"breeched" poems
THE true faith discovered was
When painted panel, statuary.
Glass-mosaic, window-glass,
Amended what was told awry
By some peasant gospeller;
Swept the Sawdust from the floor
Of that working-carpenter.
Miracle had its playtime where
In damask clothed and on a seat
Chryselephantine, cedar-boarded,
His majestic Mother sat
Stitching at a purple hoarded
That He might be nobly breeched
In starry towers of Babylon
Noah's freshet never reached.
King Abundance got Him on
Innocence; and Wisdom He.
That cognomen sounded best
Considering what wild infancy
Drove horror from His Mother's breast.
1.6k
“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
Hope, at times for them
Is a once-great passenger ship
Breeched and sinking fast
This vessel is one that sees the Mississippi,
Floats on it for a brief period
But has no idea that it's being dominated
By the mighty, muddy beast
In these instances responsibility
Becomes government reports that are long,
Arduous and too thick to be stapled
"Many people will die." they say,
"200,000 people will be displaced."
This incites the mantra,
Home is where the water is not
The ship that was a home is made of steel
Neither black nor white
Its grey, so grey that it is without true color
It finds itself trapped in the womb of the dense, delta mud
The people;
The brave, the bold, the idiots, waiting for their ship to come
Sit on top of their roofs,
Now islands where they can soak up Indian Summer Sun
For the abandoned, perseverance is a suntan
"THE WATER IS RISING PLEAS…"
Words spray-painted white on black shingles
The rescuers, government, American people
Are suddenly illiterate
Federal law states:
Energy (money) cannot be created
Nor destroyed
But the ship is gone,
The people are in watery graves
The City is a large crescent with greedy bites taken out of it
6 years later the laws of the universe are disbanded
Ferrel dogs rule the day
And love is never having to say you care
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 4:03 AM UTC
In the Deep South
There is always a woman
In an apron calling out to her kids
Warning them to hurry in
Or the corn bread might get cold
The kids couldn’t care either way
And at their age
Food doesn’t taste as good as
The marshes feel around their ankles
They’re just young enough to be nourished
Off of adventure alone
With sticks in hand
Grazing the tops of half-way grown
Up to their heads wheat
In the Deep South the outside
Is still the Wild West
Where you can walk a few blocks
From your front yard
To deserted boulevards
You can’t but a greeting card
From.
And among all the untamed
Nature and desolate fields and lakes
There is so much space
For kids to create
In the Deep South
Kids see broken down Chevys
As breeched kingdoms
Open fields as battle grounds
Littered with rocks that look like grenades
Every vacant marsh a ****** planet
Where you use overall clasps
As radios to your fellow astronauts.
Why would anyone be in a rush
To come home
To something so real
As Mama’s cornbread.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Different places seem the same
And once your down you can't quite explain it, like a fading dream
You're in and then out to preach
To muddle through an imperial speech
Walk unashamed
You play the game
Until the castles breeched
Soldiering on through the blind war with all weather shades and a score to settle.
The air tastes funny yet I ain't laughing
Incensed
What shakes you, resonance
What makes you, persistence
Rainbows but not a drop of rain there she goes again and again
Case it and flash a zippo at your homework inscribed with S.T.U
Time and again the disposable friends recycle themselves degrade
You shook me all night long and as I begin to shake back
Your dust drops
I'm unemployable
Unmistakable
Unthinkable
Undeniable
Untenable
And often incredible
But impossibly unlovable
Love
For no other reason
Like a movement
By the hand
Of a spectacular
Like you did
Cos you could
And you meant it.
Stay away it's just a game we play
Holding you to ransom trying to take a swipe
At fame.
Heavy heads drag heavy legs slowly scraping by
Propped up by the magical
The illusive
Dollar sign.
Holy **** I knew it something's very very wrong.
No matter what we cannot simply play along.
Changing shape from place to place
On the edge of something real
Slowly realising you're running on a wheel.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
i had a dream the other day that
a flashlight shone bright,
cutting between the ribs of night
and using my free hands,
i cupped it's ***** within my palm and watched in silent fixation as slight
particles breeched between my bleached out fingers, to aliken the feeling of exposure heating the sole of my hand to skinning rays of a full moon is a woeful plight. i'm not sure how i got here,
but i know it feels desperate to try to stay
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
October’s storm was brutal,
drenching rain and heavy wind.
Our little tavern by the beach
started taking water in.
Then, when the storm surge
breeched the wall,
the place lacked all defense.
Waves swept away our little bar
leaving us just the front steps.
The “Pour House” now a memory
for its scattered congregation.
Mostly Irish Catholics who enjoyed
its liberal dispensations.
Some people prefer brews to pews
for fighting off dammnation.
So many demons haunt our souls
and these demand libations.
The juke box played sad Irish songs,
the only sort it knew,
while disorderly Hibernians
enjoyed their favorite brew.
Here the patrons much preferred
Draft Guinness in a glass
while stealing furtive glances
at my waitress’ shapely ***
Here the women started homely
but were beautiful by close-
at least to those poor drunken sots
Who’d relieve them of their clothes,
By Christmas it was apparent
that the “Pour House” had to go.
There just wasn’t FEMA money
For an old man’s bar you know.
So word swept through the beach blocks
And it reached the subway station.
Gather at the Pour House Steps
for the New Year’s celebration.
Party favors must be had
So I bought some horns and hats.
Dry eyes and throats were disallowed
So I had free beer on tap.
That New Year’s Eve was cold and drear
When we held our celebration
Our dear old timers all appeared
for our “free beer” dispensation..
At midnight we stood on the steps
And had our photo taken.
We all hugged and went our separate ways
While inside our hearts were breaking.
The Pour house is a memory now.
I’ll miss those guys and girls.
It was a sort of Paradise,
a refuge from the world.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Crystal, my flea bitten nuisance of a kitten, brought me a little token of affection tonight.
I deplore mice.
Even dead ones.
Filthy buggers.
But, there sat Crystal. Mouse at her feet, mewing at me. As if to say
"See, I love you, even if you are a blood lusting monster of the dark."
I admit, she only mewed once. But I am certain, that is what she meant.
So as not to hurt her feelings, I donned on of my least favorite pairs of gloves and picked the rancid vermin up.
But I drew the line of pretending to eat it!
I must remember to burn those gloves.
Odd. The candle on my desk sputters. There is a breeze. Although the door to my lair was tightly shut.
There is only on other way in or out. That would be the small tunnel I dug for Crystal. So that she may come and go as she pleases.
Ah. But here rests my cantankerous little fiend upon my lap.
The breeze brings with it a scent. One I know all to well.
Blood.
My lair has been breeched.
Time to hunt.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
I have nothing to give.
No offering,
No sacrificial lamb,
No barley,
No incense to burn on the plate.
I have nothing to give at all.
from nothing to nothing
In this myriad of existence I can provide
No sustenance,
No value,
No help.
If I were the tool I needed to be,
I'd be nothing...
A blunt blade,
toothless rake,
A scythe with no blade.
from nothing to nothing
In these, my darkest times
I need what I am...
Nothing
Nothing can only create
Nothing...
This cosmic miracle,
An unprecedented alignment of atoms
Breeched by the need for value,
Success,
Worth.
FROM NOTHING TO NOTHING
I have nothing to provide.
Nothing to offer.
What's the point?
nothing comes of nothing
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Divided is the renegade,
As twilight's shroud descends.
Despair has breeched his barricade,
Here where his journey ends.
There is no God to call him home,
No Savior defends him.
From heaven's grace this rebel roamed,
Religion offends him.
He's never prayed the Lord to keep.
He trusts man's delusion.
A soul that lives beyond the sleep,
Is just an illusion.
Yet here he stands beside the bed,
Where flesh lay defeated.
He hears a voice pronounce him dead,
His journey completed.
But slumber has not closed his eyes,
He's filled with confusion.
Beyond the veil of his demise,
He finds no illusion.
He fearfully attempts to flee,
From whatever awaits.
Like all who thought they'd cease to be,
He can't escape his fate.
In a place where God is absent,
Far beyond creation.
He will wrestle with the torment,
Of exiled damnation.
Alone he greets eternity,
Into the night he fades,
Where he will share the destiny
Of all life's renegades
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 3:16 PM UTC
Parched Earth, dry;
******* the very moisture from the air
Cactus wither, their prickly screams
Silent as a night without even the stars
Above, no longer hanging; fallen
Angels have turned their eyes
Downcast, thirsty
Not a grain of sand moves
There might have been a sign
But that would have shown
Life at one time
Or another
This is a land that is without
No footprints mar the beauty
The little mouse is far
No desert fox to fight
A winning or losing battle here
No presence of either life or death
Even a trace
Life here has made no hold
Never breeched this abyss
Never crept in either by
Evolution or design
Here there is no god
Don't share a wasted tear
I've told you before
Even the thought
Of water here is
****** away
On the gentle not-quite-wind
You can hear, softly
What might be a violin
Off tune; Or maybe it's the sands
Cursing; Settling in for another
Millennium, getting comfortable
Or piano, it doesn't matter
A desert's song, like that of the moon
When night falls, stealing even
Tans, browns, no greens or color
My life has been shown grey
Then black with even subtle
Shades of white blanched
Even from the grey of the moon
This is the liberal world
All hard work, given a way
Others will provide
All my work wasted
Broken down and taxed too far
My children have starved
To feed those less deserving
Because the rich have left
Run away, another planet
Another star, left only the poor
So now there are the entitled
Left to deal with us wolves
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
20 September 1870
Like vultures hovering over the faithful dead
The rank red rags of base repression hung
Upon the blast-breeched walls of captive Rome;
The smoke of conquest fouled the ancient streets
While mocking conquerors marched their betters
At the point of enlightened bayonets
To the scientific future, murdering those
Who bore themselves with quiet dignity.
False, sinister Savoy sneered in disdain
At ancient truths, this costumed reprobate
Who played at soldier once the firing ceased,
And claimed Saint Peter’s patrimony on
The corpses of the merely useful who
With today’s slogans fresh upon their lips
At dawn advanced upon the remnant walls
So thinly held by the last legionaries
And thus befeathered fat Vittorio
Was given his victory by better men
On both sides there, their corpses looted by
The pallid inheritors of Progress.
The son of a Sardinian spurred his horse
Along the streets to take enforced salutes,
And to the Quirinal by a passage broad,
And finally to the Ardeatine Caves.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 7:49 AM UTC
Like vultures hovering over the faithful dead
The rank red rags of base repression hung
Upon the blast-breeched walls of captive Rome;
The smoke of conquest fouled the ancient streets
While mocking conquerors marched their betters
At the point of enlightened bayonets
To the scientific future, murdering those
Who bore themselves with quiet dignity
False, sinister Savoy sneered in disdain
At ancient truths, this costumed reprobate
Who played at soldier once the firing ceased
And claimed Saint Peter’s patrimony on
The corpses of the merely useful who
With this day’s slogans fresh upon their lips
At dawn advanced upon the remnant walls
So thinly held by so the last faithful few
And thus befeathered fat Vittorio
Was given his victory by better men
On both sides there, their corpses looted by
The pallid inheritors of Progress
The son of a Sardinian spurred his horse
Along the streets of now obedient Rome
And to the Quirinal by a passage broad
And finally to the Ardeatine Caves
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
back in the day. when I knew better,
the hows and whys of only love poetry,
was rewarded by her tears free flowing,
sniffling and slip~sliding from ducts to lips,
perhaps it was just the newness, of a man, just,
writing to just her, love poetry, like to be thinking,
skill and insight feelings peculiar inserted, may have helped
but even poems grow worn weary from too many readings,
and emotions exposed grow protective armor, containers,
that hold back emotional response au naturel, willing
suppression of the freedom to expose the infinite
capacity to let the guard down, show the raw,
the impulsed, the unguarded emotive we
become more expert markswomen to
coverup with makeup, polite words,
find/inside the superfine letters that unlock
the immediate, contemporaneous, pure unguarded,
freely released, stored weaknesses of the heart, eyes, leaking,
the physical evidence that the boundaries breeched, the fortress
penetrated, overcome, the inescapable captured realized
emotions unvarnished, getting away, just a little
embarrassing that just once more I, poet,
touched her in a way my fingertips
know all too well, with words,
kissing the back of her neck.
weak kneed, pleased,
distressed, letting go,
one mo' time,
making her cry again, pleasured tears, released,
her will power surrenders to what she must confess,
that only love poetry is a force undeniably that must be
surrendered to freely, willingly, and confessing by her lips
why not?
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 4:28 PM UTC
Carrera scrawling his notes for the
‘War for Australis Incognita’ sat beneath
a lush fruit bearing tree; Bob’s plan for the boy
seeming to going be into effect despite Bob’s
abandoning his original plan for him.
Charlotte putting the boy in shorter skirts
and matching the light lavender fabric
with purple stockings and red garters.
The boy’s bustier barely held his
flat-chested frame and she had pulled the
laces straight and true tight around his
torso squeezing the breath out of him
to give him cleavage where none was
to be had. Pinning his longish hair
into pigtails, scrubbing his face clean
with an astringent cold cream and applying
powder to his smooth face over which
she painted rouge, eye-shadow and lipstick.
Seeing Carrera writing busily below
the glistening red arctic apples, Nancy
approached the distracted writer.
Carrera was lighting his ***** pipe
when the boy whom for all the world
resembled an attractively winsome female
came over and sat with him.
“Excuse me, sir, may I ask the greatest favor of you?”
Not recognizing the boy despite having
never seen a teenage girl on ship
Carrera hastily pocketed the smelly pipe
and turned his attention to the big blue
eyes before him. The lips were thin squiggly
lines that spoke is a whiny rasp
that was not entirely unappealing.
“Yes, my childe, what can I do for you?”
“I would certainly love to eat of the tree
growing above you but alas, I cannot reach
the sweetest fruit. Would you be so kind
as to hoist me up so that I may gather
a few you would perhaps share with me?”
“Why, of course, girly. Here, stand on my
shoulders,” said the poet kneeling to allow
the slim fellow to plant a hobnailed boot
onto his broad shoulder. Carrera couldn’t
resist raising his head once the boy
was up on both shoulder reaching for the
ripe apples of a new sort, the boy using
his petticoats like a basket to catch the
fruit he could swat from the low branches.
Carrera was staring straight up his petticoats
to the visible stocking tops and garters.
Carrera’s mind swimming with fantasies
of derring-do and adventures that he assiduously
avoided any first-hand knowledge of,
his gaze locked on the baggy breeched bottom
below the boy’s skirts, Carrera thought he’d
been struck by something like love at first sight.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Everything that Trump touches dies
And every day Sarah Huckabee lies
To keep her job if I had to surmise
Even though she should go and cut ties
What will she do after he’s impeached?
Be a stay at-home-mom who’s overreached
Because obviously decorum’s been breeched
Like a whale stuck on shore she’ll be beached
That brings us to Kellyanne Conway
Lying to her is merely child’s play
She tries her best to have the last say
While keeping the press safely at bay
Though her reputation will not be in tact
That’s not conjecture, it’s an actual fact
Not an alternative hatched to distract
But a reality that can be backed
Now if you want someone who is iller
We can begin with Steven Miller
Who could have been cast in MJ’s Thriller
He’s definitely not a lady killer
I guess we could call him a policy wonk
If you agree with me, let me hear you honk?
Were he a horse he’d be a bronc
And if he played cards he’s lose at Poker and Tonk
Everything that Trump touches dies
Cuz he is surrounded by the unwise
Who cling to him like family ties
They’re addicted to power no one denies
Let’s look at all of the president’s men
Like Manafort, Cohen and what about Flynn
And let’s look at all the doo doo they’re in
But I’m at my wit’s end as to where to begin
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC