"concubines" poems
The ******
They say that beauty is in the eyes of the
beholder, however the ******
is a gold mine.
Women do not even know
what their possess
many a nation have gone to war,
because of this ugly beauty,
the seven hundred wives of
King Solomon and his three
hundred concubines
a great example of what
the ugly beauty can do.
Infidelity is on the rise,
so many lies,
since the ****** is an embarassing subject
why men lie and killed for it,
For this remarkable commodity
A ****** is like a Van Gogh painting,
it gets lot of attention.
A weapon so powerful
It can break a man down to his lowest
it has a language of its own.
silly words like sup, sup, sup. during loving making
However, that was supposed to be the primary appeal
of a beer to men.
The ****** and a beer have so much in common
they both get their men all the time,
a smooth transportation,
in addition, the lamentation,
****** you are surely number one!
Men incredible dreams,
No matter how destructive or fulfilling,.
.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 3:23 PM UTC
a love poem, of new & old,
why I am the summer-man!^
summer is winding down,
sky’s multi blues freezer safe stored in ziplock see thru bags,
marked and named by hue, the where and the when,
so when the eyes finally fail, when the squinting don’t help,
when the good things those good blues aroused,
poems, lush and morning thanks for being alive come-not-at-all,
quite the opposite, these cold blues
may help, to recall why it was worth breathing
summer is winding down,
so am I, the synchrony no accident, time,
the Pharmacy kitchen calendar
claiming another victim, willing or not,
those cars and the blue eyed models,
are now but blurred wishes and hopes, even these words, spoken,
not finger scribed, for the keyboard a
jumbled jungle of alpha-numerical
of confusion hellish and
my sons don’t come to clean up my pathetic messes, sending
their little children, beloved concubines of my heart
the daytime watcher, spanglish her native lingo,
tho single words she’s pretty good at too, but that don’t help much;
the grands, toddlers to pre-teens, the eldest a womanly eight,
tries but soon frustration bored, slips away quiet like
replacing her with her two year old sister, who knows her alphabet
which ain’t an exactly a help, but her five pencils stored^ nearby,
tagged with her name, awaiting her poems, her one true legacy
try to imagine her as a grandmother, farseeing the day when she
occupied this too too hard to-get-out-of-by-myself “easy” chair,
making rhymes with her next-next generational descendants,
faint remembering the silliness sorcery that I secreted in her brain;
zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo,
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes, gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!
which she acts out with giggles galore,
adding a teacup embellishment,
a creme fraiche pearly teeth smile topping,
the day watcher agrees, verrry verrry funny,
but time to me *** and take a needed morning *****
no poppy! no poppy! no poppy!
no nap, no *** no *****
thinking the call out is for her,
stomping her feet in an alternating rhythm and rhymes
I, happy poppy, ecstatics drooling out,
foreseeing the rhyme is strong in her,
get wheeled away crinkled and crackling,
*zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!*
a new genre me of gibberish summertime love poems
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
This ***** ******
They say that beauty is in the eyes of the
Beholder, so does this ***** have eyes?
the power of evil and bad,
Today we see what it can do
Many a nation have gone to war,
Because of this ugly beauty,
many family units has been tread apart
Because of its evil doings,
The seven hundred wives of
King Solomon and his three
Hundred concubines was
a great example of what
the ugly beauty can do:
Infidelity is on the rise,
so many lies: so many shortcoming,
Lucy ****** is an embarrassing subject
why men lie and killed for it?
this remarkable commodity: with
****** is like a Van Gogh painting,
It gets lot of attention: the baseline dimensions
is still a mystery: A weapon so powerful
It can break a man down to his lowest
It has a language of its own.
silly words like sup, sup, sup.
the same sound effects of a cold beer going down
the gullets: the smoother, the esophagus: pleasers
The ****** and a beer have so much in common
they both get their men all the time,
a smooth transportation, in addition, the lamentation,
****** you are surely blissful:
Men incredible dreams
who wouldn’t want to own the team?
No matter how destructive or fulfilling:
** Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,
more perfect than all that a man can invent.”
― Roman Payne** Quote
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
I’ll take it as a lesson
Not to play games,
Cuz this ***** got me guessin
Whether I am or not sane,
Or whether this mess is
Because of my brain
Or because those
Doing the messing
Aren’t true to their names,
Or maybe they are,
**** it, either way
I go to the bar
To slam scotch in my veins
And watch as the cars
Circle in the drain.
These people believe they’re driving forward
But they’re going in circles,
Forever toward
The singularity.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:36 PM UTC
The continuous pondering of life after death has recently plagued our existence
This might be a hindrance for our previously unfailing pious persistence
Thoughts arise that cause an imbalance in the tumultuous mind
Free you, they might, of the pacts into which you yourself do bind
Magnanimous flatulence shall reign unbridled upon the fields of plenty
But the door to unanimous qunatipulation shall come unhinged on the count of twenty
Promiscuity leads to a mind frame disgusted by a joyous initiation
Humongous amounts of gelatinous goo shall be written off as depreciation
Pig tails and concubines disperse with molecular ease
While the dead paperweights converse heatedly in Cantonese
May these words sit upon you, heavy as the dark interstellar skies
May your brain be confounded, let no infallible logic suffice
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
On my bed night after night I
sought him who my soul loves, I sought him
but did not find him...
I sought this morning
a handful of domestic tools.
I raked, I shoveled, I let fly
a gust from my mighty
two-stroke gas blower, which
shuddered to death in my hands,
before all of the leaves reached
the end of the ******* driveway.
I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem
that you do not awake my love until
the motor has had a chance to cool off,
or you might flood the engine.
David was anointed with the
oil of myrrh and cassia. My wrists
are caked in Havoline from
1998. Solomon ate banquets,
loved Sheba, three hundred
concubines and boats of perfumed wood.
Ramen at lunchtime. Sixty yards of two-by-fours.
If I never resemble a king,
let me sup of television dinners
let me work my hands in the valleys
of a clogged fuel line, let my bed
fill with the twin odalisques of
leisure reading and ***** sheets,
and give me never three hundred concubines.
And if I go about the city at night,
pleading with the watchmen, have they seen
she who my soul loves, let them answer:
"There."
The driveway is clean, now,
all the leaves left at the end to rot,
or be swept away.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
Then I heard from a passing auto, with a Sirius
half-mile bleed in the dry desert air, A guru
I recognized, saying... of tamed earthlings
they and those who inform them, do
become
Too constipated about every thing,
swallowing yesteryears whole,
unchewed, and set to
digest the whole truth,
- Moses or Valis - sortasame
- Big Gulp
then tell it, as you will, no ****
You are mortal, you cannnot not
gnoshit smells stinky,
nogood stinky,
mmgood insinct, too, scent
of a wombed
mind, crying more, more, more,
can you imagine,
poor Solomon, surrounded
by wives and concubines', praying
together, thy kingdom,
come in me,
let me bher the child to stomp
the accusering head,
let my barren womb bloom…
- the child serpent wise
- dove harmless,
- let it be me
yeh, song of solo,mon,
makes no carnal minded sense,
who ever took the time,
to compose those lines,
wished ever to know, once
a fluid mind rose into the ever was,
and saw too many told tells to retell,
how dude, did you guess?
- got a clue from sadhu, guru
Guess what.
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
Children,
all of me was all for you,
from towers I commended,
from basement I sympathized,
and god,
how I find all of me,
missing all your adoring stares.
I stood by,
I watched your birth in the garden
all those years ago,
and how your cries floated to heaven,
and how heaven answered with meadowlarks,
I handed you the apple,
I kissed your brow,
you would coo and grasp my coat,
I felt love, you felt vital.
I waged war,
with all the saints and arthouse critics.
We drank their blood by the moon
and our temperate speech
did flow from the fount,
under the table we were,
grew we did,
proper adolesence looking for
classical supremacy.
And Children,
I know the darkness was always creeping,
crippling every satellite, every sandy shoreline,
withering us in mirror,
you asked if the tide could claim us,
I patted your shoulder,
kissed your hand,
there is no enemy capable of victory,
oh, how the prophets betrayed me.
When your compliance was absolute,
when our neighbors pledged allegiance,
when I crushed the throats of Solomon, Gilgamesh, and
the sons of Zeus,
leagues made banners,
few made poison.
I gave you slaves,
girls, and sport.
I gave you a voice,
blankets, and victims.
The crowd and chants,
my pride and concubines,
the grass never faded,
nor the flowers wilted.
Children,
why did the publications turn against me?
I erased the existence of all you wanted dead,
I gave you dreams,
I gave plenty to sup,
plenty to remain drunk,
Children,
why did the prophets lie to me?
The priests carried daggers,
preyed upon me,
prayed for my passing-by,
the stares were there,
empty of adoration,
only hungry for my sacred blood.
I watched seas of my own,
pull down every cast,
my form laid to waste
on the streets I built under your feet.
My royal guards
chained my hands,
I could only stare at my blue veins,
my royal guards,
dragged my feet,
and in the senate they made me watch,
as my record was blotted out.
As the sun set,
the streets were lit
by effigy.
As the sun set,
I found myself in
the garden.
I stood straight,
back to a stake,
all eyes on me,
all shouts for me,
all the rage,
effigy, effigy,
they poured pitch at my feet,
they said prayers and incantations,
the flowers were in full bloom,
and the sound of buzzing flies buried
the cries.
I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Now history's vapor,
I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 11:13 AM UTC
Aphrodite, Xochiquetzal, Vénus, Ishtar, Astarté !
Oxum, Inanna, Erzulie Freda
Mes muses en Kâlî polycéphale réunies,
Venez vous ébattre et débattre avec moi !
Et vêtez le masque des savantes hétaïres,
Des nagaravadhu, des femmes matadore
Des tayu, des ahuianime, des harots
Et autres courtisanes de lumière,
Rhétoriciennes scandaleuses d'antan,
Pour m'initier à l'Intime quintessence
Des mystères de vos fils Kama, Eros, Cupidon.
J'ai choisi pour vous, les Immortelles,
La tenue mortelle des Métèques :
Entre Shamhat, la Joyeuse sumérienne
Amrapali , Vasantasena,
Basaui, Kulika, les tantriques
Shinano, Sakura et Bunsui
Diotime, prêtresse Mantinéote
Aspasie, la belle Milésienne,
Omphale, la Lydienne qui domina Hercule,
Lasthénéia, Nicarété, les grandes maquerelles,
Phryné, de son vrai nom Mnésarétè, la demoiselle,
La pudibonde muse de Praxitèle,
Puis encore Thargélia, qui devint reine
Impéria qui vécut en beauté pendant vingt-six ans et douze jours
Veronica, Lamia, Nééra,
Laïs qui vous dédia son miroir,
Toutes érudites catins de haute volée,
Porte-paroles d'Eros,
Indomptables et puissantes concubines
D'amour et d'intelligence,
Je ne peux décider
Avec qui convoler au Banquet des Sophistes ?
Certaines m'enflamment la chair
D'autres l'esprit et l 'âme
Et pour toutes cependant sans exception
Je bande d'égale vigueur.
"Amour, ont assuré ces maîtresses
Au disciple fervent que je suis,
N 'est ni divin ni humain
Ni beau ni laid
Ni bon ni méchant
Amour est un démon, un sorcier
Un magicien, un entremetteur...
Si j 'en crois ces rhétoriciennes,
Honorer l 'Amour
C'est désirer le Beau, assouvir
L 'impérissable désir d'immortalité.
On aime car on engendre
On aime car on féconde
On aime car on se reproduit
Pour les siècles des siècles.
Et c'est Ilithyie qui nous accouche
et nous délivre de la mortalité par la conception et l'enfantement.
Le Beau est éternel
Ce n'est pas un Beau physique
Mais métaphysique
Qu 'il nous faut reproduire
Par des joutes sensuelles
Pour tendre vers l 'immortalité.
Fécondez-moi donc et en honorant la courtisane,
La Métèque, qui vibre sous chacun de vos masques
J 'honore l 'Amour à travers vous,
Mes Etrangères,
Peu importe si mon amour est socratique,
Aristotélicien, platonique ou épicurien
Pour peu que j 'accouche de mes pensées lubriques.
Et si je meurs en couches
Qu'on me célèbre à travers tous vos panthéons
Comme le plus valeureux des guerriers !
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:17 AM UTC
Long and Long I waited, endlessly, for you
Far and Far I ventured, maddingly, for you
To the deepest depths of Styx, I ****** myself for you
To the paramount peaks of Blue, I ascended high for you
O, my soul! Your radiance bewilders me
I sought for you among the trees
Dressed in majestic silky fleece
I sought for you among the insects
Adorned with ornamental trinkets
I sought for you among the beasts
With your lips purer than priests
I sought for you among the runes
Hair fragranced by jovial Junes
I sought for you among the humans,
For You, I searched the frigid south,
For You, I searched the turbulent north
For You, I searched the scornful west.
For You, I searched the pitiful east
But with mournful tears,
I found you saddened
I found you wounded
I found you chained
I found you condemned
I found you abandoned
(Your torn fleece
Your broken ornaments
Your scarred lips
Your tousled hair
Your teary eyes
Sears my heart)
Yet your presence soothes your oppressors?
Yet your heart trusts their successors?
O heinous concubines of pride
Why do you strangle my bride?
Why persecute my bride?
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC
You tasted marzipan on her lips
but you wanted the steadfast of Marchepan,
a fuller denser taste
already the deceit ran through your veins.
The Night keepers have moments
with their concubines,
and there lay the rub.
Your betrothed only smiled
in half uncertainty.
The Grapes you feasted on
swelled your eyes,
receding hopes
chasten powers,
having played with grief
to shore some unrequited resentment
you withdrew.
The beast of envy has scorned sanity
to improve his venture.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
Hah, yeah, I get on those kicks all the time, I say.
Yeah, it's like, you know, yeah?
Yeah. I nod. The party isn't over yet.
You're not getting, like, you know, huh?
No. No, not at all, I say.
Sure, yeah, you wanna, hmm?
Yeah, I guess so, whisper.
Takes my hand in my head puts acid mouth tongue.
So, you, yeah, and me?
Nod. Whatever.
!
"Mother, won't be home tonight. Tell Pa it's okay to worry,
don't know where I'll be
when I'll be home
Love you."
!
Takes me bedroom hold the fort
*Nice *** hmm, you, yeah?*
You're ****** as we.
Can you tell I'm the goat-footed balloonman?
Cry far and wee for me.
!
"Mother, taking crack-baby home today;
tell Pa it's okay to worry
don't know where I'll be
when I'll be home
Love,"
!
And that was whatever far ago in party temple-house
of Solomon and concubines.
Yeah, it's like, brainwave, chemical fire, no?
No, I.
whisper.
No, not at all. (Ofcoursenot.) -----!
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Shocks of ecstasy arouses
My demurring face as a camel
Walking into the storm of desert
The undulating paths swing in agony
As we embraced the brim of Niger sea
The journey to the point of no return
Gnarled us and crooked us in a shackles
Of chained poverty and shared corruption
Locked in a **** of one man's handbags
We still imbue courage as we walk
On the greenish infertile land
Control by family, friends and concubines
Woe to our stool of mystery
As we hope the secret of better life
relies on a selected messiah
It is I, it is we and it is you
That must prevail to slaughter
What imprison us
With a cast of casking ***
The long queues of twenty nineteen
Where our drunken journey ends
Written by
Martin Ijir
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
Corporate ****** and Concubines
The devil wears a black suit
It's a Rich mans game of chess
There is fluoride in your water
Chemtrails in the air
Cancer in your body
And yet most dont care
A life of lies
Dead horse
and
Flies
Let's watch the news
Lap up what the television spews
And we all die
Ignorant fools
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 8:44 AM UTC
What a wonderful creature
That have made my world to look like gold in the midst of diamonds
Just like an apple tree among the trees of the forest.
Your hair is beautiful upon your cheeks and falls down along your neck like jewels.
You are like a drove that hides in the crevice of a rock with a lovely face and enchanting voice.
Your eyes are as beautiful as a dove by a flowing brook, which made me to keep running over the mountains,racing across the hills to meet you.
You are as graceful as a palm tree, and your breast are cluster of date.
The curve of your thighs is like the work of an artist, that all women look at you and sing your praise,queens,kings and concubines sing your praise.
Your cheek is as lovely as a garden full of herbs and spices,that your body could hold a king captive.
Your breath is like the fragrance of apples and your mouth is like the finest wine.
Oh my girl
Your love is as powerful as death.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Dear Poetry,
Please be gentle.
I’ve admired you for years, and despite all of my tears, I’ll never forget the way you caressed my heart. Warming it and patching it word by word and verse by verse.
But this will be my first, and this is not very well rehearsed,
So
Dear Poetry,
be gentle.
Let me stumble and tumble through the first and second lines but don’t run towards the concubines just yet.
There’s hope for us right?
Dear poetry, don’t go so quickly.
Come sit with me by the window and tell me what way the wind blows.
Whisper to my soul all the things I need to know.
Lift my hair with your metaphors and beat a rhythm so deep I have to feel my heart beat to know I’m alive, because you -
you are the only thing that makes me unique. I can weave through words and sing the similes until I get too dizzy, and when I look up, there’s no eyes I can’t meet.
Dear Poetry,
be mine.
Let’s sit in the grass and laugh on our backs
Let’s wade through the creek bed and read thoughts in my head,
Let’s skip like my heart when he played his part.
Let’s drown scorned love with ciders in a pub.
Let’s be silly and really, really- -
Dear Poetry,
I’ll be at your door every day. Waiting for a hint, a taste, of what to say.
Line by line I’ll build you a castle, stanza by stanza add a rung to the ladder, and poem by poem I’ll make us stronger until I can no longer see the ground and all we have is bound-
Dear Poetry,
Let’s do this again sometime.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
only among poetry do you feel so
guilty having written much and read so little;
then come the chances to appreciate other genres,
and having appreciated such genres, become
all too willing to change
the genre of your expression
into something worth attention
when none was required;
such is poetry, an art of beatified
speech where there was none
to begin with;
and where adequate reading was enjoyed,
no other arithmetic of adequacy
was expressed, given the tongue's
complications of usage, i.e.
no beauty ***** joining him
for a scene at the opera, blah ha;
no tsar that met him ever left talking
about him with a feeling of jealousy -
the concert of concubines
and the nagging of the tsarina to keep up
appearances:
now watch the nagging darwin in me
with a monkey's face doing the juggling act
of ooh ooh oh ooh for the mouth's
shaping into a protruding of lips awaiting a trumpet!
blows a desire of the many sires, and hence the shipwreck
of the aristocratic hearts gathered into a populace
of a little city without silverware and serf hands
providing the chess moves of moveable silverware
for entrée, main and dessert of edibles macaroons: ah those
feasting eyes and corsets... how eager the scythe in hands
that sweated for the eyes to be so tearful and yet unsatiated
at a table of candlelight and ahem aha manners of using napkins;
i'll concern myself with courtesy when i'm able
to express myself in saxon or bavarian:
burping after a carbonated drink at the table drank...
and indeed i'll ease out a **** on my way out from
the splendour to an applause: without a necessary crescendo
of my own undoing!
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
Lit up cleverly with a
romantic light
each morning
presents itself,so well,
as if it's a begining
with a winning streak.
Innocence, the mood
that prevails here, makes
it look anything is possible.
A witness, he loses in his
stream of thought
looking at the children
playing with the speckled
pool of light seeping
through the leaves
of careless tall trees.
Comes noon spitting fire,
with his waves of heat
the legacy of an angry
scorching sun, stuns
all the children by now
are hiding somewhere.
At the sedated hours
of sluggish after noon
the narration in yellow,
takes a different pace.
It's the designated
time zone for
the siesta to happen,
the evil hours of libertines too
to go gently knocking on the
doors of their concubines,
safely away from the snooping
eyes of wives who have
kept awake keeping
the brood together fighting
against the vagaries of
winds that make or
flatten sand dunes.
Few ones, among them
amidst contemplation after
furtive, furious **********
take counts over and over again
from all ends and see
karma's boomerang awaiting,
across the bend of time.
Repentance and the such
are the next,as sun goes down.
Evening has a tendency to let go,
tendency to say good bye, easily
against a hurriedly assembled
stage properties of evening sky.
It's a caricature of what the day did
In her black, hooded cloak
night advances,crying aloud:
"Don't delay any more, it's time
surrender to the army of occupation"
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 8:11 AM UTC
Small Colorado mountain library
Had too many books, I guess
And was selling them, a bag for a buck
So I threw a handful in a bag
I wanted to read
But also, some fifteen cent gambles
Which happened to include
"The White Pony: An Anthology
Of Chinese Poetry" 1947
A compilation of poems
Translated into English
Some brilliant
Some three thousand years old
Or older
(No one seems to know)
Some notes in the margins
And underlined by a previous owner
(Also brilliant)
And this fifteen cent investment
Is opening a world of old masters
Who can speak to me
From their world of wars
Concubines and starvation
To my domestic modernity
With ease
With celebration
Of life's simple things
These are not foreign souls
Masters, yes
But utterly relatable
From their quiet reflections and virtues
Under the peach blossom tree
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
-------- tea and Sisyphus
Bruno paused, at his interface
with the printable word form,
he paused thinking in writing
"this is so important, I must underline it."
I thought it, of first importance.
The concept of all fruits freely eaten from,
but one, knowledge, right of all sorts,
all species fruit, branch, root and leaf,
all intervvining chthonic molds to make soil,
goodgottamight jus' gimme a blackland farm.
let ol' pharoah done be drownded
goodgottamighty , oh yah,
jus' gimme a blackland farm.
Science, long now, sudden
eruptions of just too much to think about,
like the size of the Earth in his hands,
relative to the post JWST visualizations we share,
bring it in, too wide, ballein, throw out a thought,
an Earth baseball sized, no problema,
in your hand, your mind hand, your typist hand,
keyboarding second nature, like a callous
on the middle finger
of a scribes writer hand.
Often offered up as proof, see this finger,
this proves I wrote the whole pile crushed,
in the shipping and storage of Ashurbanipal's
collection of books, which Solomon told him,
when they were swapping wives and concubines,
was a vanity and a vexation of the spirit,
But this calloused finger, the mused mind reminds,
this finger proves I came through history,
I did not make history.
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 5:43 PM UTC
**
There are sixty queens and eighty concubines,
and maidens without number.
My dove, my perfect one, is the only one,
the darling of her mother,
flawless to her that bore her,
The maidens saw her and called her happy;
the queens and concubines
also, and they praised her.
Who is this that that looks forth like the dawn
fair as the moon, bright as the sun,
terrible as an army with banners?
**
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
#All is vanity.
(Easy for the king to say
Between concubines . . .)
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 9:50 AM UTC
One day the tears that I've shed will be like the floodgates of heaven to wash away the heavy depression in the face of the youth with so many burdens and no arms to hold them. My scars will be prophetic praise to the One who gave me the opportunity to experience pain in order to translate the feelings of the broken who has no words, no home for their voices. I will carry their hearts just like the Father does. And even when I struggle against the weight, He will pull me back up with His nail-marked hands and no soul shall fall through the holes in the center of his palms. His love will be the anchor of every foul-mouthed sailor treading the seas of destruction. In cabins with their daughters and their mothers, their wives and concubines, hope will shine at the break of dawn through compasses that turn away from the south end of the spectrum; "your sins are as far from you as the east is from the west." No more tears will be shed for the lives who have chosen a life without a Saviour; "for anyone who is in Me is now a new creation." Victory is up for the taking for those who want it. The journey is long and hard as the road is treacherous, it stops for no one and no one dares to take a second look. Go forward, go north, find a man without a sword but a heart of gold. Follow Him; "take up your cross", stare straight ahead of you, keep your eyes on the goal. "Run your race and finish it with grace." Pull others along with you without breaking your gaze and show them the way, the truth and the light. Find trees for resting and fruits for sharing, for what is borne out of love is what keeps the world turning.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
King Agamemnon raised a wind
When the whole fleet had lain becalmed.
He’d sacrificed, and hadn’t qualmed.
From horror he could not rescind.
His wife has taken the loss badly.
Not even kings can lessen grief,
Or render the bereft relief.
He’d give his life for hers, and gladly.
And jealousy has made it worse.
The girl is a much younger mate,
But looks and youth can’t replicate
A marriage sorrow can’t reverse.
Any captive’s understandably
A little skittish at the first.
They say she’s mad, that she’s been cursed
With visions of the things to be.
Shamans love to peddle threats
And when the worst misfortune hits
They preen like fortune’s favorites.
And they alone have no regrets.
He had refused a wheedling fraud.
And then a bunch of men got sick.
Confronted by a lunatic,
He’d given in, resigned unawed.
A warlord doesn’t quake from fear
Because a foreign princess whines.
Him frightened by his concubines?
The girl’s annoying but sincere.
Jan 31, 2022
Jan 31, 2022 at 12:48 PM UTC