"convening" poems
Serendipities torrential deluge
Of dulcet applause reigning
In the divine dynasty of
Empiricisms arcane lore,
Heavens most high of heirachies
Beyond the veil
Drowning in altruistic
Reflexive salutations;
The regnant patent mutitioning
Of the waters Lethe from
Serpens poisened chalice of saints
Evoking the advent vigil of
Dusts chaldean dreams,
The sabbatical ordination
The fatal ravens annunciation
Heralding valediction
Convening betwixt and between
Gates of ivory and horn
Arraigning the apostolic conclave.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:35 AM UTC
I thirst to be a water droplet
dancing on your skin
to kiss across your face
as I run down your jaw and chin
in the shower, we'd embrace
starting at your crest
I'd drip through your hair
and play along your chest
always handle you with care
meet you at your waist
I've fallen for you hard
what I'd give for just a taste
of speckles or skin, scarred
deeper yet I'd dive
just one lick with a smile
to be with you, I would strive
I'll spend thirty years, a bare while
when with you, time loses meaning
floating weightless in your ocean
the feeling of our hearts convening
connected in effortless slow-motion
and even if I reach the lake bottom
and even through hardships out of the blue
and even when my summer turns to autumn
more than anything, I long to be with you
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
My friends and I
are forlorn fabrics
haphazardly stitched into a quilt.
Comprised of different textures and fabrics,
frayed at the ends,
rejected pieces meant for the trash,
not good enough for made-to-wear mall clothes.
My friends and I
fit like a puzzle
consisting of pieces from various other puzzles--
found under coffee tables,
between couch cushions,
tossed into the bowels of forlorn toy bins--
forming a collage of something
disoriented and ambiguous.
Crammed together,
smashing our appendages,
leaving crooked gaps,
wrinkled, torn, ****** up,
but feeling better here
than in our small contribution
to the bland image of our factory's design.
My friends and I,
outcasts, rejects, punks,
convening in the junkyard heap
where we dance and laugh among trash
that makes us feel clean.
Pure when we're filthy.
Quilts and puzzles,
to instill and befuddle;
****** treasures.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
IV. Isaiah
If ever on the moors in seeking
Zarephath she faltered—
White of gossamer and lamb—
And the well in running over
Colored bloodred clay
Lapis Lazuli, sweetened to dewpoint
As for what it meant
To those that saw and waited
Prophets and disciples of an
Instant; bear witness to the
World reborn (not premeditated)
At muddy dawn in unloved scrubland plots
Subsequent to love running sacred between
The pages of an unloved tome, a fissure
What is a truth?
Could I reach out
And touch you?
What holds your heart, Elijah?
Who can you see beneath the glass
Who stares back from the bottom of a raindrop
Flashing past before convening
With the ground?
Did you know, my dear,
I stem from the disillusionment of ground
And the resurrecting of fraught winter
Sky?
Did you know,
I am alive and dying to go, now,
To arise from Pelas and walk free in sun again?
I want to love the rain
So that it knows
I want to lavish love upon your
Lips, your hands,
Your neck that holds
Your temples, the gaps between
Your ribs, and vertebrae, and 50 billion stars
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 1:01 AM UTC
Just blinks of the universe on the skin of a pale blue dot
hovering at the edge of a swirling miasma of a myriad stars
We search for our place; let down by our lack of role in the grand scheme of existence
But only because we value ourselves too highly.
There is a beauty in the void; a renewal of spirit in acknowledging that we are not bound to a fate,
that we can go in any direction- that we may live our lives
without them simply being a test. There is no plan.
But who wants to live a planned life?
We search for the meaning that is not there to console ourselves in the cold reaches of the universe.
We find nothing- nothing but our own desperation.
We exist. Nothing more, nothing less than simple existence for us to interpret as we will.
That’s enough for me.
With this in mind, our lives- while still just phantasms fading from the skin of a pale blue dot
hovering at the edge of a swirling miasma of a myriad stars, gone before the universe’s eternity even begins to tick- have a purpose.
No longer are we bound to an eternity based on a mere shadow of a life, but now we can live! We can be free!
Our lives are ours to make what we will. To discover, explore, learn, to savour, to love… to leave the world better than we entered it, yet we do it not to please the cosmos but for our own enrichment. This is the significance of our lives.
Carpe diem, sieze the day: because it is one of the approximately 29 219 your being will ever have. Our minds are but the transient states of the universe, convening for a brief touch before going their separate ways- use that moment. It is all you are.
Let’s be reckless, do amazing and stupid things together for the brief cosmological second we share. Life flashes away as the universe’s heart mechanically beats.
