"christen" poems
Yule envelope your being
With imperfect generosity
Yule be swept by the tide
Of beloved ambiguity
Yule christen the emerald
And new ruby revelation
To unviel the contingency
of a jubilant nation
Yule welcome the lesson
In manger and hay
And You will show love
For the rest of your days
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 2:22 PM UTC
Through water and sand, stands you.
Spring breaking at you feet
Your breath flicking the pages of a street paper
A black crown of nightingales at your head
Entwined in leaves and wheat trickling down stones in dew-morning light and thrones in brambles of blackberry pie
Rooted to firewood and sheer bliss of kissed moonlight
Where herons christen Stars before black velvet blanket
Bridled by Rosemary and time, caught with Mary in a dark corner
Slumped behind priest less ivy, we permeate the air and through blue blooded command and gnashing of teeth, slants me
Outside the ramshackle cwtch I the hangmedown barks of woods, kneels you.
And stopped around cockles and foundling sparrows, sings the epitaph of a fallen barbarian.
Still through desert and carcass, lies you.
JWS
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
My name is Don Quixote Del La Mancha.
I am a knight in coat of arms
Give me my lance, give me my sword and give me my steed
Where be thy king in all of this
I wear the Royal Spanish Crown and Gold Seal of San Fernando Lavante
I solemnly swear that ***** and bounty shall rest with the king
Even the Catholic Church Christen thee for swift victory
I have signed and sealed orders to save the Princess Donselia Del Deboso
Then, I shall rescue her from the evil clutches of the windmill dragon
My chief architect, Poncho Sanchez is my right arm and canteen
He is responsible for fresh food rations, cold drink and support logistics
Sustenance sustains an army and sustenance sustains great men
A gallant foot soldier is he, and Poncho trails me like a Swiss Guard,
With his burro donkey friend, named El Donkey Camino De Blanco
As we approach the last horizon of the day, the code of chivalry shall not die
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
Let 'em hear ya in the cheap seats
In the nosebleeds
Trashed and thrashed
The stove heats up the whole house
The beauty pageant is being judged by those who have been bribed and the biased
There's no room at the inn
To the barn, I guess
Ring in the morning
As today's hectic schedule chimes in
The chimney sweep preforms rhinoplasty on a bobcat
And sends windup toys to Goodwill
I christen thee, Backwards!
Here, take this seven leaf clover for good luck
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
How can you live with such a negative mind
Only thriving on misery and tales unkind
You wonder why you have such bad luck
When its all Happiness you drain and ****
Your outlook is dark and bleak
No positivity do you seek
Inflicting your woe on all that will listen
Like a plague, sorrow you do christen
Your outlook physically drains me
I have one and only single plea
Is that you seek some positivity
What will it take for you to see
That from the bad comes negativity
No good can come from misery
This is the truth you fail to see.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 4:08 AM UTC
I don't know what Jonas has been preaching,
There's a pigmie on the roof
And claymores in the kitchen.
I never rejected nothing
Cept when I was dazed and dazed and confused and confused
If I wanted to leave
I would use the door I saved for later
That leads out into the void.
I need to take a day away
Or breakdown and watch Casablanca all day long...
Because I thought it was a forever song I was singing,
But I'm out of tune,
And my rheumy eyes are liars,
And I want to christen my great granddaughter
But I'll be dead...
I just wanted my declarations to resound,
But in a town of disrespect
Chain link fences make for noisy neighbors.
I have every bit of it on the line for YOU.
I'll drop it,
But it will stand on end,
Like a trick quarter.
Four in the morning
Forty five caliber bullets blasting
I found myself in the backseat
Of a burned up police car.
Every thing is rotten,
Except the infantine seamstress
Who doesn't come out anymore,
Because you scar(r)ed her.
I just wish I could eat a bag of salt brine soaked
Ballpark peanuts, shells and all without having a **** stroke.
I wish I could, smoke, without Jiminy Cricket, calling my doctor,
And the red squad arriving with the straight jackets,
And the bear mace.
I can't project the rigght radiation,
I get that, but its not for lack of dying.
So this is my death letter, to be read to my reincarnated infant self
Twenty three times, by twenty four different people,
I want a life size wax model of Eeivel Keneival
To throw rice at me thrice
Once for each marriage,
But on the third throw wild rice
Because that is what I think of when I think of you.
The burglar ate my begging strips
And the ravenous dog
Is getting impatient....
I've seen the truth in the darkness of the soldier core.
Why not open the gate to abracadabra land,
Give me a list of your one thousand forms
In code of course,
And I will pay the piper
So he can finally change this doggone song.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
“I have something for you to remember me by,” said Tim.
He held a little foam Hippo – the lone play animal supplied by the loonybin to patients in need.
It was brand new – just as every Hippo looked – and I wondered why he’d chosen something seemingly impersonal in comparison to his other, odd gifts.
However, what he did next made his hippo – my hippo – absolutely ideal. To people like Tim and I, that is.
For, to my astonishment, he casually took the toy in his hands, twisted, and ripped it cleanly in two.
He ripped off its head, which he gave to me, whilst he kept the body.
I will never get rid of that mutilated, foam hippo head. For he understood what no one else had ever come near.
In this way – perhaps – Tim and I became synonyms. Synonyms for what ignorant perceptions would later christen ****** or merely, crazy (the latter - coined by those who remain too depressingly colloquial to invent unfounded diagnoses).
These epithets, catalyzed post personifying such societal taboos as Tim or I committed, follow me still, and have yet to disperse.
A criticaster disaster, personified.
Yes; in this way – Tim and I became synonymously insane.
•
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
The *** stood stars on end, so to,
whispered, “play with me,” and in
haste we fled. We explored,
discovered, and devised something
bright, half something else sinister,
notarized – black roots pinned a
pink-scorched Mohawk, and
reciprocated, my wild “Mao-Mao,”
or so she’d named the hair on my
arms. The moon endured whilst we
knifed each other with each and
every gasp and sutured wounds left
prior lovers. I’d only come across
her name near the end, “Xiaolian,”
though the tattoo ‘top her leg, told
me, “Lola.” Come what mothers
christen us innocent would be a
poems in and of themselves,
addendum, the delirium aged and the
dance of neon atop our waterfall
soaked bodies - epic.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
And the chapped sun-baked tire
swung on the aged and frail rope attached to the most outright branch
of the sheltersome oak tree by the carved up picnic bench.
Children fought for such a throne on warm summer days,
Not many cared for clawing and snatching in attaining it,
But it was a necessary fight in those days.
Once they sat in their highest place and swung to the skies,
All they could see was the wind-ridden flow of treetops
rustling and swaying, creating nature’s static,
This why they fought,
This is why only the battered
and bruised cooled their cuts with forest breeze.
It broke one day,
after being a shelter in storming youth,
Charles Ferger snapped the rope
on a smooth swing to reach the sky.
They knew the clock was counting down
and no one could see how much time was left,
but they still hated Charles for being the one it broke on.
It wasn’t his fault, and they knew it,
but they had to blame someone.
No one ventured to it for the first few weeks,
The sight of it only reopened healing wounds.
At a certain point, years later, after the kids
had gone to high school, it was fixed.
No one knew who fixed it or when,
since the kids still went out there once in a while
to drink some nights and have campfires,
but they were glad it was fixed,
then news of the resurrection spread.
And on one MLK day,
no one remembers which,
they had a bonfire and swung as high as they could
to christen it back to its precious worn state once more,
fighting over it with the intentional caution they
used to use when wrestling for the uninhibited freedom
that in lay dormant in the crusty black tire swing.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
Dad had dragons in his cigarette smoke,
and hummed to dog tags jingling like wind chimes.
Mom has excuses titled “college textbooks”,
and burned her problems over the kitchen sink.
The war ended, dragons went extinct
and the class of 03’ moved on.
Now I christen the silence with Ozzy era Sabbath,
and fill the empty beds with perishables
to rot with me in the teenage years.
You strangle me with your eyes,
and I sweep our past under the bed.
My heart wanders from room to room.
The prisoners of war jump out the windows,
falling like the day’s hundred follicles.
The parachute men die at the hands of their lovers,
with slurs as theirs last words.
I spend dim lit days waiting for the permanent
to change its mind to temporary.
I wait a year to exhale,
I wait two to heal,
and I wait many more for you.
All because I’m scared by the thought of things expiring,
but my greatest fear is to be alone with the rotting.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Before this ardent Prank you consider
Concern your Senses on how they'll react
If, with Plomb expressed, breach this Barker
To demote his Heresy into Fact
Of course, seldom would we fancy such scene
And kiss Companion we will christen Hope
Which, by your Rights thereof, absorb such Mean
Then ferry those Weights as a New Year's Dope
It is a Being. Sentient as he
Whose Cuteness reimbursed his Nature make
Which, invest his uttermost Respect be
Will his Innocence and Comfort bespake.
Humour cures. In this Shaky World indeed
To sew its Scars; Promote Contempt at speed.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
No one ever looks up
unless they're desperate for someone
to be looking down.
From a secular point of view,
the blue resembles passive disappointment,
while ******** clad oaks scream at business on the sidewalks.
Five-hundred dollar spectacles don't christen sin-wrought oxygen,
pure, spring water is perfect as the grey sog seeping from the seams,
benevolent ******* makes every trouble white sand
and iPhones can only do so much for a borrowed morality.
Bright eyes fade with the morning wind.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
I did not know that poetry has rules.
‘Tis not a craft for ordinary fools.
Those, that form and meter never master,
Are ever doomed; they are the poetasters.
As opera singers, out of tune, do make
Discerning listeners do a double-take,
And chefs, who sprinkle salt instead of sweet,
Serve meals that connoisseurs would never eat;
A writer with a wretched poet’s curse
Will never craft a great Heroic Verse.
So as I count my syllables and feet,
And wonder if my metaphors will meet,
I pray that hypermetrics are okay,
(For I have used a few of them today,)
I’ll leave the verdict, reader, up to you,
Affirm that to my mission, I’ve been true,
Or if the ending to my verse bathetic
Christen me a poet most pathetic.
Heroic Lines in Couplets, I intended;
Judge me, reader, now this verse has ended.
Phil Lindsey 12/24/15
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Shut up
why do you let them get to you
I'm sorry but they don't speak the truth
I'm not in love with you
Yeah so, you looked me up
You figured it out
My past
The underground star
that was never put to rest
Simply because no one would let me
The Girl born as a quadruplet
The heir of a famous Dance Academy
The girl who wrote choreography by the age of five
Before she could even spell her name
The same girl's grandmother who died on her birthday from cancer
the same girl who moved away
to a place where they could never find me
The place were only one who knew the real me
Were best friend now
Although they were destined to find me
Once I became published again
For my illness
My parents fatal accidents
The death of my bother Christen
Another brother who went to war
And justifying school systems in our town
So once again living in a shadow of an untold mess
no one will let me rest
But you weren't to certain about one thing
You were afraid to ask
What happened to him?
He also died.
He was 13 and I was 14
He was the only person I have known since birth
We had one of those little kid relationships
We didnt know what we were doing
We thought holding hands would make a baby
Well...At least he did.
I guess you could 7 years.
only 1 year 11 months and 8 days
Just like the others you wont let me rest
I'm sorry
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
Cannibalistic are the teeth jagged in curl and grin. They grip fastened between gums of grime and sin. They prey leeched to toys strung under webs so few. My fingers creeped between their eyes so suffice and blind.
Like storms choked in stark sky and drying rain, my views christen and bloom. Eyes bleached gold, lavish the corners donning streets and side shop. I myself lark on apartment edges and strewn roof tops, balancing death and door bells along my crooked spine. Wide faces swirl in faded lights along morbid streets blazed in night. They the oh so happy and innocent leech the drinks and sway the narcotics. Hand on breath, tongue on tip. It’s so heart full to stare from the roofs so grimaced.
All words muddled in dread, lick their rosy lips, as stare catches the late night shift. All the blossomed couples curl and constrict in arms so selfish I must keep edges sharp and dull in bliss. Balance sways in dim, darkest are the days flattering night and cursing day. I wait amongst the walls above wavering innocence to demand. I shift on roofs so frail and wary that life seeks no bounds as the heights do not scare me. I will slip feudal in their creviced minds, but merely of pity to all their credible crimes. Here the world cries and here the cannibal lies. I break to be broken, but never to die, only to fall within the world’s eye.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
On a dark and stormy night,
I was born out of a place without any lights
A nurse and doctor looked at me less
More than they'd expect a child to fix a world—yet being a mess
The clouds were heavy, heaven was empty
And I tricked myself that it was because the Lord had sent me
An angel was with me, but still with a devil within me
Question of sin by a seed, growing like a black willow tree
I was born a writer; with no right to be inspiring
In spite of things, my desire is to speak all the right things
To say you'd stack your success in columns
Sort of feels common; knowledge to mind
All your steps, like you have mind powers
Less successful in the things I did, all uneventful
Quite dreadful, of a sucky life with a hint of menthol
These opinions put over my head all affect my mental
Deep pressed, feeling the pressures of always being depressed
So hard to wear your heart on sleeves, when you wear a vest
With this self opposition, and man's superiority competition
Sometimes forgetting you're Christian, and it's composition
With all the respect for all our women, their first time christen
And with the guidance of someone else's wisdom
To avoid all those mistakes, and repetition
Who else do I need to show respect, for respect back
For being young comes with baggage your adult self will
have to unpack. Getting kicked in your past,
For wanting to kickback and relax;
As you've never completed a difficult task
That an adult never had the time to ask or surpass
That was my childhood, putting me in a foul mood
And life's birds of prey looked at me as child food
Still growing in a pretty beating moment, and it empowers
Because I wouldn't be me without reminiscing on my
hearts and flowers.
Dec 29, 2022
Dec 29, 2022 at 8:52 PM UTC
if i had the poetry to tell you how soft i am in hot bubbles
i could drive you mad
the combination of my prepackaged scents would make you curse
like they used to
for that one boy
whom i have willfully discarded
if you did not have the imagination
i would show you
and christen your forehead
with fig and blood orange
if you cannot reach my tousled wet head,
if you cannot not kiss my freckled shoulders,
if you cannot not put your arms around
my soft, bathwater waist
i should not tell you
that you could
no one
likes a tease
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
It's not hunger for flesh to matter,
glucose and life.
It's a feasting pain for soul,
it's emptiness between ribs,
lungs torn in fold.
Christen me a black hole,
cardiac's no response to a dead soul,
ghosts haven't a say.
please it's no compatibility
please me with fangs,
fashion thistles and ripping implements,
non-human descends always to the fiendish of gruesomeness,
bloodless and monstrous.
Haven't a prayer,
haven't a soul,
haven't got a vessel to scream
wretchedly home.
It's best to let demons lie,
let spirits die,
burn out our dying phantom cries.
It's to feed the slaughtered
with platters of blades and bullet shrapnel,
ghosts give,
ghosts speak,
ghosts don't truly wish for a living peace.
Please may we take a taste of rifle barrel,
please just a second helping of buck shot
and spoiled brain splatter.
Bless what we become,
all ghosts eventually become undone.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
Figure a trigger
pictured fingers
scratch the brain
pick it **** exposed;
********** minds only craving one more dime.
Insane
vein blade
neck noose
she drinks some to feel loose.
creeping
convulsions
chills christen me a martyr
King of the opiophiles
Christ of the smackheads
Conquering coconaut
Hero to heroinites
Majesty of the methodonians
Glitches in systems revolving
rebel against or kiss them
Ring the bell to bring out the MOB and roll your future to face the dice
who are they ask for advice?
You draw towards these demons while behind you attempt to bask
a mask
Cody raises a flask of poison resentful regrets
Brody the roadie is always on the move
that ****** basement edm dub scene sure did become crass
which only leaves you, alone to groove
and we drink my flask our flask and bask in romance and death
Sorry Sir that you asked…but wait I have one more thought before the session reaches the inevitable conclusive aspect. Listen to my
Unexplained Law
Of
Academic actualizations
Basic casualization
Capital causes compound connections only resulting in casualty
I am orbiting you
Blazing comet
A simple sultry satellite
cold convoluted
Sad
at my farthest reaching far flung Aphelion
Warming and safe at my closest approach to You
Blazing life bringer
Holy holy holy art thou oh Eye of all
Allow me to forever remain at Perihelion
The laws of Keplar could not keep us from colliding
in the end
fire
will be all dividing
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Found my slice of paradise on the southern coast today.
Although I felt ill prepared at first: cycling in my climbing shoes (the only shoes I found tossed in my car),
no helmet, and nothing but a large body of salt water at the end of the trail to quench my thirst for refreshment,
perhaps what I was most unprepared for was this small patch of sand I stumbled across at the edge of the lagoon, much unlike the pristine white sandy beaches with ******** clad women that embody San Diego County, this slice of shoreline is squeezed by a motel parking lot to the north and tightly packed condos to the south and seems rugged and uncombed, like an abandoned lot the city had intended to develop before the recession but instead left it to sit, collecting seaweed and mangy seagulls.
Slightly windy, home to an unwelcoming rip current, and the view of the freeway not far behind me, this was paradise. My unkempt paradise.
Although a few scattered families littered the sand, who somehow felt like intruders to a secret jewel I had just discovered, I still felt that this was my new patch of sanity. I felt a strong urge to keep it a protected secret matched with a sense of pride in finding it and the desire to share this hidden sense of serenity with all my friends on the central coast; bring them here to christen it with the free-spirited energy I had unwillingly left behind.
But instead I left that decision for another day, rolled out my yoga mat I had haphazardly strapped to my back, and started my Vinyasa flow with a view of the Pacific Ocean; a sputtering plane engine was my mental Sanskrit, the tide my metronome for breath.
Even the stares of my fellow beach-dwellers wouldn’t deter me from this spot. I had left my mark near the lifeguard tower, a skinny path from my tires and a rectangular imprint of my mat that said: I'll be back. Perhaps what sealed the deal was the sign I passed as I pedaled away: Bicycle Friendly Community. Yep, maybe this could be a home away from SLO.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 2:05 AM UTC
I love mountains, and the deep sea
but I love you, above all these
you are my mountain.
you are foggy, you are cold, unchartered terrain
how come i can see you, and traverse across
your deep brown eyes and the soft glaciers
which are your lips
you are colossal, you are vast
but i envelope you, and you are enmeshed in me
i spread myself thinly across you,
protective, in love, protective.
protective. so FUCKKING in love.
I love mountains, and the deep sea
but I love you, above all these
you are the deep sea.
i want to drown in you and all your enigmas
i want to swim gingerly to your whirlpool
YOU WILL ENGULF ME
i want to christen you
with balmy, muffled kisses
with gentle caresses
i will ENGULF YOU
and i will skim across your surface just as the
tension breaks
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
The winter here is proper,
not like the weak attempts
of childhood.
I put on one of my father's old records,
and sinkdrown
into the swirl
of old memories -
the scent of oil and wood
his workshop
the musicdrone of cicada's
(that signaled the arrival of hot summer sweat and slick)
the scent of musk mixed with coffee grinds
and bodyperfume made sick with wine.
Old roofs
in the distance -
redwashed and orange
by the blood of a dying sun,
trickle blue smoke
from the mouth of an ancient-
Baal of cold nights
Suburban Moloch.
Hands are turned palecold.
Dove's once ,
dexterous fish now -
white and roasting
on the hot whisper
from a cup of coffee,
sometimes they
(mechanically or artfully)
invoke the means
to my own blue trickle.
A time machine
to that junkyard of stolen moments
we christen "memory".
Yet the sun still bleeds
and the sky is cauterised
by it's sacrifice.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
my brain and my mind
bemuse my soul of its hole
make me look and it took
every chance of significance
do I ask or do I mask
to decide the inside?
flavor or fervor
compare or contrast
order or ardor
the first or the last
wrong or strong
right or tight
completed or depleted
the night or the light
listen or christen
painting or fainting
sarcasm or ******
feeling or failing
hang or bang
sore or soar
blade or aid
less or more
to slice or to rise
to pry or to fly
to live or to leave
to die or to try
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:41 AM UTC
Sweet silence tamed the breeze
With brisk of pale scathed blue
Granulated through the air
And set my mood
These days before the autumn
Where I have learned to carry
Peddle on and set the marks
Towards all and in whom I choose to pace my care
Frayed I feel my cuffs
Right on the edge
Swaying synchronized within the breeze
And too my steps are fluid
Almost dancing on the seconds
I'm alive to swing my skip
Un-mindingly by abandon houses
Built and raised on my life's road
This memory lane
I am a sail of seasons changing
Autumn winds a fuel cascading forward my vessel
Over known oceans of remorse
What sorrow deepest I had formed beneath the hull
Now act a platforms, open highways to the east
Of our sun rising on a woken world
In active motion to fulfill
What we know must be done
Now here to reach
What loving hands may greet you
Know me in prevail sailing on today
And when assembles evening
Just as eyes fix darker shades
Upon a world that with me swoons in pleasure
I would see a night time soon to rest me
After all has been appreciated
No single point or high
Our autumn is approaching
With life's true care
Reaching out from my truthful eyes
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC