a vital part of its structure.
Beginning unknown, and ending a mystery......
which causes me to wonder.... who is the architect, and who is the commander of this machine?
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
You shine a light,
On a cold and lascivious world.
You are the altruist,
On the coldest of winters.
You are the begetter,
Of the greatest scheme of all.
To steal my heart.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING
My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn
& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.
My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.
I wiggle each
character’s characteristic
and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,
trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”
I command my paper people.
“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.
“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil
that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.
“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that
is borrowed from
me **** sewing basket.
All is well
in this my make-shift
Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s
Cornflakes packets.
See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!
Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.
Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.
And, so...let the Masque begin!
I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing
as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.
“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out
but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee
can be
to paper theatre.
The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.
My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes
burns to the ground
only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken
crumpled piece of foil.
I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )
the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of
this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!
But wait, is this a football I see
before me?
Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!
We cry ******** and let slip
the dogs we are!
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
I write this to get your attention,
This piece doesn’t convey any meaning
Whatsoever; this one is just for your love;
For sometimes I need this; just as you are
In need of love and
Hahahhah
Attention
Oh my
It’s hard not to laugh at the view of a
Space expanding ever
Oh sh f it s hard to strain oneself
Yourself
Myself
From
Ohhhhh haha haha
Oh you can’t
Thou canst not even picture it
O my head so a jumble man
Yo bruh sez myman how come you are so high so low so late time eh
Oh it bothers you you little sh
Come here and I sho
The broken glass and spilled kvas
I was just a child that time
The splinters in my ankles and thighs
It hurts all the same
O
Right
I forgot what it was all about
Never mind
Happy new cycle
Piece **** pls
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
No guts to ***** a meager mea culpa ?
Were you begging me to spare you, man
Trudging on the floor raising your shabby swords
I would still silence you saying, ''Any last words?''
Separating your soul from this soil, despising your wan...
Your blood would flow, your pain would glow
Appearing obvious under my enameled blades
However, I would remain in the reassuring shades
Watching your pride wiggle and wail, hearing you swallow
The shame that would strike you at your utmost.
As soon as you cursed me, I hated you the most
Do not rely on your ideal, this is your ordeal
Your dreaded nightmare, except that it is now real!
Were you begging me to forgive your mistake
I would only whisper that you are now at stake
You did choose to solve this case in your lull
Tell me, were you tortured and was this as dull
As this devouring pain cursing through your body?
Years went by and you ignored my fading name
Uttering in your sleep that I was surely the one to blame
Feel it, tremble under it, this is your deserved agony
You thought it was a sporadic game, dices to roll
You have played with numbers, and you stabbed our love
Livid will turn your face, because soon funeral knells will toll
The poisonous clove will soon sprout, I have an iron hand in my velvet glove
And you will finally fall from your God ****** grace
The yellowish waxy rotten tone of your face will melt
Under the fires of justice that have become scarce
Watch my hand you fed undo the blades from my belt
Any last words, coward, before my rage hits your rib-cage, loafer?
Anything to say, threatened by the horrific scythe, loser
You poor excuse for a man, let alone for a fallacious father
You used to lift me up to the glories of the skies and call me 'my daughter'...
Were you begging me to spare you, begetter
I would turn my heart away from you, rather
This sturdy bone structure of yours handed over to the reaper.
He whom despises mercy to reason deserves neither
I wish I could pretend believing we never saw it coming
But what is the point of keeping your head high
When nothing remains in you, not even the faintest sigh
You are going to expire and yet, not even your lips are moving.
Were you begging me to love you, as you pant
I would tell you that the clock is adamant,
We both are well aware time has now run out
Anything...? - you have been ruled out.
December, 27, 2013
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
sing a song of soft intent
whisper magic incantent
feel heavenly connection
strengthen strings o' soul libation
weave a net of thought and letter
take a part in being begetter
tread your steps with surety
whispering words in purity
hew the air with mind 'n heart
see the visions take apart
mystic mist of shadow dark
letting shine everlasting spark
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 6:59 AM UTC