Life is fleeting, we are sad, but there is nothing more than life- so let us live
Even though we are simply accidental spectres of thought on the skin of a pale blue dot
hovering at the edge of a swirling miasma of a myriad stars
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
I hide because sometimes my thoughts are too powerful
I cover up because maybe I’m just too outlandishly humble
I abide in quiet sanctity maybe cause I just don’t want to deal with the ********
I convene in my small space because I just want to be
I sing and dance in my happy place because that’s my way to be free
I don’t hide…cover…abide…convene…or sing and dance because I lack any social ability
But sometimes you just want to be…
Be with yourself and your own thoughts floating on a cloud of everflowing confidence leading to an over abundance of assurance and resolution
If I don’t love myself who else will
So if I come off that I’m not here
If I come off distant or complacent
Or if I even come off like a *****
It’s because I’m hiding…covering…abiding…convening…singing and dancing with myself
And that’s the person whom I love to be with
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
all the wind i see in colors
little black and blue butterflies convening, willow trees sprawled out above the brook casting shadows
underneath them
i undress my mind
to the rhythms of the earth
and dancing off my skin goes
all the light/the light/the light
that skips your eyes
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
No sun sets before a whistle calls
Inviting ears to the hat that echoes cries
With unlinsable eyes that rain oceans drowning the nose
While out still the whistle seeks replies
The crowd absorbs the deflecting sound in the night
Where the only mic is the preacher convening the ceremony
Then the whistle blows again when the sun casts bright
To remind those who forgot to summon
Not only the elders are alert by the whistle
But also hoes and shovels along with their boys
That assist in digging an underground castle
For only the burial takes with it a whistles voice
That whistle is gone come not another
But no sun sets before a whistle echoes skies
As to day it's them, tomorrow it's us, let's go gather
To the house that echoes cries.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Now is the time
To eradicate
Those merchants of death
Who practice hate
The world must unite
Cuz the hour is late
Let’s all join the fight
And help seal their fate
Now is the time
That God will reveal
The awesome power
That love has to heal
It’s stronger than hate
And I also feel
It will frustrate
All that isn’t real
If we are to find
Life’s greater meaning
Embrace the Devine
Do some house cleaning
Now’s a good time
To begin convening
Your higher angels
Whose wings are gleaming
Now is the time
To move ahead
Into the light
Not the darkness instead
Haven’t we seen
Where that has led
Or must we continue
To bury our dead?
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
I am sad today
It is not from love
But my family
What could they be doing?
Saying?
Without me being there?
There they are, far away,
And I here, so lonely
I want to cry, I cry in silence
My dear mother, how could she be doing?
My siblings, what could they be fighting over?
I don't want them to think of me
Or that they miss me
I only want their company and warmness
The bread is soaked in coffee
And we spend time together
Till we part away to dream
A *** of water is boiled
With some rice
We add cinnamon, milk and sugar
When everything is ready we wet the bread in it
And we all spend time together on the sweet morning
And from there we part ways until convening later in the day or night
To be a family again.
That is why I am sad,
I sleep and wake
The night and day
And it's only me
There is no rice,
No tea or coffee
Or the warmness of my family
I become saddened
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
I fold in on myself
Like the wadded origami designs I could never fold quite right
Layer upon intricate layer, receding
Into a crumpled relic sheathed in dust patina
Taking up space, a relic to my past
I surrender to your guiding hands
As you carefully unfold and gently press my form
Unfolding myself to you
The desire for new edges
Shapes us –
Convening at the crux
Our vertices press into transformations
And I fold into you, unfurling concurrently.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
a half-baked ******
copper-skinned
diddly-squat!
a camel-jockey -
and i am
spat!
copper-nuance -
and then, a *******
browny.
truce with squint asiatic
calls for being fidgety...
bubbly blue:
peter fetishist square army branding...
corpus tattoo!
and that's leder...
in the koran...
that's pig less palette
and more shoelace...
i mean:
pig froth shoe...
rather than:
********** karma: brevity ****
and when god was worshipped,
man said: pig's crew
and i used Aztec tongues
for shoelaces...
Machiavelli in Egypt...
hating bacon
and everything's a rainbow.
return to: a shoe.
then again that allahu akbar...
pigs are dried-out prunes...
so are shackles,
belts... and a whipping cult...
and other stratas of glue...
loss convening: satirical bacon.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
We echo the chaos portrait,
a dictum of quantum entanglement
Pervading into the breadth of dynamic space
Fingers and hard planes
Lips stained with stardust,
Of where our vertices convene
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
The elves are convening a meeting
to decide
on the wording of this year's
Christmas greeting
Merry's so passé
and not very classy
Happy is no longer apt
humbug's a slam dunk
and matches the krap junk
they'll sell in the shops.
The voting stops when Claus comes in
and ain't he looking very thin?
but everyone has to tighten their belts
even the reindeer have got cheaper pelts
so
Humbug it is then
no merry gentlemen
just lords a leaping
keeping
the aristocracy
fit.
Meanwhile
the Pound shop's sold out of pounds
dogs roaming wild
as Mary's boy child sleeps rough in a doorway on
Christmas Day in the yawning
chasm.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
Back at the start for the last time.
I get our drinks before you arrive,
£1.10 more expensive than when
we began dating, which sounds strange,
that word, ‘dating’,
it was only convening for cider,
a JD and coke twice a week after work,
you correcting the spelling
of children born post-Miracle of Istanbul,
me in front of a screen
splattered with numbers
imperative to any name but mine.
Now it was amicable.
Before, not at all.
A sort of swell inside me,
a boiling kettle, the shock tiptoeing through me
when you said enough.
I wanted to hurt you. Absurd.
I felt an uninvited sensation,
a sanding of the ribs,
a brain stapled again and again.
Later, I discovered you felt it too,
if not more so. I softened
like a block of fudge in the heat,
the fury dissipating as cigarette smoke.
You walk in; I get a different shock,
a cold jolt inside me, a voice that says
within an hour it will be over,
a footnote on the CV of my twenties,
April 2013 - October 2016.
You look great, more of an effort than me.
Lately, I’ve let myself go, no surprise.
We talk and laugh. I ought to shave, I know.
Joke about late-night Monopoly,
a fraction of our love, always ours.
The realisation it is a first time last date,
the closing of the door, the final word.
For a second, I am enthralled
at the thought of you, naked,
standing in the doorway to my room,
chestnut hair shimmying down your back.
It won’t occur again, not in that room,
not in that flat, not anywhere
besides a flicker of memory.
Our friends are getting married.
We’re not.
I think we both knew
it would crumble before long,
our relationship a headache tablet
dissolving speck by speck.
Pool, like we used to? you say.
Sure. Three games, I win two one.
Could we restart? Turn it off then on again?
I dare not ask.
I leave you to get the tube from Chalk Farm
as the half-blotto strangers
blare delight at an Arsenal goal.
A hug is too awkward,
shaking hands even worse,
but a hug is the gift. No kiss.
Seven seconds.
The back of you is how
I’ll remember you, walking away,
hands in pockets,
not looking back.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
Can’t give up
Reaching for
Seeking
A meeting
Convening with clarity
All the more fleeting
The seating is limited
Lighting gets dim
And obscuring its absence
Oblivion grim
Underpinned
By the fins
Circling as I swim
Overtones
Of imploding
Corrosive
Head spins
Barely scratching the surface
Of where to begin
When I’m out on a limb
Saying
Find what is lost
But before you sell souls
Please consider the cost
Jul 22, 2023
Jul 22, 2023 at 2:42 AM UTC
i never stopped writing about you,
i never did.
every stanza, every draft, every metaphor,
convening it piece by piece, alone.
along with these bittersweet coffee and creased papers.
waiting for your wildest comeback,
you never did.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
The mind fills empty potential with ferocious fantastic notions noting naive possibility outside of future's foreboding
But my image is quickly corroding, time's caustic nature instigating my painting's eroding and tainting the dreams I've been toting
My illusive fantasy simply couldn't be, a fairly farce future that reality couldn't see, but I pressed for it so impolitely, now it revisits me nightly
I know it's rightly dangerous thinking of things that might be but they push they're way inside me slightly slipping and sinking into my mind despite me fighting and frightfully trying to hold on tightly,
Now I permanently face the incessant resurrection of my psyche's insurrection to reality's lackluster perception of this painting's perfection
I never should have pursued this crude gesture I painted of her **** not of her body but of her thoughts, though maybe just as lewd, I expected them to be profound and without interlude but these are facts of existence the universe didn't include
I wrongly thought of her as a partner for gleaning the meaning of particles and their organized convening to allow the formation of conscious beings
But she already found her specific god of speculation, he has an appropriate deprecation of false idolization, I thought it was simply healthy appreciation, sadly after an eternity of intense anticipation I was met with the realization that she couldn't be the deity of my imagination, she couldn't understand my late night cogitation, much less save me from my suicide ideation,
No one could,
No one can,
And it would be selfish for me to wish this loneliness on another soul, for me to expect anyone to fill that role.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 4:02 AM UTC