"celebratory" poems
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
if ever there were
gods or goddesses of desert
of the drylands
of parched earth some call home
they would be surprised to learn
of the miracle of
this Spring deluge
unfurling forth
from deep within
the crusty dermis
of this sublunar territory:
hydrangea and ***** apple flower,
intermingling their hues
of mauve and lilacs,
as well as the color of sky
blooms of the succulents
popping open
in celebratory dance
in wild fuschia
sunray butter:
a dazzling botanic trance
hollyhocks of magenta,
veils of bougainvellia, too
sweetpea clusters
curling in the trellis
weaving heavy-scented magic
through and through
a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
olive and pistachio grove
One would not guess
the endless giving
of this desert treasure trove
And I feel like a goddess
of mythology softly spun
like Demeter, or Ceres
ancient Egyptian Renenutet
my hands spread out
in the licks of gentle sun
for as spring pours forth its honey
all through this barren land
I , too reawake
and flush out all the infected,
dust-scratched sand
I welcome in
the waters of abundance,
of love, of light under stars
let new energy wash out
old poisons
my radiance spilling far
Reaching out unto the Universe,
cradling this heart
I cup the buds of blooms,
of nectar
to inseminate my dark
allowing me
to release the past
and seed within me, lit
the atoms
of new
start
unfolding bit
by tender
bit
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
Eid Al Adha;
Eid of Sacrifices
and the celebratory end of Hajj.
Purity abides around their heart
as souls are blessed with the
sown seeds of joy.
Allah hu Akbar;
takbir echoes
as devotees congregate in
every mosque nearby.
They wear embellished clothes,
extending their hearts to one another
and capturing the ecstasy
in every single encounter.
Sentiments are reciprocated,
and gratitude is manifested
on such an occasion
as we recall the origins of the
reason we sacrifice;
and that is to follow the order of Allah,
as Prophet Ibrahim did.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 12:03 PM UTC
sssshhhh, did you hear?
it's an amazing day today!
so rise, freshen up!
open your window, light a cigarette,
brew yourself a cup of coffee (or tea, if you prefer that)
freshen up!
because whatever's in line for you today,
the world is out there, welcoming you with open arms!
so raise your glass,
let's toast to a new day ahead!
and when the night comes,
the stars and the moon are going to look down at you smiling,
congratulating you for doing great today!
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 9:15 AM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
I am worth being valued for existing
Not only in the moments
That I become relevant, necessary, or useful
For lustful, celebratory or inspirational insanity
I am not a lollipop or an exotic destination
Stop exploring me *************
Because you salivate over this Hispaniola
Beautiful island desecrated and decimated
How many beautiful spirits will you make savages
How many pure rivers will you **** blood on
How many conquests will you claim a stake in
How much balance will you disturb and subjugate
to the trauma of your transitory exploration
There's no impunity for conquerors
Who taste, plunder, disguise disapproval in their apologies and move on
There's no impunity for conquerors
Who pick and choose who's worth
Of validation, when, & how
There's no impunity for conquerors
Who play with men and women
Hierarchize their prey
But fail to acknowledge
Their man-child whitewashed
Hidden agendas & rigged market values
Conquerors haunted by the trauma they've caused
Will not be absolved by the revolution
Neither will the revolution be the breast
That heals conquers who are traumatized
By the realization of their own fuckery
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
In a perfect world, equal opportunity would be a facet of every society, not just a promise made and then recanted.
In a perfect world, fixed annuity would be given out with staunch sobriety, and the cries of poverty would cease being chanted.
In a perfect world, the disparity of race would be forgotten, replaced with celebratory practice of traditions, preserved.
In a perfect world, discrimination would no longer be begotten, and nothing but compassion and kindness would be reserved.
In the perfect world, medicine would work like magic, with disease being left as a thing of the past.
In the perfect world, a diagnosis of cancer would no longer be tragic, and our bodies would be engineered to last.
Yet, the future’s uncertain, and the past’s all but gone
So the present must be where our battles are won
If a perfect world is what we desire
It must be done now
Where our bones are unweary
And our minds shall not tire
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
Awake to a slowly beating drum
morning meditation drifting up the hill
in the garden, tiny birds add sweet highs
tuneless ravens, the bass undertone
trees whisper ancient lyrics
on the passing breeze.
We stroll the Path of Philosophy
through massive wooden gates
into carefully sculpted gardens
exploring the endless number
of temples dotting Kyoto
each more lovely than the last.
Quiet Nanzen-Ji
is where I feel the most
following worship worn
steps to a cave-shrine
heady with wet
and incense
we are purified
by waterfall spray
before returning
the way we came
voices hushed
buoyed by eternity’s hand.
The hotel lobby is filled
with crimson and saffron
glistening heads and broad smiles
from monks gathered there
we bow to each other and are one
may it never be forgotten
revelers arrive by busload
for hanami, cherry blossom viewing
beneath a revered tree
decked out in pink splendor
lit from below to radiate
surreal, internal light
we sample Kobe yakitori
soba and corn
grilled over open flame
as we flow
through the smiling
celebratory crowd
we savor
what is transitory
as sparks
and blossoms whirl
settling on
our hair and skin.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
അ** Getting closer, to the just bloomed flower
that bewitched him in an instant,
the honey bee gets intoxicated
by the web of love,
the sweet flower threw around,
it felt more like a gentle caress
to which his heart jumped!
He starts to do an ecstatic dance,
never thought he could,
till this sweet moment arrived,
merely touching her soft petals
he flies high as if to proclaim his pleasure
buzzing a new tune he composed
for this special moment,
he circles the flower
as if to adore her beauty
form all possible angles
making the moments of love
so special for them both..
ആ** A butterfly enchanted by the flower,next
has a dance of love so different,
he would flit around and hover above
adore her beauty in a more relaxed pace,
he appreciates her silence to his soft declarations,
his love songs have no words, on air written
by the sprightly moves of his colorful wings,
he knows she loves it and his dance tells it all.
Like a kite on the waves of wind, he bobs on air
gently descending,looking at her eyes.
ഇ** The tailor bird who never misses
mother nature's children all,big and small,
in their myriad ways of loving and living
watches what's going on,
without batting an eye lid,
she has a doubt
"Who among these
lovers are more intense?"
she thinks aloud.**
ഈ** The sonorous singer,
Bulbul watching it all
from the hanging branch
of a Champak, flowered in
riotous profusion answers:
ഉ "Both are poets, no doubt,
of distinction too,
each of their deeds
spontaneous demonstrates,
with hearts full of love
they wave poetry around us
in ways ingenious
paired with flowers.
why compare them?
Mother nature's brush
dexterous paints each one of us
with such loving care and kindness
to infuse celebratory spirit,to the world,
never forget that,learn from the bees and butterflies."*
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
It's Diwali Tonight Festival of Lights
Celebratory Mood Festive Food
Gifts and Treats, Sharing a Delight
The House Well Lit
Decorated in Bridal Colours
The Courtyard and Front Door
Decorated is the Floor
In Colourful
Rangoli
Designs and Patterns
The Porch Lit Bright
With Earthen and Sky Lamps
And Decorative Lights
Welcoming The Goddess 'Laxmi'
For Good Luck , Wealth and Prosperity
Fineries Adorned
The Family comes together in the evening
Reverently Offering Prayers
Following the Rituals .
Friends come visiting
Sharing the Love Warmth and Light
Mithai and more Mithai
Calories not bothered About
Once in a year it's a Delight
Children burst Crackers
And Light up Sparklers
The Night Sky lights up Bright
Yes it's the Festival of Lights
Spreading Happiness and Cheer
The Light within Burns Bright
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 9:15 PM UTC
i loved you, right
a love unreturned,
unrequited
but alas, still
stoked by little miners with
hearts of brass their
iron faces grimacing at the task,
little beads of lots of sweat
dripping down their
taut frowns.
so what i meant to say is that
i love you, right,
and it’s a love that still
burns, bright, enough
to bring the boys home but
let’s be honest
it wouldn’t best the sun, but
**** it’s a terrible light,
it throws everything into a soft relief
where pretty, soft voiced sheep say
pretty, soft voiced things like
‘it’s okay to feel this way’
‘i want you to be happy’
‘she sounds amazing’
and other things that normal people
tell me mean that either
i don’t love you
or i’m moving on.
they don’t understand though,
i mean,
i love you, right,
though all that sheep **** makes it
sound as if
i’m waving you off,
smashing the celebratory champagne on your bow,
waving you off into the distance with a lacy hanky,
joyful tears cascading down my powdered cheekbones,
i’m greedy
maybe even,
needy,
a disgusting word and
even if i make pacts with myself
to the order of
‘he can do so much better’
‘i am damaged goods’
and other associated half truths
i’d be a liar if i said that
i would kick you out of bed
or even rebuke the slightest of
advances, no i’d take my chances
and i cannot bear it, really
i’d touch you and whatever wholeness
whatever someone else would
parse as clean or pure or holy
wouldn’t disintegrate, no
wouldn’t tarnish, no
would most probably just implode
under the combined pressure
of emotionally-mentally-fucked-in-the-head-doe
(where the **** do you think the miners got all that coal)
so, yes… wait. no?
i love you, right
but just ignore it
enjoy the lights
please remember them
tell your friends and
cherish them until
they are taken by
death, drink, dementia
but i’m sure your mum,
teacher,
or television
long ago informed you that
bright lights are detrimental to vision
so think of your future and
forget now
if you’re tempted by how i look at you
remember how
sunburn seems innocuous
until you see your skin
and sunscreen pretty useless
‘til you learn the sun will win
and the best way to avoid
dainty melanoma
is
to
go
inside
and
lock
your
door
and act like you don’t know her.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
Dear Human (at first I wrote narrow minded *******
This is not a hate poem, although it started out as one
it's something finished before my time
a game already won
My tendons would love to stretch 15 minutes before beginning the race but I wake up every morning to a piercing toast, a celebratory guffaw
of an after party having been exploited and raw
there is no point for me to stretch
metaphorically that is
for if i don't stretch before I start my day
I tweak like a bike in need of WD40
I can't speak because everything I saw deserves an explanation
scratch that
I can't speak because I'm afraid of judgement like
heavy wet cement, I'll drown in my unspoken words though
so I write these down
back to the point
Irritable Bowel Syndrome is a *****
if I don't stretch my aching quaking body can't **** right
and if I can't **** right
every other stressor strangles my already mangled mind and body
Depression is wet cement dripping from my air vent
molding my notches and bolts stone solid
yet, I have to get up and stretch to walk amid, among, noodles
Falling asleep is difficult because I want to get the night over with
and Waking up is difficult because I want to get the day over with
Not a study session waiting for snacks more
my socks are stuffed with thumbtacks
and I forgot everyone finished their after party
so I'm pounding my feet sprinting
for a finish line
I'll never cross
Like when I woke up in the hospital,
banging my head against the wall believing I could smash my way outside on this day, three years ago
My mania surged lightning bolt electric jolt a thousand watt volt
I would never be released until normalcy increased
so I spent every waking moment stretching
desperately trying to release the
desperate stress molded
in my body
Depression is wet cement, I have learned to slip through it's cracks
by releasing the firey strength
I hold inside my bones
I hold inside my soul
Oh human, please hear me with your open ears
yet if you can't, I have no fear
your judgement cannot touch me
I am on fire, all victims of depression
you, we, are not weak
merely misunderstood by false desire
we are misunderstood
Blazing wet cement on fire
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Petals, oh these metals.
They fall,
Paling.
Blackened.
Dyed crimson.
A celebratory death dance,
I have found a new advance.
And the brilliant yellow sun,
How it slinks in the night!
So comfortable,
I have left it behind.
Toxic were the tendrils
that kept me where it stood.
A million stinging nettles,
In my heart, they took root.
The pink quills of Cyanea,
the futility of their purpose.
They don't always wither away,
So I've set them all aflame.
Romeo's sheath, Hermes' fool-
Treating my human tendencies as a tool.
Forget this fragility we call love,
Cut the strings and rise above.
Past the smoke and ashes,
it will come clearer through these lashes.
If my woven words fail to reach you,
Nothing else will ever do.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
i know, it's not exactly mesmerising
such bounties with such curdling
crudeness, but that's how it is,
with eyes vectoring into the above,
cobalt, the highest pinnacle of the depths,
a shade like any other,
and then seeking the horizon, the dilution
of the formidable shade into Arctic...
a near white, but not exactly white,
not exactly worth metaphor that's a kindred
of white & black as lack & lack...
just the see-through colour for the allowance
of possessing eyes, not near melted mirrors
of mercury, but by day,
the highest peak blue in hue of cobalt,
and when walking from the mountain's peak,
the eyes spot the Arctic and Adriatic mist hues
outlining a bordering of all things elemantal...
the transparency of the whole dynamo
on being grounded from all elevations,
before dipping into the seas' shrubbery...
for indeed the sky makes use of the close-up, apparent
green shades of the sea, or the Thames grey
without an earl on a royal gondola worthy a parade,
nearer then the grander colour scheme,
but up from space, indeed, all is blue and all is green,
and all is sandy suntanned bronze
and seemingly serene; lest we forgot the dollops
of skeletal, floating in cloud - those scouts of Antarctica;
but from the elemental blue of the sky
receding into the seas of mirrors via arctic into white
if not seemingly see-through, there too i spot
the antidote of white nearing the pristine state of
claiming being see-through, a crow's
bleak colour of being shrouded
in celebratory mourning: the pupil of my eye, black,
and all the world around me, the flattened earth
of my iris, for no astronaut i am to imagine it otherwise,
from a perspective of such heights reached by
fellow man, if i am to be so humbly grounded,
i'll imagine it counter-productively as thus.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
Murmured voices break the silence
To my right
a cute couple clink
their wine glasses together
in a celebratory toast.
Off to the left,
an older gentleman
engages an old-ish lady
in whispered conversation.
I’m guessing he’s whispering
sweet nothings to his bride.
The well dressed young man
standing at the bar
survey’s the crowd,
looking restless.
He seems to be waiting
for…
Ah, that beautiful girl
that just walked in.
Her eyes light up,
his face breaks into
a big smile.
I love the ambience
of this old place.
Red carpets,
dim lights,
candles flickering in
every direction.
My time here is
almost done.
I only need
some sugar
for this last
cup of coffee.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
~
*celebratory,
fluttermoth-like
boys and girls
born at the turn of the century,
and so suddenly out of time,
discarded at the gates
of a last-century neutral zone,
left as unicorn,
imaginary and pure,
somehow worth less than the price
of admission to a festival,
but this isn't God's will...*
~
Oct 16, 2023
Oct 16, 2023 at 5:18 PM UTC
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
<>
Saturday
September
21st
2019
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
It all led up to this moment,
The dedication we casted our ambitions in,
The triumphs we rooted our adversities in,
It brought us to the next chapter of our lives,
And for you I'm forever grateful to,
Thanks for joining me on my journey.
The California dream is what we were living,
From the adventurous summer splendor,
To the heartfelt bittersweet departures,
Those unified celebratory cheers,
It was summer 21' of unprecedented affection,
Onto the next phase of life we go where unknown possibilities lie dormant,
Here's to the discoveries to come,
The gratitude to bestow,
& memories we'll create.
Jul 18, 2021
Jul 18, 2021 at 8:20 PM UTC
Your arteries are like correlations
Possessing fragments of my brightest moments
Protruding right against your skin
And an abundance of my darkest thoughts
Crawling viciously through your lungs
Infecting your every breath
Just to fill the empty spaces
Between the blood that pulses through your veins
And the twisted bones that keep you straight
The craters in your wrists
Hold masquerades of celebratory pain
Where crisp and lifeless voices
Hum out screams of your trauma
Like meaningless smalltalk
As if you were a resemblance of the weather
Just another galactic disaster
While their idle hands of Devils play
Scrape knives along your spine
And feast formally from your flesh
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Motown mojo hops down
Through speakers,
While neon lights
Flash smiles.
A cool, green liquid sits,
Untouched in a lean glass.
Mellow lights give
The place a quiet class.
Amid the pulse of an
After-midnight entourage,
The clamor of
Celebratory laughs.
What’s going on?
Two birds fly by
On the way down South,
Where dancing tunes
Can be heard,
If you listen just right.
Down there, it’s a maze.
I’d rather stay up here,
And park myself
In a trouble-free simplicity,
Letting my mind wander…
Off the beat.
A shift.
Gazing out the window,
And past a yawn,
The fuel of the night
Is far from gone,
Because I can dig
Marvin anywhere.
My attention predictably
Short-lived, I become engrossed
By a bead of dark whiskey,
Which lies upon a neighboring seat
(An elegantly tall bar stool,
Probably made from a cherry tree).
And it’s there I am reminded,
It’s always been the night I seek.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:51 AM UTC
I'm surrounded by demons, butchers, and ******
menacing, chopping, and down on all fours.
They're trying to take away what is rightfully mine;
by enticing with goodies that are tasty and fine.
My will is weakening, breaking, and now shattered;
their voices cajole, promise, and flatter.
Dizzily I stumble towards a celebratory fire;
and happily climb to the top of my funeral pyre.
The flames danced, engulfed, and burned my shell; a
s the ancients danced, laughed, and dragged me to hell.
My voice grew hoarse from the incessant screaming;
as I tried to pinch myself as I knew I was dreaming.
Now I'm surrounded by the wretched, weak, and insane;
begging for a drink, ice, or a drop of cooling rain.
Was it worth falling prey to all those earthly treasures?
It depends on your definition of pain and pleasure .
For I quite enjoy the brimstone, inferno, and heat;
as the Devil chuckles, tortures, and eats ****** meat.
A ********* I am, and a ********* I'll remain;
I believe I've finally found my heavenly domain.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
It's been a few weeks since it rained,
and even longer since I've let myself go.
But I'll always remember the day I did.
It was the last day of sophomore year,
and we were itching for a little fun.
You and I went out for a celebratory drive,
belting old Taylor Swift songs
at the top of our lungs,
and not giving a ****
what anyone else thought.
All of a sudden, a storm hit
and you pulled the Volkswagen over
with a twinkle in your eyes.
You pulled me out of the car,
and we danced in the middle of the road.
Within seconds, I was soaked
through my dress, through my bra,
sending raindrops coupled with chills
all the way down my spine.
The rain stopped as soon as it started,
but I'll never forget that day.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
It’s the hollow sound of a toast to fill the silence of unaddressed questions,
the celebratory clanging of glass on glass
ringing from assumptions based on past experiences and theories
from synapses of protagonists or all
that is mystical; a god or a God
for the rhetoric of bad days; the precatory shoulda, woulda, coulda’s
you can count with all digits and the humdrums,
the lalala’s to songs with lines you can never remember.
It is to fill in, with pencil, the
blanks of unclear intentions, capricious endings,
the what comes after the highest number, tentative now, for it is a trick question,
the true stories of Bermuda Triangles and Altantises,
for the ones Amelia kissed goodbye and all that is brief,
promises neither broken nor kept;
some, hypotheses for what happens after waiting.
It is the makeshift certainty ascertained the day he left
all these unfinished, unanswered, incomplete… things. The sure of it
invented by staking everything in a nebulous something,
a nebulous anything that will have to do, like cotton patches
on satin dresses or saints for hopeless causes.
It was the invention to quench the constant
need to know, to fill the in-between start to end
for all that we can not stop. A made-up map by pirates below ten
for every time we must set destinations beyond unchartered unknowns;
a make-believe place holder to hold us to the relief
we get from closure when
the universe gives us none.
It is the lemniscate, the amen,
the St. Jude we assign to our altars
until we find actual satin or the aviatrix herself,
or surrender everything in the spirit of faith
or believe
that not all things unfound are lost.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
the Webster's, the Merriam's,
residents of the Oxford
say not,
an exclamation or a noun,
but an action,
a doing word,
not so much...
as a poet~sorcerer
digressing rules,
is my input
appetizer,
poems, my exported
entrées
all posted to be
dessert
for all the sweet tooth
parts of you
all to
feast on this
process,
when I
hallelujah you...
"Praise the Lord"
the translation literal
but sojourn herewith me
for a few extants,
together, let's
invigorate, expand the
understanding of an ever expansive
definition...
if I ever fall out of love,
with natural words,
can no longer
hallelujah/scribe
to memorialize
why we claim,
we are alive....
hallelujah's
praises
for you all the
master designers'
praiseworthy creations,
an extension of themselves,
they said
in each human
godlike spark
hallelujah installed
there is nothing more
godlike
than being
human,
so when I
hallelujah
I praise each and everyone
it is a mixologist's dream,
some of it a
thank you,
some of it a
your welcome,
all of it a
celebratory exercise,
in appreciation,
of the finery of what we can
be
come
greater
through
the words
of our blood
transfused
Oh!
act out Hallelujah,
write it as if you must
urgent do
Hallelujah,
do it
not just now but,
Selah!
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
three times we have made it to the northern sanctuary
each carried its own significance
each with its own emotions to bury
one: honeymoon phase
a new beginning, an exciting future
the only constant being us
celebratory boats, bikes, birds
two: friends join
a year in, half a year not all in
shadow follows me around
a week spent in anger, one or two exceptions there
three: pretentions
i hold it together, 1 and a half years in, you know
how much
i crackle, snapped and popped after
i did not dare show my emotions; grin!
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC