"burdensome" poems
Even if you cannot shape your life as you want it,
at least try this
as much as you can; do not debase it
in excessive contact with the world,
in the excessive movements and talk.
Do not debase it by taking it,
dragging it often and exposing it
to the daily folly
of relationships and associations,
until it becomes burdensome as an alien life.
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Deep love within the heart
Ignite luscious flames aglow.
Spreads vast with just a spark,
Desires down below.
Keenly tantalizing,
Flawless colors and hue;
Unbridle free flying,
Loose reign while dreams come true.
Spreads rapidly, bright blaze,
Gold lighting of hope
Alive, aware, un hypnotize,
Curious Kaliedoscope.
A journey to enjoy
Burning fire devour
Life's burdensome's toy;
Amid a horse named Wildfire.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
Gendering Woman *******
Beautiful, anatomical part // Ugly, anatomical part
Natural, pleasurable // Burdensome, loathsome
Female Symbolic // Femme Symbolic
MALIGNANT HEALTHY
fearful, tearful, wretched // joyful, hopeful, euphoric,
bereft, wept, grieving // embryonic, rapt, relieving
leaving, loss // believing, gain
m a y b e - d e a t h r e - b i r t h
BI-LATERAL
MASTECTOMIES
Operating Theatre
SURGEON ANAESTHETIST
cleaning/ cutting/ knife/ scalpel // doping/ unconscious/ airway
blood / tissue // hypotension
loss/ damage // shock
drains // sinus rhythm
stitches // pain deadening
tight binding // reversal drugs
POST-OPERATIVE
a l i v e a w a k e
draining, bound & stitched draining, bound & stitched
DRAINED
~ UNBOUND
-- UNSTITCHED –
Empty chest Flat Chest
FREEDOM from Disease FREEDOM from Dis-ease
© M.L.Emmett
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
I observe the current of clamour from the far corner, over there
wishing I would blend with the limp air
And soak into the absence far away.
So, don’t ask me why
It’s in my nature to be shy
Just leave these flawed bones to decay...
even so, I didn’t ask for your kindness
It’s just an act muffled with blindness
I know it could never be true.
I have learnt not to trust those who are nice to me
Eventually they will push me away, out to sea
waiting for the waves to break through.
Yet my body tingles with this burdensome feeling
This sensation blooming inside is unappealing...
all I can do is blame it on you.
Blame it on the way you walk
Or the way you stumble when you talk
Or the way your hair sits on your forehead.
Blame it on the way you smile with your eyes
Or the way you stare up into the skies
Or the way your ears can turn bright red.
But by all else above,
Blame it on the way you made me fall in love.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
What’s in a name?
It is what turns heads
It can cause a quiver in your body
Or a smile to curl onto your lips.
A name can be tarnished
Or reborn.
It can make you stand out from the crowd
Or join the masses.
It is more than what society deems
A socially acceptable form of
Introduction.
So let me introduce myself:
I used to feel my name in harsh syllables
Rooted in the language of my people’s history.
MAR or MIR meant bitter.
Like having the wrong taste in your mouth
Reminding me of MARor –
Eaten on Passover to remember how burdensome,
Difficult and bitter the Jews’ slavery in Egypt was.
IAM (YAM) – ocean.
Tumultuous, never still.
Always swirling and scaring children out of it.
MIRIAM – my Hebrew name.
Bitter sea.
I grew into that name resentfully.
I reacted when I was called that by fellow classmates,
For what else could I do?
But time went by
And I began collecting seashells by the seashore.
The ocean became a treasure and my name
Had a new ring to it.
Yet when eighth grade graduation came around I was given the option
Of writing Mariya instead of Miriam.
I was going to high school where I didn’t know anyone.
So no one needed to know my bitter past.
I also learned that a name was not made up of syllables
But of sweet sounds.
Mmm – like the taste of something so delicious your eyes close
And you feel yourself melting.
Aaa – you’ve just finished your meal and on this hot summer day
You find solace in the cool water running down your back in the shower.
Rrr – racing, running, reaching for the sky.
That’s the sound I want my plane to make when I can hold a piece of
Cloud in the palm of my hand and feel its silver lining.
Iii – the sound of “and” in many languages. The sound of something more,
Reminding me that this is not the end.
Ya – the sound of agreement and conclusion. As if that is all I have to say…so yeah.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
I.
I would not if I could undo my past,
Tho' for its sake my future is a blank;
My past for which I have myself to thank,
For all its faults and follies first and last.
I would not cast anew the lot once cast,
Or launch a second ship for one that sank,
Or drug with sweets the bitterness I drank,
Or break by feasting my perpetual fast.
I would not if I could: for much more dear
Is one remembrance than a hundred joys,
More than a thousand hopes in jubilee;
Dearer the music of one tearful voice
That unforgotten calls and calls to me,
"Follow me here, rise up, and follow here."
II.
What seekest thou, far in the unknown land?
In hope I follow joy gone on before;
In hope and fear persistent more and more,
As the dry desert lengthens out its sand.
Whilst day and night I carry in my hand
The golden key to ope the golden door
Of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore,
For long the journey is that makes no stand.
And who is this that veiled doth walk with thee?
Lo, this is Love that walketh at my right;
One exile holds us both, and we are bound
To selfsame home-joys in the land of light.
Weeping thou walkest with him; weepeth he?--
Some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.
III.
A dimness of a glory glimmers here
Thro' veils and distance from the space remote,
A faintest far vibration of a note
Reaches to us and seems to bring us near;
Causing our face to glow with braver cheer,
Making the serried mist to stand afloat,
Subduing languor with an antidote,
And strengthening love almost to cast out fear:
Till for one moment golden city walls
Rise looming on us, golden walls of home,
Light of our eyes until the darkness falls;
Then thro' the outer darkness burdensome
I hear again the tender voice that calls,
"Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come."
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Dust, dust, infernal dust:
Mocked! Mortality mocked!
Toil, toil, burdensome toil,
procrastinator born.
I don't see, it's still clean.
I don't see, I don't care.
I don't see, just the wind.
Oh no! Now I see,
I cannot unsee, woe is me!
Dust, dust, infernal dust,
with vacuum be gone!
Toil, toil, burdensome toil,
Adam's curse, is there no escape?
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 6:11 AM UTC
Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam
To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently
If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed
There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples
They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament
I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is
There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
I provoke the wind
in a dialect shared with him
and him alone.
He whispers assent,
as assuaging liquid draughts
glance my submissive frame.
A desolate wanderer,
incising the burdensome night.
Accompanied by none corporeal,
I prowl satin fields,
illuminated by Luna
and Saturn, her amber consort.
©Thomas Gabriel
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 10:59 AM UTC
Mammy never owned a dryer,
She would always use the fire
To dry clean clothes for her eight kids,
Who played in pants as if on stilts,
Wore Goodwill shirts like cardboard fibre.
We'd no money for laundromats,
Immigrants don't waste like that;
We made the move from Ireland,
Turned our backs, washed our hands;
Chose Sarnia to make our home.
Yes, Mammy washed our clothes with stones;
She'd string lines from wall to wall,
And draped our patchwork overalls.
In autumn, winter and early spring,
Our house was strung with clothes line string;
Socks dropped on chairs near heating vents,
Every room had ***** like tents.
One day Daddy stretched a line
From our back porch
To the farthest pine.
Looped the wire on a tubeless rim,
Secured the ends with linchpins.
Mammy was so pleased with him.
We four saw what he'd done,
He'd made a ride for his sons.
We were gliding like clothes drying,
Riding down the yard.
Flapping, laughing, having fun,
Like human clothes under the sun;
We , however, were burdensome,
The line gave up, and we fell hard.
On blustery days when sheets are snapping,
I recall the clothes line cracking,
Our fall from grace had nothing lacking.
Oh, I remember he chastised,
But I also remember
Daddy's eyes,
And how they smiled
When he told his friends
He hung his sons
Out to dry.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
THERE is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake -- that all heart's ache have known,
And given to others all heart's ache,
From meagre girlhood's putting on
Burdensome beauty -- for your sole sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man, "Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood.'
Vague memories, nothing but memories,
But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.
The certainty that I shall see that lady
Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood,
And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,
Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one,
And yet your body had a flaw:
Your small hands were not beautiful,
And I am afraid that you will run
And paddle to the wrist
In that mysterious, always brimming lake
Where those What have obeyed the holy law
paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged
The hands that I have kissed,
For old sake's sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have
ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
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You never were a hater,
But you tried to be a player.
You tried to come off cool,
But there's a devil in your lair.
You tried to be a good one,
But they talk behind your back.
They're plotting, they're wotnotting,
And they're planning their attack.
They severed your reality -
They twisted every turn.
They're burning and they're churning,
They don't render what you yearn.
Then panic triggers fever,
And you feel the fever burn.
If they keep on pushing,
Those suckers gonna learn.
Then the witness understands.
There is reason for concern.
There is a new commander -
And oh! The worm has turned.
What could you do?
You never knew.
How could have you?
No-one told you.
Misery is glue,
Sticks to you.
You never were a villain
Till they clotted up your chill.
You never needed anyone
To tell you what you feel.
They only know to validate
Themselves - they never love.
If it suits their motives,
They will bite, and kick and shove.
There never was a heartache
That you could not overcome.
You have to have a heart that's hard.
So go out and get you one.
Trample loosers under foot,
Or they'll be too burdensome.
Keep your left hand from your right,
And keep your lovers under thumb.
Finally, you start to see
That life is just a loaded gun.
You can never stop to rest,
You're always on the run.
What could you do?
You never knew.
How could have you?
No-one told you.
Misery is glue,
Sticks to you.
You master all that you survey, Everybody knows your name.
Cream rises to the top -
You are the winner of the game.
If you gave them half the chance,
They would cut you down.
You forever have to watch your back,
Never let them gather 'round.
You didn't try to rule the world,
You only wanted to survive.
If they had their way,
You would no longer be alive.
Your meter's getting weaker,
But you strive to make it through.
You've trudged thicker purposes,
You always make it through.
They will give it all they've got
When they finally come for you.
You have never had a moment's peace,
'Cause misery is glue.
What could you do?
You never knew.
How could have you?
No-one told you.
Misery is glue,
Sticks to you.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Joshua tree
Across the high California desert you stand with lifted salutation off the beaten path the drift
Of sea moisture mingles with tule fog rising from the desert floor you have briefly entered an alien
World a brooding connection develops with London’s fog shrouded streets or the Arden with its
Identification with It being the one natural barrier to the advancing Roman’s might and Shakespeare’s
Play the woods for him was familiar but a place where change to ones fortune could occur and one
Could find love mist is one of the times that a magic wand was effectively waved it produced a myriad
Of realties notable connections a display that reaches the far borders of wonder pleasantness infringes
On the harder order of the desert’s hotter principles farther east the great desert sentry looms above
All else the saguaro cactus also raises its arms as the Joshua giving thanks for life in a stark and
Burdensome land rock and scrub fills this place it takes time to appreciate such bitter circumstances
But you can sink thoughtful roots that will play a symphony between sun and shadow and all the living
Things that eke out a living there are a breed of people that thrive here also they can teach a lot to
Others live on less you would be amazed how refreshing simple living can be get to much you find
Fun squeezed out of the seams of the so called good life just think in this term when does water taste
Like heavenly nectar when you have been deprived and are at a loss to find it the abundance of anything
Can temper its value death swiftly occurs when the spirit of taking things for granted pervades those
Times that are riveting and create completeness in us are by nature rare and treasured you don’t have
To trek to far off deserts or faraway places a child’s youthful smile that is slipping away When tenderness flows and she makes your heart glow know my friend you are blessed with God’s best for all of earths time a husbands
Gentle laugh his look that stirs you deeply these are but three of rarified finds that are in your life
Enjoy treasure them they are personal gifts you possess today
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
I'm extremely disorganized
I don't know what belongs where
Take my eyes for example
I can't find a place to rest them
I tried setting them on you
But everyone agreed that **** wasn't working
They explained that an organized man
Adheres to categories
And you and I
Are not of a kind
I attempted to argue that you organized me
My heart
My mind
You folded me neatly
When you beat me
You always made sure to set me aside when you were done with me
You'd place me in a bin
Or release me to the wind
Yet there was a burdensome fault in my littered logic
They explained that an organized man
Is clean
I must use eyes that are sanitized
To see how we're not categorized
And avoid your matador eyes
Because things will get messy
When the bull in your fists
Sees the roses in my heart
My humanity starts to part
And my wishes I begin to opine
For the nature of a bovine
So I wouldn't misplace my eyes
And be what I'm classified
But that nature eludes me
As do most things
On account of me being disorganized and all
But I'm a quick learner order burner page turner
I may not know what belongs where
But I know I belong neither here nor there
Making my eyes not belong anywhere
This is what develops my entropy stare
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
The problems of the mind are the loneliest by far.
They eat at you and eat at you until you are just a shell of meat and bone.
You walk and you talk as if nothing were wrong, but you see, the problems of the mind are the most burdensome of all.
How can you blame someone for the actions that they did in your mind.
For the **** they committed. For the scars they created.
They look at you the same, yet all you can see is the monster that took you and you fear that they will take you again.
Yet, they never really took you at all.
You see the problems of the mind are the most confusing by far.
The growling meant that he was a killer and for it he was neutered and locked in chains.
But to you he is still the man that you see and love everyday.
So the growling became a comfort.
A battle cry to show the world, because he loved you and trusted you with his world, he would always be by your side.
The world may take them as growls of your own, for your own crimes, and that's fine.
Because when you howl the half the world howls and you know that you have even more pained souls on your side.
You see the problems of the mind are the most trial-some by far.
She is your angel and she saved your life that night.
You tell her but she will never quite know that you truly believe it.
She covered you in her wings and covered you tight.
She took the blunt force of the car so you would not die.
Now you owe your life to her and she cannot make sense of it.
She will never know that to you she was actually there.
You see the problems of the mind are the most painful by far.
But now the ***** the dog and the angel all stay in your life.
Never knowing their true roles in your mind.
Never knowing what they said or did that changed your life.
Following the same pace as the previous night.
Yet you sit alone and in the silence cry, because you still feel the **** feel the wings and hear the growls at night.
But no one will ever know.
That is why the problems of the mind are the loneliest by far.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
the couches' cushions caving in.
The weight of passing hours
and minuettes alleviating thinking
in a miscellaneous metronome
ticking to bring time to a heaving chest.
Stay calm,
the pain of realignment will pass.
Burdensome they may be,
burgeoning wings will free you of...
Pressure collapsing this cage,
walls torn from studs,
leaving only this skeleton
surrounding us as we find delirium
the backbone of convulsing lungs watched,
earthquake mute laughter marring the faces
with jagged faults.
The cost of cracking,
we must accept the scarring permanent.
Breaks unplanned infirmities,
alone, our time line disrupted itself
and the heavens came,
tumbling down.
In silence,
we lay, arms barring
our escaping words.
Eyes overstep boundaries,
slipping through the gaps,
a second moment of
clarification fractures restraints
whilst beguiling brainstorms
sparked our interest.
Our tongues meet,
shyly.
rubies placed upon your breath
slipping against molded clay.
In sapphires
you and I hold nighttime
reflections of passion
contained in coal, waiting.
Ivory runs my length,
bending to ecstasy, breathing
shallow, asynchronous, failing
to find it's end in persistence.
In night
the danger dropped us, longing
that dusty light beaming down on
the show, Act 2 is
the comedy. Off.
Parallel parabola line diamond reflections,
allow for recall with brushed fingertips,
horse hair undertones realigning smiles,
abstract the paintings of today,
of yesterday, stealing away tomorrow
in a previous reiteration of our variant
indifference.
The wings of the demon opened
in symbolic solace, fell far
across this burning emotional
harbor, aflame
in angels' suicides.
We've fallen, taken knees to grace,
whispering eulogies the waves applaud.
Sands wash away to cupped stone
palms, caressing the troubled banks lost
in time. The blood washes away,
momentary marks, brown,
stained, it passes.
Demons foreshadow.
In their shade we are seen
falling into broken arms, sinew
stitched through hearts, still healing
strength gives way.
Our tongues meet
shyly,
this reunion a mistake,
now locked, staying stilled while
attempting apologetic phrasing.
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
blank walls and barren recounts
crashing in.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
In the wild confusion of my life, I saw your face
A kind countenance making bright my days
Through rugged tracks when I stumbled along
I felt an unseen hand holding me strong
When bewildered by the horrid scenes of death
You assured that life extends beyond mortal breath
When lost in the dank and dark alley of wickedness
You diverted my steps into the well lit path of righteousness
When I gloated over my own trivial accomplishments
You reminded me of my littleness through mild chastisements
When I lost myself in the grip of vanity
You opened my inner eye to restore my sanity
When tossed by the currents of fiery storms
Lord! You made me seek the safety of your arms
When drowning in the sea of escalating pain
You sustained and strengthened me and kept me sane
Many got wiped out from the face of the Earth
Without seeing the New Year’s birth
Thank you for allowing me to see this glorious dawn
‘Extend your hand’, I pray, for me to hold on!
Make me feel, you are there in every rhythm of my life
More when life becomes burdensome with problems rife
Over the arid deserts and the stormy turbulent sea
I pray to be by my side as an abiding presence, piloting me
My Lord! Without you my life will be in peril
Never let me fall into the snares of the devil
Do not desert me, stay by my side now and ever
Be my guiding light and sanctify my every endeavor!
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
almond shaped eyes
the color of fertile earth
deep
deeper than marianna and her treacherous trench
i fall deeper into your magic with every glance
the mere thought of your existence sends lightning bolts through my bones
you give me butterflies the size of ostriches
and someday soon i'll take flight
astronauts and the smell of stardust
nasa
here we come
i can hear the static pulse of the universe in your laughter
you leave solar flares in your wake
you take my breath away
a presence as heavy as the vacuum of space
not burdensome
but welcomed
like an egyptian cotton blanket over bare flesh
or the pressure of the lakes surface on my naked ribcage
an embrace
with god
with darwin
with satan
and neil pert
it hurts me when you frown
deep
deep down
i drown in despair at the earliest glimpse of your discourse
but when you smile
hot ****
that smile
i shiver and shrink
like a scalp in a glacial pool
you're strong as a sequoia
proud as an ancient peak
yet for some reason
you see me
in a far more flattering light than i view myself
i wanna take you
far
far
far away
and make you stay forever mine
forever perfect in my eyes
poetic strengths
prose-like down falls
and it all reads just like Rumi
classic
timeless
true
i can't wait until the day you admit
that you can't wait
to be tangled up in me
and the sheets
and the seams of the fabric of time
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
As invisible as air,
I idle near the door,
Hopeful for a brief greeting
From your burdensome feet.
In and out,
Never forgetting
To step on my very core.
I wait and wait
Knowing that someone
Will eventually have to come,
Forgetting that they'll just as soon
Have to leave.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
My poetry is not for you.
My heart is.
My words belong to the wind.
Emotions cause this volcano to explode.
A release of rhythm, of prose
Of joys and of pains
Of memories of today.
You are a muse.
That's amusing.
A tempest of a temptress,
Your touch sings maladies on my soul.
A dirge of crystal tears
Reflecting lost hope
Lost love.
This poem is not for you.
Yours is a smile that lightens
This burdensome heathen.
Whilst your scorn leaves new scars
Over old,
Like a worn patchwork cloak,
That no wizard ever wore
But this one dons with the certainty
Of the pious
And the loved.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Astonishingly! This poetry analogy is partially of a prodigy poet! It is of his endearment and endeavorment in our great Government that desecrated, medicated, sedated and segregated him. Doped! Desperately copping and hoping he made it! To add, no dad! An artistically rad-lad through the bad, the glad, the sad and mad. This destiny of a poet is also of apologies, felonies, formalities, legalities and theories.
Furthermore it’s of mournful and scornful-laughter! Capture and rapture, dreamingly and seemingly, chapter after chapter... Pondering and wondering is there a happily ever after? This destiny of a poet is heavenly, randomly and religiously, tellingly of lots of many thoughts! Some adventuresome, awesome, burdensome, fearsome and gruesome! Some loathsome, lonesome and wholesome!
Some of dreams, schemes and many themes! Some deemed and seemed differently, discriminately, indecently or racially true, from some views. Some askew and blue! Some of clues, of Jews, of taboo, tattoos and voodoo! This destiny of a poet; stunningly who could’ve and would’ve thought once, twice or thrice of this price? Of the cheers and peers, the jeers, the leers,
the tears and weary years... Therefore I say, some artist’s
clever art may create, dictate, relate and translate similar-thriller craftsmanship with negative, positive or relative penmanship. However, typically some probably will publicly criticize as a travesty. Some will harmonize, some will publicize or socialize, some will disrespect as imperfect, some will neglect, some will respect as perfect! Hark! I remark; brethren, children and women keep and upkeep that
creative spark! For in the dark or as you embark. Literally, morality and reality is in my poetry and story. Expect excellent, brilliant, decadent, resilient talent and testaments! Basically on final note! I positively devote, quote and wrote these eccentrically optimistic, rhetoric and theoretic poetically lyrical rhyming notes. Finally and bluntly, do not negatively amend, bend, pretend or transcend this end. Amen...
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Yesterday, a cloud burst in mythologies
and the rain fidgeted over the retreat
of a tidal pantheon; deities swept away
by a current, and we stood awhile, watching
the moon elbow out the dusk. Breathing
is burdensome when cars float on water
and corpses leak out of cavernous
basements. Every tablet, etched, in the cold
heart of building code was read again
and then again. It wasn't enough to blame
Aeolian whim or the raging riposte of Apollo,
now that we had marvelled away Gaia's
ozone skirt. Her amnion always leaked
in folkloric floods each time she birthed
a parable. She once asked Noah to build
an ark so he could ride her waves
and we scrape the sky to impale her
in shards where her womb is soft and yielding,
as we sour the air and burn the water and strip
her of her emerald sigh and melt her hills
and silt her wetlands. Mostly it was the asphalt
plastering her yearning that calcified her veins
and arteries, as she died slowly under our feet.
We could hardly fathom her sorrow for the tears
rolled off her torso like an oil slick
and rode far into the subway for sewers.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
I, (Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself)
*how I would, honor this with ecstasy joy effervescent,
the simplest of methodologies, if only I,
reasoned how one safely permits
to love myself, if only I,
knew how to love an
I
to self love well,
not a university course,
no simple answers like thirst, yet how I thirst,
hunger, burst, curse for this peculiar wisdom, please,
instinct me to navigate murderous shoals of take but give
I
who teaches this to the children?
I, parents, teachers, not ****** or pastors or
TV the great substitute for all of the above,
myself is not a selfie, no glorying got in I,
I, burdensome, never comprehended,
love thy neighbor better, love actually, no mere pretense,
if well executed, perhaps is when the trapeze line is at last
cleanly indistinguishable,
your I, my I,
both wicks will be joined, brighter lit for it,
one flame, one godlike burning, fusing,
with neither consumed, wax fusing,
but teaching easy loving
to explode the
I,*
~
9:24am EST
6/2/17
airborne over the Western US of A
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
There is
A hesitation in
Creation
So burdensome
That even the GREATS
Were cursed by it.
One cannot escape it
Master it or
Defeat it;
It is as apart of us
As our breathe, our sweat,
Our blood, our death.
Hesitation rests on your
Shoulders
Heavy and wet
Hesitation sits lodged in your throat
Like a boat stuck in ice
Hesitation:
The moment before
The beauty of
Creation.
Thoughts bubble and gurgle
Like water at the mouth of a river.
There, thought waits for action,
For courage, for someone to say go.
Because there can be no creation
Without a trigger.
We are machines waiting to be turned on,
Used, abused, and one day, thrown out.
The mechanism slowly spins within.
Each one of us molded, oiled, and shipped.
Our destination partly our own
And partly another.
Who is calling us out in the world
But our own selves?
Why don't we just stay the **** put?
What adventure do we seek to experience?
What has life got to offer?
Sensation.
Hesitation.
Creation
Or none.
My eyes drift to the edge of my desk.
I listen to noises I do not appreciate.
Most days everything sounds like white noise.
On the horizon, a fog rolls in, heavy gray.
I am so very tired these days.
Someone give me a pick me up.
I'll pay, I promise, I will.
Someone give me a pick me up, please.
Fortunately, fantasy has no definition, only hesitation.
Within the glass holds both the truth and the lie.
Brown paper sacks filled with groceries sit along the curb.
Rhyme and words smell like cranberries and thyme.
Cross your fingers
Allow your mind to burn like tinder
Abdicate the hierarchy
Push the pen
One more stroke
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC