"convocation" poems
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap,
sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again,
unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity
pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to,
the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's
blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines
of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain,
for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of:
buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter,
no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of
denial, and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the
warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen,
the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness,
the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and
words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved,
coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the
overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break
I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though
my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art of spectacular breathing of another
dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors,
and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may
occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but
that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human
interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and
signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition,
and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades,
nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal…
composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day
Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five
Silver Beach
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
Thrift Shop Confessional
Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.
A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.
He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."
I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.
Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."
I turned to look at him.
"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"
The voice trailed off....
I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.
"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."
Silence then.
A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....
I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....
(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
When Dorothy trod the paths of Oz
Her companions were deficient:
One lacked Courage,
One lacked brains,
One was heartless, but
Ax Proficient.
She was an illegal alien,
from Kansas, of all
places!
Imagine, when she and
Toto came-
the look on people’s faces.
Still that was seventy years ago.,
In another place and time-
Just before we went to war
against evil personified.
If Dorothy, today,appeared
with a similar convocation
The Wizard might mistake them
for a Congressional Delegation
For lack of brain and heart and spine
Our Congress is more than sufficient-
Some lack Courage, some lack brains
Some are heartless but
tax proficient
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
i am sitting in a cold and very much crowded room.
a sea of nameless faces, attached to 10,000 bodies, filling 10,000 seats.
a cacophony of voices and footsteps and shuffling figures, "pardon me."
small pieces of silence peeking through the static of hums and murmurs.
out of 10,000 - i catch myself looking for one face in particular: yours.
but all i can manage to pick out are not-quite's and hard-to-tell's.
in a room filled with 10,000 faces i'm looking for yours
(because it is all that i see when i close my eyes)
in a room filled with 10,000 faces your name is echoing in my chest.
each letter, ringing in my ears, crawling up the walls of my throat, desperate to escape my lips
and scream with every decibel i posses the power to create, "where are you?"
in a room filled with ten-fucking-thousand faces - the only one that matters isn't there.
m.f.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
Walk into the auditorium just to see the band on stage…
I swallow my spit,
my nerves,
and my pride.
Oh, you are talented, dear,
Because I sit between two of my best friends, and yet,
I feel completely alone in this room full of people.
Because the only things I see are brown hair and a gray shirt.
Because all I am aware of is your goofy grin and saxophone, and
The way your lips part when you laugh still makes my heart shiver.
I’m begging just to see your face once.
To be reminded of the way that lights make your eyes
Look different every time,
Picking out the specks of blue, green, and gray
As if your irises were a kaleidoscope…
My mind suddenly feels perceptive of every emotion,
And from across the stage and stadium seats,
I feel your eyes avoiding mine,
But I cannot break this cold stare of heartbreak
And the needles that caress my spine.
Although my brain is unwelcoming,
Memories are flooding my head…
Reminding me that once, you held me close,
Telling me things I shouldn’t have believed,
Holding my hand
Telling me I’m not damaged
Inviting me into your world
Reassuring me it was okay
And yanking it all out from under me.
And everyone stands for the convocation,
I’m thanking the stars for this opportunity,
Because right now it’s socially acceptable.
It’s okay that I stare at you and let my heart beat fast,
Because you are on stage,
And I’m just one in the crowd.
But I always was, wasn’t I?
Just another one in the crowd?
Another float in your parade of heartbreaks.
It’s okay, my heart is mended,
Please, just look my direction…
My mind is not sure of anything,
But everything else is,
Because we finally just made
Eye contact.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
"Every time I look into a mirror I see the eyes of the devil".
The perpetual flame of life
A new dawn, an enlightening dusk;
The translucent sun
The convection of eternity,
Abysmal adversary,
The convocation of co-eternal legions!
''Every time I cry I see the face of God".
Influencing twilights perfection,
Hells paradise devouring
The ardent fervour of the carmine flame
Piercing the atmosphere,
Constantly tantalising the air- fuelling.
The forests engulfed, bellowing from the apse shaped canopies
Violet blue threads of of ribbon;
Wofting unto nothingness
Vapourising smoke.
Natures delightful beauty, casting a shadow
The conflagration immanently consuming lands;
Raging across the earth
Dehydrated and scorched.
Baptismal tears vanquishing the fire,
Heavens standing ovation, applauding
A contained flame,
The sound of rain the fires lamentation.
1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
I grew into my youth without fearing dinosaurs,
Because I watched too many re-programmings of Jurassic Park.
I wasn't aware that my basketball skills could take me places.
I was born here, I ran through cornfields and tall shades of grass,
playing hooky with ******* hopscotch with ******
yet still averaging 24.6ppg while playing only 20 minutes a game.
It seemed so easy and simple at first, doing these things.
My neighbor Craig down the street,
used to work at the children's hospital so he always had access to needles;
all he wanted from me was a stack of metal spoons
that I could steal from my grandmother's house so we could dissolve the ******
“This shit'll make you feel like you could never die”, he would always say.
It was the 3rd quarter of our high school opening game against Fullerton.
We played at the redeveloped convocation 20 miles south of town,
because our high school received a bomb threat earlier that week.
The court constructed with cheers and boos due to my low field goal percentage.
I stashed my lucky line inside of my practice shorts in the locker room,
so I could lie to my coaches about needing some air.
My nostrils captured the effects of this white powdery substance,
as my body started to fail and deteriorate.
I think I felt my heart stop beating when I came to the free throw line.
First shot...air ball.
Second shot...no shot, body falls to the hardwood.
My shoes squeaked like rabid mice without control,
my right leg became convulsive and spastic, my left moved none.
The floor below my body drenched in a bilinear merging of crimson red and **** yellow.
The last image that I witnessed before my eyes left this world
Were the faces of the opposing cheerleaders,
Their young eyes bleeding blue and yellow,
mascara and grief running down their pretty cheeks.
They knew this from the beginning, my parents did.
They thought I had changed and found a new sport to love.
As my body laid on the floor, my parents laid in the belly of the audience,
Incapable of shedding tears,
because their suffering overtook their ability to cry.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
I haven't learned how to to drive yet. And people keep wondering why. I am not skeptical about my ability to take the vehicle out and stride about with unknown companions on the road. Companions; some who ridicule while I take quite some time and place to make a simple right hand turn , some who don't waste words rather blow horns which sound like a perfect coronach in chorus. And that fears me more and I tell mom that I would never go driving again. I will take a cab, ride a bike or walk to the destination but I 'll never really "drive". You see if I don't overcome this aversion, people would perhaps say more. People won't stop. Not when you're dead, not when you 're born, not on your convocation. Actually never. So, I went out again on the same road, at the same time. They are still staring and babbling. But this time I am slighlty relieved. I am mocking them too. One at time ,till I take a right hand turn.
And there my driving license was born.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
When he talks, I can hear it.
Every syllable, I can hear it.
Every time his tongue whips the back of his upper teeth I hear it.
When his lips are shooting arrows, slicing crimson haze I hear it,
hear the anguished rumble of Venus birthing stellar symphonies,
and when his vocal cords are trembling do I hear this convocation.
As the sun begins to cry, do I hear of merciful heavens.
When fiery lips blast melodies that stun my ears and sear my tongue,
do I hear the distant quell as nebulae shiver crack and burst.
He slaughters constellations with prose.
He ignites the universe with murmurs.
He pulls Andromeda in speech,
every astral breath and screech.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
i
Mount Malindang calleth me, it showeth me mine queen is there
She resteth up upon the greenery, picturesque perfect, I stare;
Inside the emulsion picture, her smile paint's the walls with red
Red for the love she engulf's me in, as roses align her sloped bed.
ii
Sketched on is her hairdo, beehive swathed, fairy tale written
Her wing's hath Baguette's, as tis the Baguette's art from heaven;
Comely she supplyeth, a king's every need's, as tis amour' we feed
Companied she warm's me, swarms me, ourn amare to all leak's.
iii
Concourse of the multitude, gathering beneathe ourn sloped hut
Ourn roof may be a little leaky, though ourn affection wilt fill up;
As tis we our a abode to ourselves, no straw mansion needed
A Convocation of cheribum watcher's, protect us in rainy season.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©,あある じぇえん
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
I knew you’d be there without confirmation
I felt the tingle
I felt the sensation
I smelt your aftershave and
Without hesitation I condemned myself to damnation
I watched you stride down the nave
Watching you was a violation
A violation of my promise
To be faithful, honest and true
But, I can’t keep my pledge,not with you.
I quietly follow
Beyond the curtain I go
I sit and breathe deeply
You, Wood, and incense fill my heart
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. I'm in love with you”
Dec 24, 2017
Dec 24, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
Cigarette smoke tickles my lungs as I inhale the closest thing I ever got from you.
I don’t smoke but you did most of your life.
Truthfully, I smoked often after your death;
Feeling though if this was a way to feel your presence.
Though it only irritates my lungs.
One night I drank 3 bottles of wine;
I don’t drink.
I burnt a hole in my couch singing “before you go”; hadn’t lit up anything other than marijuana since then.
Smoking wouldn’t bring my father back.
Wouldn’t repair the trauma he caused during my youth.
31 years old doesn’t prepare you for the death of your father.
The three months you gained weight
Didn’t leave your bed
Pushed many of your friends away because rejection sensitivity.
And cried so hard you nearly threw up
3 months of worsening binge eating where you felt so full you couldn’t breathe
Severe depression
And oddly enough suicide ideation.
Misplaced guilt from abuse that wasn’t your fault.
Sweat soaked sheets from chaotically descriptive nightmares
Unrelenting dissociation.
Even longer tangling with delicious self hatred, words your father used when he would belittle your body while you developed an eating disorder at his hand.
My thighs are getting bigger
-insert self loathing here-
I won’t repeat those abusive words;
As I’m trying to heal.
5 nights shy of 1 year.
I can say I finally like myself.
The other side of shutdown reared it’s caressing warmth;
The chrysalis of self discovery erupting like a volcanic convocation.
Complex post traumatic stress disorder.
I wear this diagnosis like a badge, proof of my experiences.
I miss you.
Though I am not unhappy you’re gone.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 2:22 AM UTC
*Hamburgers and hot dogs ,
lemonade , fried sweet potato pies an scuppernongs
Saturday night revivals and county -
fairs
Convocation and worship in the
warm , sweet summer air*
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
drag it
that way
across so much of me
in need of coming open.
that utensil is a convocation.
i have seen so much,
doing my undoing
in a matter of lines i draw
and draw and draw through it.
these, the transgressions of my body
assume sagging
just as simply
as more unbroken flesh.
my bathroom mirror
cannot bend nor mend itself
back into existence
as you or i do,
becoming human.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:36 AM UTC
unbeknownst
to the human race,
every year the free trees,
those of the forest, the great gardens,
have an annual convocation, a solemn communion and a
delicate conversation
the gathering is attended by insects and avians,
for theirs is the heavy responsibility,
that which the trees cannot do,
they must do, i.e. move, be agents
of pollination
Trees gather, the sequoias officiate,
for they the elders, are wise in the
rings of history that tells of ritual,
sacred sayings, the reasoning,
the young ones don’t full comprehend
“Who shall give aid and comfort to the human dead?”
Who shall give of their seed
that will be carried by our friends,
they may be scattered planted,
in the graveyards where
those that tended and
sheltered us,
lie buried,
and the living
who tend to
their ancestral,
will adjoin, all
in need of shade and
comforting song?
there is great rustling of the wind,
the most honored,
query those attendees,
why must we choose?
let each of us contribute
according to their needs,
let the randomized
scattering by our winded
and flighted avian friends
best express our gratitude…
thus forests, parks, great gardens,
and yes, the cemeteries of mankind,
ALL
were seeded, deeded and refreshed,
and the world was cleansed,
commended, interdependented,
defended and extended…
Wed Aug 7 2024
Aug 7, 2024
Aug 7, 2024 at 10:48 AM UTC
She's waving goodbye at the gate ..
A pretty blue dreamscape , adorned with golden scarf across my Eastern gaze .. Our world is turning fast with dark hues and white house landscapes , busy homestead horizons and silver , gravel driveways ..
Forest green love for all Earths inhabitants , Venus has called her friends out to entertain , celestial orbs to inspire rhyme , to sing of love unrequited by warm fires ... To be free of mind and secured in the shelter of hope , latter day convocation and warm tomorrows ...
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
Lady your service to the needy
You render with devotion
And surrender your body
And mind to the creation.
Just that notion may be shoddy
For the greedy convocation.
All couldn't believe that talent
Was offered to multiply
And trade in the gift god lent
To apply and amass wealth and supply.
But Hi beauty, you are a true devotee
To use the gift of almighty
To touch and heal a plenty
Of suffering hearts in this community.
Short though your presence among us
It's deep and long in a sense
The example that you profess
With simple acts and joy immense.
It's our wish you continue here
For some more time to be near
As your grace and peace are dear
To us that stand in constant fear.
Since you are a chosen one
We are blessed in your presence
And we all thank you for the lessons
That we'll sure follow in sequence.
We thank God for your sweet company
A bold humble erudite seer
with simple pure diet and cure
May God bless you with long life
Many happy peaceful one free of strife
Still to serve and instill the virtues
As offerings to return the talents due
To god in multiple folds we thank you
And in thanks your hands we hold.
Dear Lady may you fare well
All days are your day if you care you well.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 2:32 AM UTC
if i were to run
where would i go?
would you come with me..
would you stay?
if i were to change my identity..
who would i be?
would you still love me?
would you stay?
if i were to
how can i say this..
if i didnt wake tomorrow
would you regret our
last convocation.
our last moments,
our last time together!
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
You think I don’t see
But I see everything that’s presented to me
Tranquility
And convocation
Is your conviction
To your addictions
You don’t admit to
Reflecting
And avoiding
While playing the victim
I contemplate
How much I’ve changed
While you’re still the same
Even though you’re different
Disdained
While I took abuse for my inspirations
You were jealous
How life has changed since
I stared trying
Instead of crying
About why I didn’t
And I’m sorry
It’s retribution
If my words resonate within you
You just ask yourself why
Instead of
condemning
I’m a prophet.
-Rhetorical Curiosity 21.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC