"damns" poems
In the early morning air
between the Londonderry hush of dreams
and the cry of Belfast on a weary morn
Where saddened eyes embody the twilight haze
of long past marches, the bewildering blaze
Of Beltane fires that scorch the hills
The world shudders to the battle cries
where brother to brother the war pitch fills
the saddened visions that over spills
That a Gaelic tongue can curse its own
To the bitter harvest of the Gael
That wipes away the blood dew
from these fields from which it grew
and damns itself in the pain and sorrow
That relives this war on every tomorrow.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 7:21 AM UTC
I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,
A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.
A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw
To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.
The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.
I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the slope,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back
And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,
Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,
And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.
Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:
He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:
Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
in her dreams
she sprouts like fresh seeds pressed into fertile dirt
she's constantly stretching farther and farther
in a futile attempt to finally reach the sun
she closes her eyes
and sees rows and rows of lemon trees and strawberries
mango groves and avocados
she loves to feed the earth
to give birth to something living that's incapable of denying
or betraying
her love
she wants to feed almost everyone she meets
set them down and wash their feet
fill their cups and watch them leave
she hopes that one day
someone will ask to stay
a boy whose heart is in need of mending
or a man with hands that could move mountains
maybe
one day
she wants a farm
a limitless garden to stretch as far as her eyes will let her see
maybe just a bohdi tree to sit beneath
a place to stay and wait to be buried by the leaves
just for now
anyway
she needs a home where she can be by herself without feeling alone
she needs somewhere that she's meant to be
supposedly
dreams are things we chase down dark alley ways
only to watch them escape us
she damns every man who says so
she's determined to catch up with every one of her dreams
yeah
a dream catcher of sorts
she puts on her gloves and steps out in the mud
ready to catch whatever the universe tosses her way
or even just the ripe fruit falling from the trees in her dreams
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
You people that say
“There aren’t any gays
In my race or church!”
You’re so wrong, I say.
You’re so wrong
It will be hard to get back
To right, you know,
Where you went off track.
You people that say
There are no gays
In our holy country
You’re wrong too, I say.
You’re hiding something
About yourself to say it.
You’re driving yourself crazy
The way you want to play it.
You people that say
“Jesus hates blacks and gays!”
You are totally wrong
That’s not what the book says.
You people that think
You know the path to heaven
Couldn’t find you way
If it was at the Seven Eleven.
You people that say
“God damns you people to hell!”
Haven’t read that book
Or understand it very well.
The book never has Jesus
To utter one punishing word.
So, where did it come from,
All that hatred you have heard?
You people that say
“There aren’t any gays
In my race or church!”
You’re so wrong, I say.
You’re so wrong
It will be hard to get back
To right, you know,
Where you went off track.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown’d in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the passing bell doth toll,
And the Furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the priest his last hath pray’d,
And I nod to what is said,
‘Cause my speech is now decay’d,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When, God knows, I’m toss’d about
Either with despair or doubt;
Yet before the glass be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tempter me pursu’th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the Judgment is reveal’d,
And that open’d which was seal’d,
When to Thee I have appeal’d,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
3.1k
Beneath the bends of Barrymore
On the southwest winds she chants some more
The clouds scoot by beneath the moon
Some say she's crazy like the loon
Dressed in black she cackles back
Tossing ashes from a sack
She throws her body down
And moans and sobs into the ground
A dagger she does draw it forth
Holding it up for all its worth
She shrieks and damns her birth
And plunges it deep into her heart . . .
So ends the life of the despised young **** . . .
Now the owls come silently in
Alighting next to still warm skin
All walk around the disposed young beast
Only uttering "Who" to say the least
Then the great owl comes fluttering in
He'd be a giant if he were made of men
He collectively surveys the scene
Takes a few steps before he says a thing
"Take her body to Evermoor"
The great one orders and implores
And all the owls take to wing
Holding the remains of the breathless thing
And take her earthly shell away
And as drops of blood fell from the flow
to the earth a white rose would grow
Leaving a trail
To the land as some will say
To the sacred woods of Evermoor
Yes sacredness in evermore
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
the storm blew in from the south
steaming hot tea filled my mouth
and the blanket hid my insecure legs
if reading will make me sound wise
then why do these tears fill my eyes
on this journey to lose my innocence
as i learn of new thoughts and new things
and learn how to pluck at the strings
my afternoon damns the fumbling thoughts
far away in the hells of despair
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was,
That 'Un I got so slick.
I couldn't see 'is face because
The night was 'ideous thick.
I just made out among the black
A blinkin' wedge o' white;
Then biff! I guess I got 'im crack --
The man I killed last night.
I wonder if account o' me
Some ***** will go *****
And 'eaps o' lives will never be,
Because 'e's stark and dead?
Or if 'is missis damns the war,
And by some candle light,
Tow-headed kids are prayin' for
The Fritz I copped last night.
I wonder, 'struth, I wonder why
I 'ad that 'orful dream?
I saw up in the giddy sky
The gates o' God agleam;
I saw the gates o' 'eaven shine
Wiv everlastin' light:
And then . . . I knew that I'd got mine,
As 'e got 'is last night.
Aye, bang beyond the broodin' mists
Where spawn the mother stars,
I 'ammered wiv me ****** fists
Upon them golden bars;
I 'ammered till a devil's doubt
Fair froze me wiv affright:
To fink wot God would say about
The bloke I corpsed last night.
I 'ushed; I wilted wiv despair,
When, like a rosy flame,
I sees a angel standin' there
'Oo calls me by me name.
'E 'ad such soft, such shiny eyes;
'E 'eld 'is 'and and smiled;
And through the gates o' Paradise
'E led me like a child.
'E led me by them golden palms
Wot 'ems that jeweled street;
And seraphs was a-singin' psalms,
You've no ideer 'ow sweet;
Wiv cheroobs crowdin' closer round
Than peas is in a pod,
'E led me to a shiny mound
Where beams the throne o' God.
And then I 'ears God's werry voice:
"Bill 'agan, 'ave no fear.
Stand up and glory and rejoice
For 'im 'oo led you 'ere."
And in a nip I seemed to see:
Aye, like a flash o' light,
My angel pal I knew to be
The chap I plugged last night.
Now, I don't claim to understand --
They calls me Bonehead Bill;
They shoves a rifle in me 'and,
And show me 'ow to ****
Me job's to risk me life and limb,
But . . . be it wrong or right,
This cross I'm makin', it's for 'im,
The cove I croaked last night.
2.7k
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”
“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?
cause be-ing
just
is a **** good one
way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets
words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...
so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?
and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?
use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:
“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”
so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly
6/25/18
10:25PM
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
Through the shadows.
Souls run around.
Through the fire.
Hell has come.
Beware his might.
His sword of darkness.
Beware the fear,
That envelopes your soul.
My love,
It has come.
My love,
It has begun.
Judgement damns your soul,
Welcome to the Underworld.
Fire, Stone, waves of fear.
Punishment is your reward.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
If you kiss him
I will still write you poems.
I see you
Walking a tightrope of a choice
Leaning one way and then the other.
I see you.
I see everything, even when I try not to.
It is the curse of somebody
Who fears to miss anything
Lest it sneak up.
I don't miss anything
And that protects and damns me in equal measure.
I am ready, in some way, for every blow
But the price of that
Is that I feel them in privacy, alone and rigid,
Before they even happen,
Whether
They even happen.
I have choices.
We all have choices.
All we have
Are choices.
I could make the choice to go cold like stone
And protect myself in case you
Are upstairs right now,
Kissing him tonight the way you kissed me
Last night.
I could make the choice to believe that there is nothing else that could possibly be happening,
And crumple in on myself like a fallen souffle,
Let myself feel soft and rotten inside like a fruit hidden in the grass
With perfect skin
And decay beneath.
Or
I could choose to trust you
That I am special
That I am something
That even if you are up there kissing him
I haven't lost just yet.
I could choose to remind myself that when I met you
You were his
And now you aren't
And that
Is more than I ever dared to hope for.
What is strong, darling?
Tell me what strong is.
I asked you with my eyes last night
And the answer I got was that at that moment
Strong was not something that mattered,
And I fell into that,
Tired and released, for once.
But I never did find out-
What
Is strong?
What am I
That I will still write you poems
Even if you forget me?
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Dolls and Damns
Drunkards and Drifts
Dimples and Darkess
Dank and Dreamy
I am trying to set free
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
The agnostics have gone
Cuckoo.
They have carefully lost their minds!
The profound and the loyal:
God among men.
The citizens and patriots
Are fighting the Devil in Dixie.
And in this world of
Sustained images of hope,
The shamrock and the
Sun-kissed face.
Oh the Sun, that purifies all that it touches
Damns all that it doesn't.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
i imagine her
beautiful and weary
damaged in the ways
that allow her
to sink down into my soft places
and fill the puzzle-piece gap
someone else left her with.
i imagine her
lovely and flawed
striking a match in my chest
and starting a flame in my belly
a forest fire of disaster
and absolute perfection.
i imagine her
soft and destructive
disassembling me at her worst
caressing me at her best
i imagine her
lonely and strong
a being built from
i-don’t-give-a-damns
and let-me-help-yous
i imagine her
there
quiet and beaming
imagining what i might be like.
i imagine her
thinking i’m the beautiful mess
that i think her to be
i imagine us both being wrong.
i imagine that
being the best part
about it.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
She wore flowers in her hair
And anger in her eyes
Had a strong hate for her father
And thought birthdays were stupid
He memorized every notch in her spine
And made a home for himself in the gaps between her fingers
Playing dot-to-dot with her freckles,
Became his new favorite hobby
Tattoos adorned his arms
Expressing himself in ways words never could, for ink could not stutter
He smoked too many cigarettes, and gazed at her through hooded eyes
The kind that could only be found in the depths of the alleyways you avoided
She looked at him as if he had hand selected the stars,
And was responsible for the moon
Right next to her love for the Rolling Stones, he was there
Swimming through her bloodstream
He had deceived himself into believing he did not love her
For she was his Abigail Williams
And she always said,
"God damns all liars"
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
Once a **** is given, one can not get it back.
I heard somewhere recently
that people are the most creative
at the times they think
that they are utterly useless:
like in the morning before getting coffee
or while surrounded by ******* co-workers who won't shut up about their stupid gun collection
(cause seriously, no one cares about how big your **** isn't, Phil.)
The amount of ***** anyone can give in a day varies based of many factors - the amount of sleep someone has the night before or if they ate breakfast that morning, for example, can determine how many ***** a person has to spare.
It is in that spirit - despite my better judgement -
I am writing to you at four AM.
Sitting in my underwear,
Forcing my eyes to stay open, licking my dust-dry lips.
and realizing that I forgot to brush my teeth -
I'm writing that tid-bit that down
in hopes it will embarrass me into making a proper oral hygiene choice
sometime in between when I finish writing this and before I pass out from exhaustion.
If someone deems a person or a situation not worth their emotional effort, they can choose to not give a **** despite having ***** they can give.
Today at work:
Everyone kept asking me if I was alright
I told them that I think so -
because, that's the truth.
But also because it's easier to say than
"I don't want to be here, and your face annoys me"
A **** is approximately two damns. A **** is two ***** and a **** is two rat's *****
I don't have much to say in this piece
So I'm hoping that self-deprecation
and artsy-fartsy stream of consciousness
still passes for decent poetry these days.
Taking a **** is morally objectionable.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
Deliverance is not delusional. No duhh!
Its definite, deliberate, and distinct,
and yours is long overdue!
Boo the damns and dooms.
Fight despite defeat.
Dance with victory.
Finally be free.
I dare you.
Discover divine deliverance
from within, down and deep...
[redeemed]
@desire.is.dope
20190318
0045HRS
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 12:57 AM UTC
in her dreams,
she sprouts like fresh seeds pressed into fertile dirt.
she's constantly stretching farther and farther
in a futile attempt to finally reach the sun.
she closes her eyes
and sees rows and rows of lemon trees and strawberries,
mango groves and avocados.
she loves to feed the earth,
to give birth to something living that's incapable of denying,
or betraying,
her love.
she wants to feed almost everyone she meets.
set them down and wash their feet,
fill their cups and watch them leave.
she hopes that one day,
someone will ask to stay.
a boy whose heart is in need of mending,
or a man with hands that could move mountains.
maybe, one day.
she wants a farm-
a limitless garden to stretch as far as her eyes will let her see.
maybe just a bohdi tree to sit beneath,
a place to stay and wait to be buried by the leaves.
just for now, anyway.
she needs a home where she can be by herself without feeling alone.
she needs somewhere that she's meant to be.
supposedly,
dreams are things we chase down dark alley ways,
only to watch them escape us.
she damns every man who says so.
she's determined to catch up with every one of her dreams-
yeah,
a dream catcher of sorts.
she puts on her gloves and steps out in the mud,
ready to catch whatever the universe tosses her way...
or even just the ripe fruit falling from the trees in her dreams.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, love him so beautiful just like a dream to me:>
when I look at you
take a guess
take a prey
in the ultimate no guarantee of a getaway
drowned on the ears I remember
a sweet float of a sad sad serenade in a mad December
and that carry for lips for the bravery and the thrill
them that of the one that would never be killed
and I know I'm not alone
by these damns I'll be guided and waved along
-------ravenfeels
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 4:33 PM UTC
Ok. So there are like about ten guys right. And they all are in love or falling in love with my sister. **Let me just tell you, if one of you ******** hurts her or harasses her I will find you and leave you broken. I don't even give two damns if your in another state or country. I will fly to your *** and knock you the **** out.** My sister is too good for ya'll. You'se need to lower the testosterone levels and find a girl where you live. My sister is sixteen and half you guys hitting on her are like in your mid-twenties. There is only one guy for her. Just one, and you know who you are. We message sometimes. **But for the rest of ya'll, ******* mess with my sister and I will personally send you into hell. God help me!**
Thank you for reading and listening to my bantering.
Questions and comments can be posted her or messaged to me. Have a nice night or day, wherever you live.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
Selfish clam
gives no damns.
Angry wiener
is not a winner.
Bad ***
All ***
No ***
Good ***
Drunken folly,
me so solly.
Moaning rapture.
Fluids capture.
Right ***
Old ***
New ***
Wrong ***
Did you know that if you have one ball bigger than the other it is hard to eloquently pull of a bullfrog with your sack?
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
Priests are a plague,
whispering of false Deities;
that tear us apart.
Christianity teaches you to hate;
thyself, thy neighbor,
and thine own world.
and you still go to Hell.
Christianity is a Plague,
preaching to us about
a pathetic excuse of a God,
who gave us free will,
and now hates us for having it.
Christianity is a Plague,
preaching to us how we should
feel
act
worship.
How we should
forgive
forget
and repent.
No matter what,
Christianity is a Plague
whose morals preach nothing but self hatred.
Christianity teaches you;
You cannot be happy without God.
You are nothing without God.
No matter how much you try to appease God;
You can't.
No matter how hard you try to be devout,
you cannot accomplish it.
Christianity teaches us,
that when we die,
Hell is inevitable,
unless you're a Saint.
Christianity teaches us,
that everything we do is bad,
we are incapable of good,
we are all ******
Unless we give up everything that makes us Human,
God shuns you and Damns you and doesn't look back,
because we are sinners.
Christianity teaches us that we are sinners,
we are nothing but sinners,
and we have to hate all sinners.
So why does no one see,
that we waste our money,
on a Pious Plague,
instead of spending
on something that can actually make a difference in the world.
So much
hate
despair
war
famine
lies
hurt
and malice
could have been avoided,
if we actually spent time
trying to fix things
instead of trying to believe in someone
who clearly doesn't give a **** about us.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC