"beholders" poems
We revel in the artist's gaze.
See us, artist, we say.
Scale us in the geometry of your sight.
Objectify us, break us down
To our vital light,
The zero shade of being,
Our essential black and white.
But what if the figure becomes the ground?
Does the artist’s vision ever come to rest?
Does she halt the eye’s restless turning,
Instead hunger to be seen? Fathomed? Expressed
In basic hues, simplified, resolved,
Into the object deconstructed, the mystery solved?
Spotlight and camouflage,
Revelation and disguise:
The chiaroscuro of the artist’s eyes.
Then where does beauty reside?
In our eyes, beholders,
Invited in yet held outside?
Or in the starlight, sunlight,
Lamplight as it plays
On the seer seen in beauty’s gaze?
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
O LOVE! O LOVE! WHY ARE YOU EVER DEVOID OF LOGIC?
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Mankind in its pathetic folly entice you in a dint of stupor
Knowing not your true colour and texture
Endeavoring to achieve glory in your mastery
With the so limited human capacity
In grey faith that you are a cradle of bliss
But O love! Why are you ever crooked?
Young men and women in strength of their sinews
Toil day and night in ******* of humanity
Praying and whining incantations with the hope for optimal love
Ornamenting their bodies with diamond and bronze
Fibre and silk ornamented to helm of providence
In the foolish quest for love equillibria
But in full stretch of your vice, you impish love
You catapult all away to the shifted goal posts
O love! O love! Why are you ever ruthless?
You hate the learned but you favour the strong
You hate professors but you favour the soldiers
You hate the rich but you favour the agile
You hate the lawyers but you favour the footballers
You hate the pastors but you favour the ruffian
You hate the whites but you favour the Negroes
You hate the groomed but you love the ragamuffin
You hate the chaste but you favour the mistress
O love! O love! Why are you ever illogical?
Love, I revere you for wickedness and irrationality
In all of your history you scored sum *** laude
In the duo as blend of your domain, Look;
You never dwell in a genuine companionship
You like where the couth will interject;
Amidst fornication between married and single ones
Amidst adultery in the triangle of foul compassion
Amidst miscegenation between black and white
Amidst infatuation between the whole and the lame
Amidst conjugal appetite between the old and the young
Amidst concupiscence between house master and houshelp
Amidst immorality of married master over the wallowing servant
Amidst libidos between literate teacher unto the peasant pupil
Amidst disordered passion among the sly lesbians
Amidst impious ********** among the suave gays
O love! O love! You are the most wicked force!
Love I am told; your colour is red
You may be red or you may not be red
But all in all, you deserve poetical veneration
For your herculean ability to bend the most wise;
In your force you made sagacious Shakespeare to bend
In your force you made Princes Diana to bend and bend
Bending downwardly stooping for Afawoyed the moor,
In your stupefying dint you made Napoleon de Bonaparte
To bend and bend downwardly stooping for Josephine
Josephine a famed she-Casanova in the gone Paris
Among the then humanity and the then animality,
In your impairing machinery you set sons on their fathers
In the roman empire of Antony and Ceaser
In the scramble for Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen
Beauty of her aquiline nose heavily hovered perhaps
In the eyes of the Roman beholders
The father and the son only to sent the empire
To the love forlorn smithereens!
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
I am an incomparable queen
My pristine beauty can only be seen
It can never be depicted in words
For me many kings draw out their swords
My lips are more beautiful than rose petals
And my hips are softer than jasmine bouquets
One may die looking at my bubbly *******
No wonder the kings want to enter my interior crusts
My eyes are lovelier than wild lilies
My hair flows on my shoulders like rivers
My waist makes a feast to beholders’ eyes
The cupid shoots at me the wreaths of flowers
But only a brave king enters the kingdom of my beauty
For him I devotionally discharge my romantic duty
And dedicate my body, heart and soul
That should be any woman’s natural goal
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 6:00 AM UTC
To hold and acknowledge the representation of all things pure.
The gift of a black woman.
In picture perfect representation.
To hold the world in the palm of her hand. Your hand.
To birth all things beautiful.
You are the beholders of the universe.
With the patience and the endurance to witness the woes of stress.
To keep it all in stride.
You yourself are a living testament.
From the womb of resilience comes man.
With a duty to provide
To worship and protect the gift of our Queens.
A crown of wool radiating warmth.
The worry of pacing feet, cooled by the lapel of warm embrace.
From her mouth comes the food that nourishes the soul.
Around her tongue swirls knowledge of the universe.
The way her eyes connect with the stars.
Interwoven clouds that form the cuff of her crown, your crown.
With hair spread beneath her neck.
Flawless skin made of silk and honey.
With ripples of brown sugar, the moon, stars and cocoa.
Beneath her lashes lies the imagery of what she dreams most.
Her hands like the *** that brews the stew that warms the soul.
So much strength can be found. The way she holds her wrists steady.
To tame the cosmos that align against the beads of her bracelet.
Her talent , her embrace.
The way she gives herself as the wind.
Looming a sigh of relief.
Through you all life is formed.
Without her, Without you,
We'd all surely die.
Not knowing which way to go, baptized again by the palm of your hand.
This is a simple reminder to remind you that nothing could surpass you.
Beautiful black woman
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
We are the virus,
The disease ridden art of perfection,
eroded by a cancerous cyst,
turned a whiter shade of pale,
paper thin beauty in a beholders eye,
stifled laughs through blackened lungs,
drip fed tears through a wrinkled skin,
we see our dust start to fall,
prelude turns to interlude,
our truth and destiny,
the moth eaten robes of a transient soul.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
Walking home
ripped I tripped
on a dead dog
half-in the ditch
hard as a log
and stinking.
I said *Scoot over bro,
come morning
there won't be a spit
of difference between
you and I in the eyes
of the buzzards
and the beholders.*
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Smooth skin
Brushing up against a bruised lip
Tantalizing cute hips
Beauty mesmerizing in the eyes of the beholders
Wondering just what they're really seeing
And
If
Any part of it's a lie or a fake
Or a ploy that the other makes
But
Who really cares when you've got
Two round eyes staring into another pair of clandescent spheres of power
Hungry man meets shy girl
And shy girl changes his world
By taking in his hunger
And feeding him none
Sharing their desires hoping that they'll burn and
Ha
So much for that
Who really thought that
The passion would die
That the bush that was burning down quick
Would not set fire to the forest of feelings of emotions
Passion burns like fire
But floods you like an ocean
Commotion
Denial
Not for too long, no
No, never in denial for too long
Feeling that you're yearning for two bodies churning
But, not only that
Two lovers that perspire
And share in one an-others feelings of desire
And smooth skin meeting battered lips meeting heavy breath meeting sensual groans and pleasurable moans
But look beyond this and see
That
In the end it's just you and me
And
We're taking ourselves higher
And sharing our desires
And placing in a bet that
When all else is gone we'll still be holding on to
Who
The what
The when
The know-how experience of having felt love for the last time
In the first line
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
If I was to read for you, My queen that glow,
A poem of beauty, as only few words could show.
Like Picasso as a writer, let me paint your body,
A whisper of grace and elegance, without noise of gaudy.
You posses a twin of eyes, an immaculate glitter of beauty,
From which life receives its absolute lenity.
To glow in such light of orchestration, Like a crown on the head of time,
Whence bliss takes its origin and befitting prime.
Your alluring smile, a linger of unstinted comfort,
To the stars in tender darkness of the universe, glumming in discomfort.
Each of which humbles at your engrossing presence,
And glows in congruence to the light of your radiance.
Your arms like shields,protective armoury that gets soul lifted,
Touch of your fingers, ten cradle of breath taking sweetness, heavenly gifted.
Each a perfect blend of liniment and mystic power,such,
To impel dead heart to once last beat at thy touch.
your smooth bottled neck, over your soft shoulders,
Holds a face of coherent beauty, eyed in all beholders.
A beauty indescribable by far, as only few words could tell,
How ethereally lovely it can be ; perpetually graced with the touch of angel.
Your walk of indefinable class, a lucid rawness of orchestrated elegance,
So much elegance that the angels gasp in the wake of your presence.
To dance into ecstasy,from which heaven's purity is formed,
In but of your light of all light, they all are conformed.
Those smooth long legs spread like the wings of a flyer,
Inner thighs speak a truth that would mute a liar.
And drip sweet smelling nectar that excites a man's desires,
Like an addictive drug, that makes him only want to get higher.
Beautiful seasoned lips even angels could not grace,
Like two ***** of icing sugar, leaves me breathless each time our lips come in embrace.
And the pressure they do impart,
Have the power to break the devil's heart.
Your two cupped breast,stretch the stitches of your blouse,
As if swollen with milk and honey, my flame only its water could douse.
The most tender of all cleavage,had touched my palms with finesse,
Which contact makes me frozen; a sweet emblem dancing to impress.
If I was to read for you, My queen that glow,
A poem of beauty, as only few words could show.
Like Picasso as a writer, let me paint your body,
A whisper of grace and elegance, without noise of gaudy.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC
I take pride
In jeopardizing my life
Unlike monopoly
I have one die
In life
At a time
I
The lucky spender
Received a splendid surprise
The sublime arrived
Just in time
On the night
Before destruction
Yes,
There is a bit friction
In this business
Non-fictional character
Rises in the author
I wrote
The book of the dead
And spread knowledge
On earth’s bed
Now,
I’m denied credit
For risks taken
Instead of a praise
Appraised
For my edgy ways
And found
Guilty of pleasure
I’m
In debt
With the angels
Who lent me
The soul makings
And sent me
On a mission
Which remains
Unaccomplished
In their vision
I am
Sole proprietor
In this business
I have no relations
Trust none
My inquisition
Seems superstitious
When you unravel
My unreal supposition
But suppose
For a minute
That you were in
The opposed position
And posed
With the mind of a menace
Who, sadly,
Never stepped
In the shoes of sanity
Society views your life
As a stain
On earth’s plain
Though, your pain
Seems self-sustained
You were born
Insane
Would be better off
If offered removal
But awful is often
Sought
In the eyes
Of vile beholders
The unnamed soldier
Is the truest
Of them all
Marching down
The broken road
To destiny
The
Know-it-alls
Know nothing
At all
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:57 AM UTC
The moon dazzled me last night,
As I woke from dreams of Saxon warriors.
Swords and shores helmed deep
Across the years.
A ship sunk In a low east hill
A helmet turns with the lunar tide.
Bodies and bone turned to sand
Empty caskets blank to the starry sky,
Warriors, lovers, beholders
Slip into their Earth.
A graveyard of ship sails and men
The tongue of a dragon whispers
And calls them from the depths
Of the river
To clear water on the other side.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
Amperage of connections fallen out and lost
No carnival party to revive.
Ashore astronomical beholders vision,
A needle through the rich man's eye!!!!
Camilla scents,
Canopied distinguished in canistered tents.......
Century carols confine the interstate mind!!!
Circulation is impatient wherein clots block chloroform vine's....
Wed-lock intensifiers waiteth to be fed,
Trapped,
Packed,
Chained to their beds....
Hath thou lost thyself yet???
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
A wicked smirk in the wrong direction
Which Lingers precariously.
While the drummer boy’s buoyant beat
Throbs feverishly, bleeding hearts.
Outside the autumn leaves smolder to a charcoal hue
Mocking the Burns of yesterday’s splendor.
Sweet, sour then stale rots the candy dials on wrists
Teasing the helplessly hoping to a quench
While beholders glisten in eternal sunshine
Chasing their immaculate beasts
With each rising of the moon.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
Eye beside eye--
beholders wed
by The Beholder.
Wild with the evolution
of beauty--round, red and vivid.
As one cut from knowledge,
rapacious with awe.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
They look at me
And assume they see you too
It's me and I
Or so it's printed in the beholders eye
How can they experience you
And say the recognize me too
Dualism is inherent,
To all things we say and do
Different points of view,
A line,
May look the same
The second time it's spelled,
It defines another context
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
A gliding entity between ecstasy, my eyes grew from seeds
to inversely unbounded trees, oxidizing, breathing into the collective
a collection eclectic; the ripening ages convene the gods' pallette
so mortal and clean. From the vantage of mauve mountains,
beholders pressed through the ravine. "The bewildered be wild"
She crooned on to me.
Deepening the night, scintillant ancestors dug
with Light, unearthing cherished retinal prints.
The vulpine maw imposed no sin, indigo glow
and a patina sheen, feral bliss had greased
the chain. Lineages span millennia as scions cast
the sacred Heron, spear of the World beyond
the eros plane.
So She crooned on to me
Her sybilline Dream.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
I do not expect people to warm up to my work like a familiar friend. I don't write to form a lovey dovey bond with my reader. My writing purposefully makes people uncomfortable and causes them to question my sanity. It is supposed to be relatable to the darker side of human nature, and to cause people to look in the mirror and think I'm not really like that, am I? I am here to expose that life is not a folk tale, but the beholders can choose their own destiny. I am a strong believer in free will and that the power to change one's situation lies within a that person's grasp. Even when the circumstances are inevitable, the outcome is entirely up to that person. Perception is reality, and what someone believes about their life will become the way they go about living it. While I do write to uncover this beautiful, yet treacherous, side of human life, I mostly write about my own experiences. I have plenty of muses, whether they're people I love, hate or miss dearly. I do not write to impress anyone; poetry and prose are my catharses. I write to battle demons, win trials, keep myself humble and to give myself a little something to brag about. Essentially, I write for me.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
If you aren't looking
you will never see them
hidden in whitewashed caste systems
forced to conform
to federal papers
which fit in a folder
that fits in a file
of an emaciated white guy
who doesn't fit anywhere
checking the boxes and "disorders"
voted on by
a majority of uncaught criminals
who are protecting store front lifestyles
while the real merchandise of their lives
lays in the back storage room
with the rats of their conscience.
They judge sanity
setting rigid walls
and hanging permanent badges on
Salvador Dali dream catchers,
borderless thinkers,
and geniuses
of the things not yet discovered.
Just because the gifted can not
or will not
stop thinking,
they are detained for their
Difference.
State Hospital No. 3
titles every page
framed in frayed edges
and unfrayed passion.
Lions of courage stand
with childlike joy
in traveling circuses
obliterating demons of oppression,
overwhelming reoccurring ECT...ECT...ECT.
An etcetera of living
beyond electroconvulsive therapy
where the spelling of ECTLECTRC is perfect
in its grammar and definition,
standing in banners atop
the wide-eyed portraited guardians
of institutionalism.
Glorious art shuddered on a curb,
lost and intended for *******
Thank God, beauty beholders come
in all ages of eyes.
14 year olds also find treasure
in garbage piles
clutching dearly to the feeling
that greatness lies in colored pencils
dancing on unusual stationary.
Edward Deeds
comes of age
in the same moment
as the scavenging boy does
opening the binders
on their inter-joined journey
36 annuals after dislodging it
from a leftover ham and rye.
A voice is unmuted
merely by being seen.
Revelation is given
by turning on the light.
Art, music and knowledge is infinite
when boxes are destroyed,
ignorance rebuked,
and courage is embraced.
Let us dare to never be
just what we know.
Let us live to be
what we have never yet seen.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Canopy painted by Mother Earth,
waterfalls flowing down the Görges,
canyons wedged by a
liquid quarry,
dew dropped acres prepared for a pristine greenery,
Is beauty really in the beholders eye?
A painting on squirrels back,
eye of the peacocks feather,
wavy contours on deers horns, and
eyelashes on a hornbill.
Is beauty really in the beholders eye?
Waves wanting to reach my sand castle,
mountains growing by the cloud cover,
rivers disturbing the rocks and yet gently touching my feet,
trails that make me feel hearty.
Is beauty really in the beholders eye?
Beauty is everywhere,
It’s absolute.
It’s constant.
It’s more than that meets the eye.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 10:20 AM UTC
What now with you is wrong
In vein you hide your shame
The shadows are long
Your chance near gone
To dive in and make your change
Our Dead Beat God
Has left this place
Tapered steel
still medicates
Pay for Death
is that a joke?
No I'm serious
I always speak of what my mind's eye sees
Religious nuts curse my reasonings
For Blasphemy they're Damning me
Forgetting & Unforgivingly
Faulting the rational sanity
The very god they praise
Hath Given Me
Faith separates the weak
From the beholders of the sun
Only those who've sought
Far from pages man has spun
May again become One
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
Mirror Mirror on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?
Since when did you become the judge
The say so in vanity
I come to realize that this is all insanity
Your hair is too messy
Your eyes are too small
Will you shut up already!
Stop pointing out my so called flaws!
You are a slab of glass that screams out lies
Beauty is in the beholders eyes
My beholder is Jesus Christ
He loves me and says I'm beautiful
That's enough for me
I'm going to be all He called me to be
Mirror Mirror on the wall
I am the fairest of them all
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
They say love's a beauty
But beauty's at the beholders'
They swear the heart's not a bone
Why then does it get to be broken
The lover becomes the unloved
Laughters into happily never afters
Sweet dreams to sleepless nights
Can someone please tell me how
I'm just coming to the realization
That one plus one can never be one?
Mind for lease;
Heart's up for sale
Lock up my senses too
And every feeling, without bail.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
Weapons of mass distraction
Words and ways of our modern days
Globalized, the radical powers who seek truth and justice amidst their treacherous tyranny
Nations of innocents , swathes of unknowing citizens base their very existence upon the dreams of these peddlers of preposterous propositions,
Did you see it?
No you didn't,
Did you hear it?
You might think you did,
Did you imagine it?
You more than likely did
Read it in the papers, on the web, and on the faces of the faceless free
The manipulation of humankind to feed the greed of the wanting hand,
This horrifying overture of oppression disguised as liberty has managed to extract every morsel of dignity from our naked flesh,
Can you feel it?
I bet you can
Can you smell it?
You really can't miss it,
Does this taste of torment take root inside?
It probably does and just burns with its acidic tide
All for nothing is not how it all should be
All around us the glories of the inglorious is not what we want to see
The beholders of our apocalyptic abortion
Grandmasters' of our demonic distortion
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC
I'm about to fly
And I know how to never die
Could learn how to forget why
One's path goes stretching into the night
To live life but never fight
Or even question what is right
These tiresome metaphors of light...
I thought i'd fly instead I bounced
Away from that I should have denounced
In heart and mind these thoughts do pronounce
As pros and cons in ****** bouts
Biochemical fits forming knots & skull sport-in-outs
Which reshape ones form with which it then flaunts
Fair or flawed by what beholders wants haunt...
I grew up in that view
The one I almost flew into
Got shot down by gravity's news
'bout it feeling equal reds and the blues
So many hearts broken only for hues
These words drown in metaphor,
But they're true...
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Within the beholders eyes,
There's held a type of beauty,
In its own sense its flawed maybe for us,
But for him it is enthralling,
It's attributes and texture vague to us,
To him its perfect,
Within the beholders eyes,
There's held a type of beauty,
In its own sense its flawed maybe for us,
But for him it is enthralling,
Like an ornament he keeps it,
With jewels he decorates it,
Within the beholders eyes,
There's held a type of beauty,
In its own sense its flawed maybe for us,
But for him it is enthralling,
For us it seems ordinary,
But to him it holds prestige in ways he can't speak,
Within the beholders eyes,
There's held a type of beauty,
In its own sense its flawed maybe for us,
But for him it is enthralling,
He seems clueless how to describe its charm,
How it feels, he knows,
Within the beholders eyes,
There's held a type of beauty,
In its own sense its flawed maybe for us,
But for him it is enthralling,
To us, it is a paradox,
To him it matters the most,
Within the beholders eyes,
There's held a type of beauty,
In its own sense its flawed maybe for us,
But for him it is enthralling.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC