"cornerstones" poems
You agree
When you want to shout, curse, and swear
The Almighty....answer this weeping willow
Made of concrete air
Of unfeeling movement
You cower behinds browned bodies, montezuma minds, and your license
Power to go as you please, be as you please, please help me to see
The inner child trapped in mordant cornerstones, and sitting on your own weight
To grasp the folly by the throat and twist him into existance
Not so much absolution
In agreement with other fancies
Prayers unanswered
Dwelling on ginger hands and knees
In *********** when his course has never enter into being....real
Or really close
His path to plunge thick into purple passionate trance
His path askew from my own
Though a followed trendy line
A drink
When it makes your journey into trees, and speed, and gluttony
A laugh
When scorned mouth spewed and sput into russet wounds already *****
A smoke
When it clogs your memory into patchwork and quilted thoughts unwoven
Youre unspoken!
You agree?
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains
Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul
Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway
Rooted in boulders***
*scattered within
milestones
and*
***riverbed Cornerstones
Gray
As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn
With intent a higher law's freshet flows
For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue
Rolling currents thickly bestow
A river of simple truth lay bare
A stream of random kindness betides,
Rivulets of unconditional love abounding
Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence
Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests
Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers
Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide
Blossoming undercurrents gushing,
resounding,
rhythmic ebb and flow
Verve undulating wholly alive
Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ―
Wellsprings arise from bedrock
ancient mother earth
A surmounting light leavens abidingly
From imploring water's flowing river song
To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings
divergent from thither and yon
Through which to portage
A way to carry back home in psalm***
h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
The audacity
that you would write a ***** a love letter
That you would in so many words announce your affections for a **********
Thay you would pour out your heart
to a harlot
But here in hand i have it
written in blood turned tan from time travel
caligraphy cornerstones that mark the foundation for forgiveness
lithography laden with agony for the cause of love
It's as if even now, i can watch your quill
as it traipses across parchment
fabricated from your very own lamb's skin
still marred with scars
rough and red
tears at it's edges
and holes torn by gashes
the audacity of that "I love you"
scrawled in the crucifix cursive of the creator of the earth and its
universe
unfurled to cut the mundanity with meaning
The audacity...
I am wordless.
My soul is far from speechless.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical
corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr!
I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad
you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of
women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad
you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
Brussels and Paris.
1.9k
HAVE I broken the smaller tabernacles, O Lord?
And in the destruction of these set up the greater and massive, the everlasting tabernacles?
I know nothing today, what I have done and why, O Lord, only I have broken and broken tabernacles.
They were beautiful in a way, these tabernacles torn down by strong hands swearing-
They were beautiful-why did the hypocrites carve their own names on the corner-stones? why did the hypocrites keep on singing their own names in their long noses every Sunday in these tabernacles?
Who lays any blame here among the split cornerstones?
1.3k
I've watched as my leaves changed
from emeraldgreen
to jaundiceyellow
and tumbled from their blood vessels,
for my body could no longer support them.
I've witnessed petals descend from blossoms:
a flowergirl tossing the colors into the air
to pave the way for a father to let go of a daughter.
I gazed at buildings and bridges
buckle at their knees
as cornerstones and foundations fail-
Atlas crumbling under the Celestial Sphere.
I've seen many things fall.
But I've never gazed upon a girl,
fear as heavy as millstones
eclipsing her overcastgrey eyes,
ghostwalk off a ledge,
waving a whiteflag
as she plummeted to the ground like a bomb.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Touching is not a sin
Within these pillars
The temple of my body, I call home.
There are no prayers to be found
Between the dryness of my lips
And where you left me
With the wetness of my eyes
Singing its hymn to the martyrs before
Their hands have gone cold
In the silence of my secrets
These martyrs knock their bones together
As if trying to make fire
Could turn back time
As if their ivory stamina
Could voice its plea
There is blood on the walls in their temples
I hear the foolish cry out
With a voice that has never known lack
That condemned buildings are only meant to be torn down
That the bricks of my house were meant to return to dust
Buried in the mortar of my memories, blown in the wind
Unbuilt with no remorse
Leaving mortar scars in the earth
If the walls of my temple could speak
Her concrete lips would part
Revealing timber teeth
If her tongue was not sewn shut with shame
She would begin with a whisper
For she has never brought her voice up from the basement before
Her breath, stumbling over the threshold finds its footing
A guttural cry makes its way forth
A voice that blows doors off its hinges
A voice that only does cosmetic damage
As it attempts to touch your heart
Where it has never been reached
The cornerstones
Begin to talk
You were told even the stones cry out
It is too late for them now and too dark
The sky was almost crying
The heavens on the verge of tears
It is too late
I came undone
Because you can't tether fingers
As much as I wanted to tie ropes
To the nerve endings of my extremities and pull with all my strength
Pull them back to my heart
So they could be safe
Feel safe
Carry to the grave
Words I could not whisper to you in the dark
What prayers could I offer
To a temple torn down in anger
What words would I give
To the grave of my being
Whose hymns still ring out
Into the night, crying
Dust to dust
Ashes to ashes
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC
*we’re merely strangers
disguised as a family.
four cornerstones
propping up the dinner table --
a doll house
when seen through a telescope, though
the peachy porcelain pillars are tarnished by
the cracks at their corners.
“perfect family” shines in neon lettering on the threshold.
it looms over us, frantically peppering the conversation
long gone stale.
it stings my eyes,
and burns my tongue
to speak.
my teeth are plastic,
my fingers plasticine,
pieced together carelessly
a millennia ago,
when warmth still existed in the spaces between us.
now, we are cloaked in our own despondencies,
eyes staring not at each other,
but through.
we float past each other
as ghosts;
though I’m the only one
who hears the echoes.*
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
Silk in a serenade,
each second becomes a day.
Just stay for the blink of an eye.
Now I have a reason to lose
control of my breathing.
Sympathy in the strings I play,
not so much in the things I say,
no matter how hard I try.
Unaware of the passing season,
am I staying or am I leaving?
Cornerstones crumble,
I don't trust my senses enough.
I've got a feeling nothings' real.
Now I have a reason to
really start screaming.
Polished brass,
shattered glass in the garden.
Examine the facts yet abolish
the past, a history lesson isn't
something I'm going to believe in.
The creases in time are
seamless in my sleep.
A fragile frame of mind,
I hate to suppress it. I'm inclined
to ask, am I awake, or am I dreaming?
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 8:55 AM UTC
An empire, built on Extreme empathy.
Welcomes in the parasite of its own demise
Feeds the anarchy with the cornerstones of its ethics.
Tears down it’s moral walls so as not to offend it’s destruction
Lies with blank smiling eyes, eviscerated in the street.
Good thing, good thing we were so woke.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 6:02 AM UTC
Doring — not much has changed since
you last spoke.
the children are still deep in the mud.
the bellhouse at Poblacion still rings
when it is 5 PM and the ubiquitous bazaar
sit on the cornerstones.
however, when the white angels began
latticing you to contraptions,
the furling scent of your homely perfume
has gone dithering. grandpa Mario's
revolver is somewhere hidden wreathed
under a wrestle of things we do not
use anymore — lottery tickets ( 4 AM, grandpa would fall asleep reeking of
ale as the lady announces frail luck
over the somnolence. kitchenware longs
for the ****** of your tremulous hands. the Lazy Susan is attended by only a bundle of rotten bananas, Mario's old
nauticals: whiskey bottles, scotch, goblets, unrest of glasses. we still
buy pandesal near Beng's piano maestro.)
nothing much has changed since you
last spoke. mother held your hands longer than imagined trill of Maya outside tightwire. it didn't flood in the swelter of
the cataclysm — years ago it was deathly silent when you were sitting on the rocking chair waiting for the flood to subside, your grandchildren laying cold on the aged floorboard, rescued by
zigzag of newspapers. it was the lightest
of darknesses. nothing much has changed
since you last spoke and in your
silence we heard the most immense of
voices. the streets remain pockmarked.
ocher pots festooned by wily flowers,
stems of hope. your hands tryingly gripping whatever
was brought to their splendidness
looked like forever smiles.
Doring — the nights are fuller,
my sweet old etcetera of chores.
we all lay quietly in the mud for now.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
Contact - Pews with no use, a forgotten passage treacled, serving the timbre of resonance
Fundamental mistake agreed upon - Taken in turns, compromise youth, stripes of black tape, holding in, holding down - With such emotion
A feeling, an instinct - Complex in nature, futile in structure - Sigil-like and abrupt - Bursting forth a cacophony of irreverence
Yet, buried vast leagues underneath, the reflex of upset digestion in a tank of split hairs
Full/Frugal
This is within the borders of communication - Feedback - Crossed between importance
Cornerstones moss covered, sinking to the bottom of refuse
Candy & gum flavoured coastal reefs - Hardening on the decay of brimstone and salt
My ego is capsuled, exerting pressure equally from all angles
A fishing hook, on a fishing rod - Cast into a culture of aplomb
Plum knives, bread, buried under volcanoes - Just far away enough, shielded by brass
Squashed inside my grandmother's tin - Old, rustic and wilting
Baking our ancestry into extinction - Corroding, and creating callous embassy
Just long enough, to settle our stomachs - I dance.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
To be inspired to create-
And per chance to inspire others-
Is either a grueling task
Where one must whip their own mind into motion
Like a stubborn mule
Or else it strikes as lightning
That can only be cast by the gods
And when it strikes it is exhilarating,
All-consuming and the epitome of creation;
Inspiration that is spontaneous,
An unfaithful geyser of sudden epiphany,
Often produces the shortest yet strongest results,
The being blessed by it cast into a conscious sleep
Where all thought and movement are otherworldly;
These works of divine intervention are
The cornerstones of human art so rare and lucky to have
As there is moderation in art as there is moderation in
All things, including moderation and inspiration:
On the other plate of the scales of Lady Justice
Is inspiration that has been dredged up from the ground;
It is liquid gold, crude; it does not shine
And it requires energy to obtain the very power we seek,
The subject work is clawed at until it is laid bare
Then robed and disrobed over and over again
Until the creator finds a fitting garment
And in this process the creator discovers a loving hate
Over the object which they have put such effort into,
That is still not nearly as fine as the works of sudden art,
Yet it is the Apple of their Eye nonetheless….
Once obtained, forced inspiration can be
More inspiring than that of the spontaneous inspirations;
A creator who has endeavored to struggle with inspiration
Is someone who can lead by example-
Where not everyone will be favored by the gods
And be given sudden wisdom and thought-
Anyone can ponder for hours on end
Until the train strikes them and the coal engines'
Fire is stoked to peak capacity by tedious effort;
Those who drive hard have opened minds and
Are more motivated than those who already have
A single goal to achieve: After divine inspiration
Has been carried out, what more is there for the
Creator to do if the gods do not
Favor them again?
In such ways do inspiration flow,
Quick and strong as lightning, here then gone,
Or steady as a slow stream, a lasting current
Which results in a slowly built and driven creation:
For those who are blessed with instant inspiration
Congratulations! Enjoy it while it lasts!
And for those who work beyond countless hours-
Congratulations to you, as well, for your dedication
And willpower so inspirational.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
There were many, it was illegal to have a pessimistic weekday, a worn out, useless desk and a climbing Sisyphus ticket: Insufficient - mostly - and sufficient. The crossfire of promising grains of pride, and the pathetic judgment of the Inquisitions lurking in the eyes: “Let's see! Who dares to do more and more ?! ” - There was a murderous rage in the hearts of the people,
"What did I know then: What can I expect?" "Destroyed nervous system, suicidal pessimism?" Nice promises or Janus-faced compromises? In which the victim is always his own scapegoat! "In the conscience of the people, they beat a homestead and strangled it with stigma stamps, handing it to you as the title of loser, as an honor in the camp of innocent fools!"
There were many, it was illegal for the pessimistic weekday, many were the self-destructive consciousness of Nothing: that you would stay that way, but only the Apocalypse-bad guys rushed at me every day; miserable, trampled on, destroyed! If I look back, I can still see it as fooling and humiliating the germs of youth in slavery, the reliable cornerstones of spiritual libraries, because “someone” mentioned the word in defense of imaginative and new ideas! And still, I can only guess: Did I get the magic D-letter document in exchange for the omniscient silence of my silence, or just for the awareness of my sooner liberation ?!
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
The shattered world vanishes beneath thee,
the emptiness, now pervading within me.
I see what was once there before,
now ceasing to be there at all.
What I once called,
my life and my family,
the cornerstones of my very identity,
turning into dust, a part of my memory.
Even this, ceases to be,
what was "forever", now just a "could be"
time erodes all that I deem,
important to no one, except me.
Yet this breaking,
deconstruction of worlds,
changes my perception,
for good or for ill,
into something beyond,
becoming adjourned,
into a part of something, new it may be.
My ideas begin to break,
my thoughts begin to shatter.
What was important, now doesn't even matter.
I recall a time, things were important to me,
now no different than the dust beneath me.
I then pay attention, to what is void and apparent.
The unchanging past, and the future in development.
I see what was broken, will be made anew,
and that there is nothing that won't be so.
Breaking my mind, breaking my soul,
breaking the heart that tears me so.
Overwhelming the part constituting this "me",
what then dies, is now reborn to see.
Of a time once past,
of a future yet to be.
Of a wholly new perspective,
rich as can be.
Our lives are such,
a deconstruction of the past,
to make a better future,
for every one of us.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
Usually a joyous occasion;
Colorful bundles of balloons,
Above those ambiguous cornerstones
Of my very home;
Yet betray a monochrome atmosphere,
Among each and every exchanged greeting.
Garlands of an afternoon delight
attempt to mask;
Monotone chatter among these walls.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 8:58 PM UTC
made,
can’t seem to get that grasp,
of the continuity needed,
the
regular maintenance schedule
good loving
requires
oh hell, part lazy, the origin of most of-my
manifest manifold
m a s c u l i n e mistakes, permitting
a dario daily “i love you” to get rust covered
by routinization, poor pronouns and missy pronunciation.,
forgetting that
we us and ours
are the foundational
cornerstones of the best love theorems
that were poetic uncovered in Ancient Persia,
or were writ in sanskrit
certainly borrowed by the Bard,
and will this
not be numbered in their
midst
gonna reread some Hafiz tonight
when she asks what do you want
to watch tonight, and maybe if
I am feeling gracious I will reannoint
myself a Reader
as well as a
writer of only love poetry
meanwhile accept this scrap as a sacrificial
offering, to be a burnt offering, consumed
entirely after just one reading
with luck
I will be posting
of flood conditions
tonight
a bio hazard
to be relished
or in the guy
parlance
oh yeah!
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 3:11 PM UTC
Lay down your weapons
Remove your suit of armour
And sit down next to me my child,
There’s no more need for
Barbed wire or steel,
For all you need is
Faith, Love and Truth.
These three cornerstones are more effective
At striking your opponents,
With love, truth, and
Absolute certainty
Of your righteousness
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 5:35 PM UTC
A quarter past
The afternoon,
back on the chair
of bevelled legs
Baffled
with the hex
of number
Tested
by the brooding
threat, incumbent.
Never been too
good at tables,
Better that
I eat alone
Seen, faceless men
in grim apparel
waiting for
a chance
to come,
Convincing
with their
bare contempt.
And, I
the part
of all my sums,
cannot explain
where it went wrong.
Sat playing
with the cornerstones
of new denominations.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 1:56 AM UTC
A relationship,
that's foundation must always be
unwavering truth and honesty ,
only on such a foundation
can there be cornerstones of trust and faith .
If a foundation is solid , it's corners will not break
And cracks from shifts , can be repaired or replaced . . .
Be it hurtful , scary , or uncertain of change ,
we must always center on these things
(Truth , Honesty , Trust and Faith)
This I say ,
because I realize that things
like people , interests and feelings, change ,
but if our relationship is set on a solid foundation
and we remain honest about the decisions we make . . .
There will stand a Love
stronger than any heartache .
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
To see the bright side,
Trust in myself is my only chance.
Life ain't always what it seems cause it changes too fast.
And if you can't keep up, then it's your own ***
Changing people, with change faces, that fit the cast.
So deceitful, like clown faces, they make my laugh.
So fake at being fake, I must have missed that class.
Love me or hate me either way, I do I even ask.
Got your back when things are up,
Your luck turns, they turn their back, and stab your ***
Said that change, changed you
Because they still lack class
Like passing gas in class
It catches up their *** fast
The fakes, always show their ID's so they never last.
Just as long as you watch them, playing play pretend
All those cover girls
Always get turn apart in the end
and be yourself, it's easier to remember your past.
Cause the people you past, on your path
Will rewrite history, telling their better half
like they wrote your first draft, and you lied about your last.
I rather mark my milestones, as cornerstones, so I don't lose track.
Looking back, I now where I've been going, and how to get back.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
youth will drain out of
this skin in waves, and
you come to me in light
light *light light*, smash
our teeth on collarbones
grooves where knuckle
grows into jaw, sacrifice
love on the cornerstones
when you sing of safety
and a land I have never
reached. when father calls
me daughter and I bleed
split lip syrup thick, two
glazed eyes of the celestial
city passing by push us in
as we pull ourselves out
here, here in between these
fingers in the palm that lies
gapes *gasps gasping* for
air all for a promise, the
prayers on the tip of my
tongue amen, *amen,
amen.*
(a.h.z)
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
*I tried to communicate with you
Bared out my soul on my lips and my emotions through my words
Made plain my darkest, most embarrassing insecurities and needs
Not withholding for a moment anything that put me at unease.
I laid my doubts before you: my heart battered, bruised and broken
Craving tender responses, and the gentle soothingness of your reassurance
But words led to arguments, and arguments to distance
As we traded accusations across like terpsichoreans in an impassioned dance
Till suddenly I found myself lonely... and alone
All because I had dared to dislodge emotional cornerstones
So words no longer became the path to emancipating my emotions
I swallowed up my feelings and let them simmer like a slow-brewing potion
For if you cannot feel my pain, laid plain through my words
Then perhaps you can perceive them in my Silence...*
#BlueRain
2017
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC