"cowing" poems - Hello Poetry

I am afraid that I might hurt you when I carry you That these hands – tired, calloused, and clumsy Might not know how to hold a gift as precious as you Son, I wish I could show you the beauty of the world Sneak out of the house after dinner, away from your mother And watch fireflies while listening to the chorus of crickets at night I wish I could answer all your questions and sate your heart’s wonder Catch a dew as it rises and trace its path as it falls again as rain I want you to open your eyes See a much brighter world; not like mine which is perpetrated by my silly fears I wish God would give you great hands One that would be so powerful that it would not be afraid to hold a basketball or a bicycle But one that is gentle that it would hold mine and not let go as I grow older How I wish, as you grow older, to give all of these to you But son, how can I teach you of courage and valor When inside your father’s chest beats a heart of a fearful dog; cowing in terror You deserve someone who has a heart of a lion; brave and strong like a true champion Still, I see you as possible I need to see your smile to dispel my many terrors I need to see you get up when you stumble so that I may let go of my failures and always move forward I need to see you sleep so I may sleep Need to see you cry so that I too can cry I want you to like me To see me To see me now, in moments like this Your father stays awake, gazing at your sleeping face Fumbling as he reaches down to carry you Being ever so gentle so that you might not wake I am still afraid that I might hurt you as I carry you But I need to feel the warmth of your skin Like my breath needs air to live for 10:18:08.23:30

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May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC

joseph-alvin-s-pena

An Appeal to My Newborn

I am afraid that I might hurt you when I carry you That these hands – tired, calloused, and clumsy Might not know how to hold a gift as precious as you Son, I wish I could show you the beauty of the world Sneak out of the house after dinner, away from your mother And watch fireflies while listening to the chorus of crickets at night I wish I could answer all your questions and sate your heart’s wonder Catch a dew as it rises and trace its path as it falls again as rain I want you to open your eyes See a much brighter world; not like mine which is perpetrated by my silly fears I wish God would give you great hands One that would be so powerful that it would not be afraid to hold a basketball or a bicycle But one that is gentle that it would hold mine and not let go as I grow older How I wish, as you grow older, to give all of these to you But son, how can I teach you of courage and valor When inside your father’s chest beats a heart of a fearful dog; cowing in terror You deserve someone who has a heart of a lion; brave and strong like a true champion Still, I see you as possible I need to see your smile to dispel my many terrors I need to see you get up when you stumble so that I may let go of my failures and always move forward I need to see you sleep so I may sleep Need to see you cry so that I too can cry I want you to like me To see me To see me now, in moments like this Your father stays awake, gazing at your sleeping face Fumbling as he reaches down to carry you Being ever so gentle so that you might not wake I am still afraid that I might hurt you as I carry you But I need to feel the warmth of your skin Like my breath needs air to live for 10:18:08.23:30

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Loyalty makes a loser out of me Deciding that the overriding emotion Should rule my reason Allowing the cowing to familial bonds I am stuck in a sour situation Facing no hope for improvement Leaving this life with no secret delusion The confusion of right and wrong Stains my last shirt It hurts because I am stuck in a blender A ****** of identity Between my father figure and me Wanting and doing something better for myself Would make a traitorous liar out of me The guilt would devour me hour by hour The freedom would empower me Give me time to build a better me So how do I decide

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Jan 16, 2015

Jan 16, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC

graff1980

Moving Out

Loyalty makes a loser out of me Deciding that the overriding emotion Should rule my reason Allowing the cowing to familial bonds I am stuck in a sour situation Facing no hope for improvement Leaving this life with no secret delusion The confusion of right and wrong Stains my last shirt It hurts because I am stuck in a blender A ****** of identity Between my father figure and me Wanting and doing something better for myself Would make a traitorous liar out of me The guilt would devour me hour by hour The freedom would empower me Give me time to build a better me So how do I decide

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At ringend on june sixteenth nineteen hundred and four Molly opens her door and Literate Leopold plonks his kosher black pudding into her hand Isn't it grand to be remembered this way? Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children Searching for meat on O'Connel streeet that has the tang of scented ***** The well known literate degenerates long to have their hot-dogs stroked by baaaaaaaaaarnacles whilst sellin' knick-nack Paddywackery of dear old ***** dumpling How do they walk with her sausages and inner organs of beasts and fowls? their shanks ****** dry of whuskey on Denny's big breakfast show Well **** your **** With a flame-grilled samuel becket burger and a side order of oscar wilde fries "warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yeilded amid rumpled clothes. Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments. Armpits oniony sweat . Fishgluey slime. Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions Young! Young! In the petri- Pish Pish Pish Dish spitoon culture the illiteraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaati hold a party "I'm a tiny tiny thing Ever flying in the spring Round and round a ringaring Long ago I was king Now I do this kind of thing On the wing, onnnnnnnn the wing!" Bing! Professor Latelate Lateshow Late review Was talking to ME…….. about yew What do yew think of that aesthetic crew? The opal hush poets? The master mystiks? The wanz thit *** to me in the sma' oors o the mournin' tae ask aboot plains o consciousness? They're all Barbers, says he, from the Black Country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses! In Dublin's fine city Where the wine bars are pretty You can't find an ashtray You must smoke alone. Isn't it grand To be remembered this way Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children?

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Jun 15, 2019

Jun 15, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC

johnny-solstice

BLOOMSDAY

At ringend on june sixteenth nineteen hundred and four Molly opens her door and Literate Leopold plonks his kosher black pudding into her hand Isn't it grand to be remembered this way? Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children Searching for meat on O'Connel streeet that has the tang of scented ***** The well known literate degenerates long to have their hot-dogs stroked by baaaaaaaaaarnacles whilst sellin' knick-nack Paddywackery of dear old ***** dumpling How do they walk with her sausages and inner organs of beasts and fowls? their shanks ****** dry of whuskey on Denny's big breakfast show Well **** your **** With a flame-grilled samuel becket burger and a side order of oscar wilde fries "warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yeilded amid rumpled clothes. Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments. Armpits oniony sweat . Fishgluey slime. Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions Young! Young! In the petri- Pish Pish Pish Dish spitoon culture the illiteraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaati hold a party "I'm a tiny tiny thing Ever flying in the spring Round and round a ringaring Long ago I was king Now I do this kind of thing On the wing, onnnnnnnn the wing!" Bing! Professor Latelate Lateshow Late review Was talking to ME…….. about yew What do yew think of that aesthetic crew? The opal hush poets? The master mystiks? The wanz thit *** to me in the sma' oors o the mournin' tae ask aboot plains o consciousness? They're all Barbers, says he, from the Black Country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses! In Dublin's fine city Where the wine bars are pretty You can't find an ashtray You must smoke alone. Isn't it grand To be remembered this way Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children?

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