"contrition" poems
1227
My Triumph lasted till the Drums
Had left the Dead alone
And then I dropped my Victory
And chastened stole along
To where the finished Faces
Conclusion turned on me
And then I hated Glory
And wished myself were They.
What is to be is best descried
When it has also been—
Could Prospect taste of Retrospect
The tyrannies of Men
Were Tenderer—diviner
The Transitive toward.
A Bayonet’s contrition
Is nothing to the Dead.
26.5k
and there i am in the midst of it all, conscious of what appears to be existent, yet knowing it is illusory. and if time is occurring synchronously then how can i look back with contrition? for if i have the capacity to move backwards and forwards in quantum leaps, i can erase the past like pastel chalk on an antique blackboard, then start anew. is not the sky my canvas and the arc of the rainbow my palette? and the stars in lustrous luminosity light my way so that ev’n at dusk I can paint. yet pain ne’er ceases to hollow me out. then through a barren vessel i catch more rain, and pour it out upon the parched terrain. just when i thought enlightenment was nigh, a sharp edge is discovered. must it necessitate additional sandpapering from the wind? when will the gemstone sparkle without further pressure? does it lie in its power to simply shimmer sans duress? perhaps it was dazzling at its inception, relinquishing its luster upon domestication. with this proviso, as it nears twilight i shall tarry and blend with the night. i’ll dance with a moonbeam knowing the jewel will glisten afresh upon the rise of the golden sun.
@2016janetaylor
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
MIST CREEPING SLOWLY
The morning found
only blood & feathers.
The fox leaving
only Death
& its presence
& the gossip of the frightened chickens.
My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue
(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .
An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock
crying like a cartoon “cock-a-doodle-do! ”
My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.
“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”
I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a chicken! ”
* * *
All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox
who was clever enough
not to turn up
until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature
she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight
as both it & the fox(shot through the head)
fell dead
at my uncle’s muddied boot.
My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.
His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:
“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”
The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.
I whimpered:
“I sure wouldn’t like to be a fox! ”
The countryside
brutal & Biblical
demanding
a life for a life
Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.
Priest-like...
I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.
My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.
That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck
(the chicken’s name was Patricia)
& I declined the clean
white breast
still haunted
by the chicken & the fox’s
death.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one:
Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot
A constant habit; that when I would not
I change in vows, and in devotion.
As humorous is my contrition
As my profane love, and as soon forgot:
As riddlingly distempered, cold and hot,
As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.
I durst not view heaven yesterday; and today
In prayers and flattering speeches I court God:
Tomorrow I quake with true fear of his rod.
So my devout fits come and go away
Like a fantastic ague; save that here
Those are my best days, when I shake with feare.
5k
stop that.
curtailing the rewards of love
around the softness forming on her face
upon the news, you've broken up
and there's not a chance
of feeling any contrition
because you're all about yourself
most of the time, anyways.
She, wrapped in light and acceptance.
you, in the dark, smelling of bark and river
overnight.
thinking of Her again
stop that.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
It is impossible to compass life without suffering harm
from loved ones.
Wrongs that take the ground from under the feet.
Wrongs that hurt heart through and through.
Wrongs that make us distraught victim.
Does forgiveness immunize us for further injustices?
Does forgiveness soothe suffering?
One thing is certain, everyone has been hurt in life
and everyone once inflicted wound:
betrayal,
selfishness,
criticism,
unjust judgment,
bad word,
emotional abuse,
unfair reward.
Love that bears all things, and endures all things
shows the principle of overcoming evil with good.
We live in times where love is seen as pleasure.
When there is lack of fulfillment the connection ends
instead of support in moments of weakness,
jointly bearing burden,
willingness to give up the ego.
In relations underflow of virtues is worthless.
Every love at some point hurts.
The more we love the greater the suffering.
Remember, that you are also sometimes hard to bear.
One of the most important lessons in life
is non acceptance of evil.
Always we are entitled to protest and defense.
There is a difference between sagacious enduring of injustice
and permition for hard time and humilitation.
Defense against evil should be free from desire
for revenge, hate, wrath, punishment and anger.
Leave vengeance to God.
The point is love. It is she who shows the right path.
The cure for the human pain of injustice is forgiveness.
Man needs time to forgive,
therefore necessary at times of touch of hurt is compassion.
Does forgiveness mean to forget?
No, forgiveness is an act of will not of forgetting.
Great injury can not be erased from memory.
Forgiveness is duty that gives hope and strength for the future.
Forgiveness is the transition from helplessness to peace of heart.
Forgiveness is overcoming anger and grief towards acceptance of reality.
Is forgiveness reconciliation?
No, although it is a quantum leap in the direction of reconciliation.
There is no way to force act of reconciliation.
Forgiveness is one thing,
and to be mature for reconciliation is another thing.
Most important in forgiveness is not to rely
on gesture of compensation.
Some believe that only weak people forgive.
Forgiveness requires tremendous effort and courage.
It is easier to sail away in anger
than creative dialogue which leads to remedy of the situation.
Without forgiveness you can not win
with guilt, abyss of past and human frailties.
Forgiveness is above all priceless gift for yourself.
Forgiveness frees you from inner poisons,
and also opens up new lands.
If we are able to injure,
we are also able to say the sorry and make amends.
Act of contrition allows for a true change of heart.
Act of forgiveness is the bud of heart at peace.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
In this darkest of night
I solemnly lay
Eyes closed in deep contrition
In need of your hearts melody.
My thoughts wandering far and wide
In search of your ardent smile
My heart craving
For your loving eminence.
As your beauty
And sweet spirit fragrance
Flood my heartily realm
My heart leaps to a joyous carol
Gracious precious Grace
Gracious precious Grace
Gracious precious Grace
Is my gladly refrain.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Only if you knew…
How it bleeds inside
The baby born of blood and flesh
Just a hideous beast ruined by time.
Single dame- thousand names
Only if you knew,
How the ice burns my throat
How the wills and wants went cold…
Only if I knew,
What the skies hold for me
I didn’t touch the blade,
But the stains don’t fade away..
Why the contrition of yesterday
Still ****** my soul’s edges
Why the sweet reminiscences,
Still a gloomy haze?
Why the memoirs of divinity
Have turned in immoral disgrace?
Why the reaper can’t sing in its solace?
Thee heart keep running but lost in its pace
Why each passing moment moans for the albatross?
Only if we knew…
The curiosities of life
And anxieties open and wide
Don’t stop the eyes
Now open and searching life
Taking my chances,
Hiding my grievances
I risk the curve
Once was jilted and deserted from love
I bask in the glow, soak in the sun
Step out of the low
The Satan takes no pity
Leaves the beast with an impaired heart
Now the eyes are shut, the dark creeps in
The clouds come and lo! they win
The stars now astray in a veiled sky
Feeble and faint
Again leave the beast forsaken
But animal instincts they call it
It strives again..
Only if you knew…
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
Look at all the parrots--
Parroting the words
Of all the other parrots--
Of all the other birds--
Parroting profusely
All the same refrains--
Parroting the constant patter
In their parrot brains--
Parroting the preaching
From the pulpit to the pews--
Parroting their parents'
And their parents' parents' views--
Parroting their leaders
And their pompous platitudes--
Parroting their peers'
Pretentious attitudes--
Parroting the patriarchs'
Proselytizing that'll
Put your teeth on edge
With their pathetic prattle--
Parroting the poppycock
Of trite pontifications--
Parroting pernicious
And sly manipulations--
Parroting the pretty birds
Whose pageantry and glory
Appeal to their prurient tastes
In each pathetic story--
Parroting the songsters
With parasitic pleasure
And counting out the rhythm
Of every pitiful measure--
Parroting the powerful
Whose ploys are so profuse,
Leaving the powerless
Pummeled with abuse--
Parroting with passion
Presumptuous prophesies
With putative contrition,
"Humbly" on their knees--
Parroting themselves--
Together all in sync--
How they love to parrot
So they don't have to think!
- by Bob B
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
Nine months after I was born, the Twentieth Century began to collapse.
East Berlin,graffiti-mural concrete, a jutted enigma scratched
on ordinance maps, the sort found
landscaping westernized Primary School walls.
Where within, labored in real time, the television told my parents
(and everyone else given to social conservation in 1989) that a wall falling down
would bring an end to the gap between the working and the working poor.
Freedom waited for many on the other side.
But of course, History draws up different plans.
Never content to just go out with a bash, or to
fleetingly drift by leaving
in its absence an underwhelmed lull
The bloodiest century yet
left the new world entrenched
in an odyssey of hatreds
handed down from the past
right about the time human suffering became a bit dull
and the peaceful countries were too busy
tripling their money instead.
What does History really teach us and what are the real benefits
of being free, or freer than you were before?
Human ambition, which burns it way out of any oasis of calm,
which calls children out of sleeping in the night
Always seeks out the exhaustible
An inveterate Black sheep leading astray
the ever susceptible ****** lamb
Delusion’s strange bedfellows are the worthiest adversaries
to run away from, to reserve contrition for.
Unlike the inevitability of uprooted animal migration
during a monsoon swell
Can a people with an invested addiction
to the pursuit of happiness
Ever truly be prepared
for the inevitability of rapid change?
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
#
**Where will you be
twenty twenty
I've got news for
you aplenty**
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me fire my missiles
in a no fly zone
I don't need your permission
to release ammunition
You might as well leave if
you're looking for contrition
Rifle Rifle—wait for it wait for it
Trifle Trifle—everything's legit
Eyeful Eyeful—never can forget
Look out! I strike without warning
Splash! Try again tomorrow morning
**Liar Liar
tongues on fire
can't put out the
forest fire**
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me drop my ordnance
in a no fly zone
I don't need your permission
to release ammunition
Get in my crosshairs
You'll be headed to perdition
Rifle Rifle—wait for it wait for it
Trifle Trifle—everything's legit
Eyeful Eyeful—never can forget
Look out! I strike without warning
Splash! Try again tomorrow morning
Leave me alone let
me pilot my drone
let me fire my missiles
in a no fly zone
Here's the facts hard cold
if I may be so bold
if you really want to win
you'll have to wait till I get old
**One step forwards
two steps backwards
Once released you
can't take back words**
© 2020 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
#
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 12:22 AM UTC
What does one do when the characters you hate
Are the ones you best construe?
Misgivings and flaws you can relate
To, tho venerable traits you eschew,
The green light gazers and "architect" praisers
Familial leeches or the confessor who preaches
That awareness absolves one of sin,
Compromisers and self-named kaisers
Resound and reverberate within
They pass by in my pages to be mocked and scorned
As evil, cruel, an oaf, or a tool
Too low to respect or too high on their horse
Despicable, maniacal, mediocre, or worse
And I do hate their vileness, I do hate their flaw
I want to shake them and claw at their skull
For nothing more than the gleam of recognition
That by some misfortune of natural law
They and I share a need for contrition.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 12:41 PM UTC
I was seventy-seven, come August,
I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gust
And (symbolical) flood and simoom.
When you come to this time of abatement,
To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
As to what you got out of it all.
So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me
And pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
In my youth, when the crescent was too wan
To embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don Juan
I fell into the habit of love.
And I learned how to kiss and be merry--an
Education left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters Pierian
Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.
Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,
And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,
Were I given the chance to repeat.
For contrition is hollow and wraithful,
And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
2.4k
Like dried leaves fluttering
With trembling stems
From an earthly passage, She took
The high road when Winter called
Her back to the elements,
Back to the spiritual vent that yawns with souls.
In her gentleness remained memory – legacy;
A smirk – that fun, secretive thought
Whispering across bloodlines.
I could never know her as well as you --
That tight, heavy knot at the back of your throat.
That dull thud of a monotone ache perched in your gut.
That knowledge that she was two in the same:
Throwing the bread and serving it, too –
Spreading around discipline with comfort to follow.
She was The Maker; The One –
Now faded to brooches, to photographs, to stories.
I felt the muscles in your arm tense (As mine
did, too)
I felt the surge of tears beckon the realities of grief
Like the smoke curling ‘round the swinging censor
I know why you ignored the Holy Man; sermonizing
Her Life as if she were familiar.
His discourse as bitter, acrid tastes upon breathing morning.
His fabricated familiarity – the pinching, twitching nerve between your neck and shoulder.
Holy Man -- Bone Man –
We could proclaim the mysteries of Faith
But She taught us the permanence of Love.
She knew more; what she taught was
Tangible
Alive
Her Lesson more forgiving than any Act of Contrition.
Her Body more sustaining than any wafer of Christ.
Two side of the same blade –
The Love she taught us taught us Grief as well.
When she followed the Holy Man out – the Bone Man -
You, Her Son –
You knew.
You flew out like a sin to forgiveness
And staked your devotion, character, and eternal Love
Upon her dwelling.
One more tangible reckoning of her attendance here;
One more connection that grounded her presence on this plane.
We followed Her – We followed You
Blind to your seeded bond that will never grace any words on a page
Yet drawn to the Lesson she taught
And the Lesson you maintain.
We followed you
Like trails in water : molecules bound and devoting the leader we call Mother.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
Old blue is snorting bath salt-
In the same bathroom where he nursed the only battle wound I’ve ever had-
I had swung on the prince of Hopkins county-
My knuckle caught the crystal of his watch-
Pop and howl, edge and line-
Thrown askew by force-
(my) good young blood ferried wolf flowers from one side of the sink-
to the other-
Time kept-
Bone acquiesced-
Verity-
Old blue would tell you that he only remembers contrition-
While humming the Gardenia Waltz.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
Well of course, Your Honour, I can explain,
why I urinated on the train.
You see the first toilet appeared to be locked,
and the other one of course was blocked.
Is it wrong? You could dispute,
Do you expect ‘Moi’ to ruin an Armani suit?
Clearly men of our position,
can appreciate my pleas of contrition?
What’s that you say? Inebriated?
A glass or two, it should be stated -
for the record, which should also note,
the tear in the sleeve of my cashmere coat,
caused by the vandals that restrained,
as I was wrongly cuffed and detained.
As a chap of substance before the court,
perhaps my innocence could be bought?
No, no, not a bribe of course,
more a donation of remorse.
It’s not as if the jury gives a ****
they obviously don’t realise who I am.
It is clearly just the wrong decision,
to send a man of breeding to a prison.
A witness says that I was ******
And that I tried to stand up but missed?
What slanderous lies of lesser classes,
perhaps I’d had three or four healthy glasses.
And reports of singing and standing on my seat,
are fabricated, nonsense and incomplete.
Cameras saw me strike the face -
of a man, with my leather briefcase?
Perhaps at this stage I should refrain,
and allow you to address this stain -
on my character which I’m sure you agree,
is beneath the contempt of someone like me.
Surely you can’t have confirmed my guilt?
What about the reputation I’ve built?
Before they take me, please pray tell,
will there be a servant in my cell?
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 9:32 AM UTC
broken glass embedded in backs
causing blood stains on crisp Calvin Klein shirts
from wrestling limbs on kitchen floors
licking ears as sassy retribution
for passive agression
and acts of contrition
greasy hair
unshaved legs
fur
on fur
mouth
on mouth
on moleskin
on holographic jewelry owned by us
bougie bohemians
highbrow artists
--with--
low-maintenance interests that include
blow, opiates, fringed scarves, "velvety",
all the pills you can fist into your mouth,
a wannabe lou reed, your friends' band,
and **** **** ****** **** gallery openings.
Take a picture, it won't last as long as this work day
but we have to have our money for the water--after the eight ball and taxi, of course.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
you're probably the reason i wake up unable to breathe thinking there are snakes slithering around in my bed, because you did the exact same. i'll never find the words to tell you just the way you shattered my stained glass, i went to dozens of cathedrals to try and beg you to fix my mosaics and give me forgiveness, but not even the hierarchy could help me now. I went from Nortre Dame all the way to St. Paul's trying to find peace but no glass will ever be the same as mine maybe a pastiche but I will never feel as if I am as beautiful as the Troyes, so I walk around with ****** palms grasping to the remaining pieces I have from that night. I'm gasping for air now, in hysteria I'm flipping through the pages of a poor mans good book trying to find the terms for repentance or contrition or whatever it could be named, I'm not sure because I've never pleaded like this before and I'll scream to the all the gods that might listen, I'll be ****** if Im going to go down like this. I found another chapel he's got mosaics like no other has ever seen, I'm looking into angelic hues of browns and blues and greens. I'm running through the backrooms trying to find an exit, I'm in a rut to get to a comforting haven. don't waste your time on me I scream. Ive been cast out of heaven for my sins and I'm paying for my crimes -my rosary has fallen to the ground. it's just us two now; I want to run, the apocalypse inside of me is tearing me apart. I've had a martyr in my bed and I remember the taste of his lips, now I recall how your mouth resembled that of a serpent and how it tasted -of venom. you lied while your head was between my thighs, oh the stigmata of a dismal life. I've found a new savior and I am more than what you've dictated to everyone else. I've undergone apostasy and devouted myself to a new God, I might even wear white with him.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
as the coffee cup is rinsed,
the filthy little ******* lands
on the counter to my right.
immediately,
seeking a bludgeon,
his demise is envisioned.
however,
this housefly stays in
my periphery
for just a moment
longer
and
I cannot help but notice
his tiny little mitts, working
and fretting.
imagining the tiniest string
of rosary beads wrapped
around his housefly fists,
it occurs to me that he
might be making his peace
with God.
offering up his little housefly
benedictions, contritions;
apologies for all the sugar bowls,
he’s puked in during his
miniscule little life,
all the little maggots that
he might have fathered
and subsequently abandoned.
I think, without thinking really,
to chide my little countertop
cohort, saying:
“Ah, give it up little one, He isn’t there, He never was,
and if He is, He doesn’t give a second’s thought to the
likes of us.”
the housefly looks at me;
still furiously working his
unseen beads.
“You fool.” he says.
“God has obviously heard my contrition, my apologies,
and has granted me a reprieve, however brief.”
interrupting his novenas,
the housefly continues:
“You, my friend, are so great,
and I am so small,
yet you’ve heard my voice,
seen my beads,
given me reprieve, however brief.
I had asked God to give to you,
just one golden moment of
true, honest belief.
And, so He has, and now
you understand that
the prayers of a housefly
have stayed your hand.
So, it doesn’t matter how
great or how small,
God listens to each of us,
one and all.”
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC
this but a nightmare tale
for the adopted child
he'd not been treated with
a meekness so mild
raised by parents
who were sick of mind disposition
they abused him
without having any contrition
the boy utilized by deviant grown men
for ****** gratification
there was no human decency
in this fornication
their child's photos
shown to online perverts
who'd drool at the sight
of these lewd adverts
as a mere babe the lad
was groomed for paedophiles
of his parent's wickedness
they'd be placed on criminal files
no Christmas Dreams
only a lasting memory of buggery
the child was deprived
of innocence in his infancy
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
The poet tries
with her words
to create something new
something hitherto unconsidered,
unthought, unspoken
She rakes the dirt for language
that is inimitable and rare
Fighting her way out of
prosaic platitudes
Searching deliriously for
a sharp-edged jolt of ingenuity
that will
awaken and inflame
In this great pursuit of something
clever
to say,
she overcompensates,
birthing a few stanzas
of exaggerated hogwash that inspires
more dismay than satisfaction
Out the window
her poem goes
A little crumpled ball of melodrama
and stale cliché
Then the poet sits in silence
smoldering with displeasure
wanting nothing more than
to finally write something that
works
It is when, radiant with disappointment,
she relinquishes her fantasy of excellence
that the true
poem begins
With rosy wings and
eyes like screaming bullets
it sails forth to proclaim
to declare
to profess without apology
or contrition
the wildest truths of her
soul
It is out of this realm of
deflation and defeat that
true originality is bred
Just a murmur at first, just a glint,
but listen, listen as
it swells into an exquisite roar
and watch,
watch as it rises from
the decay of the past
to flare
in a new light
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC