"declarative" poems
The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.
It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk with
a middle-aged bitterness
of the man you were raised
to believe was too virtuous
to be in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him—
The man whose love confused you,
whose clumsy attempts
of fatherhood
kept the heart of a young girl
perpetually guarded
by a cautious skepticism—
The man who brought you into
a world he found absurd
as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.
More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner
with the two of them a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (though
you’d feel like a traitor
if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.
In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children I may ever bear
into this bittersweet game of ********
we play that we’ve since called ‘life,’
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems to navigate
the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
You asked me my name in your first remark
We sat on opposite ends of a question mark
You were dashing - made me pause,
me, this independent clause
standing alone,
I made sense on my own
But I answered you anyway.
Ellipses.
Now you are the verb in my heart’s contraction
I am the subject and you are the action
An Interrogative with a Declarative reaction
An Exclamatory and then an Imperative attraction
Ellipses.
Your lips ease
Me, the direct object of your affection,
but never sentenced to an apostrophe’s possession
perhaps more true- a plural “s” suggestion
and the excitement behind an exclamation point’s inflection
The semi-colon understands
We can be on our own, but we want to stand
together
where our letters
aren’t fetters,
but the typesetter’s
better measure
of linguistic pleasure.
We communicate through metaphors and similes
Like the birds and the bees
We speak across homophone lines
to keep a census of our senses at all times
Because words said aloud have allowed
us to find meaning behind the utterance of sound-
mere words and phrases
jumping off of pages
into brain and heart and soul
when the parts become a whole
And with the syntax, punctuation, grammar, and usage
I’m a hopeless semantic always trying to ****** it
Language- yours I understand through the myriad.
Words can’t capture you. Period.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.
It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk
of the man you were raised
to believe
was too virtuous to be
in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him.
The man who brought you into
the world as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.
More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner with them
a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (even though
you’d feel like a traitor if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.
In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children
I may ever bring
into this ******** little game that
goes by the name of “life,”
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems
to be navigating the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays
**as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off**
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen better days.
I have read betterdays.
now I am upset, distraught.
here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.
her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.
l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
*siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world*
better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father
*little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.*
don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:
*him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.*
let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.
so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.
somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
Feb. 2015
this writ,
content so obvious,
it begs,
why even bother...
Pen Man Ship
this is who you are,
this is your scent, scripted,
the parfume that memory triggers
declarative self-examination passing grades
if pen and paper
are your skin and blood,
then you, man,
ship to shore,
skinned alive,
in poems verbose spill all
ship in ship out,
the glories and the dreads,
expel ink oceans glorious India blue,
rivulets of tributaries,
spillages of what~where,
you are pen
you are man
you are ship
where intersect these routed things,
one is voyage~bound
for parts unknown
the pen be the oar,
and the man, the ship,
and when the sails raised,
the wind never fails,
only there is no
dead reckoning -
for there are no
landmarks observable
when sit~stand
to commence sail~writing
each writ a latitude recorded,
each poem a longitude drawn,
all together, a
body of work,
all together,
your life's coursework
is the captain's log
Pen is the Man is the Ship
in everyday words
he answers
the questions life poses,
in everyday words,
he realizes
the answers he (doesn't) posses,
with each passing poem
the ship, righted,
though the heading
remans unknown
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Are we all not idioms,
peculiar to ourselves
in construct and meaning?
Are not all of us
syntactical anomalies?
Do we not all have elliipses,
lacunae, egregious gaps
in our beings? Lack of
parallel construction in
our lives, dangling like
participles, a pronoun
without its antecedent?
Are not our lives run-
on sentences handed
up by unconscious wishes
and unmet needs? Too
bad we could not be
more declarative and
less rhetorical or
imperative.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
Totally like whatever, you know?
by Taylor Mali
In case you hadn’t noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you’re talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you’re saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)’s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren’t, like, questions? You know?
Declarative sentences—so-‐called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true, okay,
as opposed to other things are, like, totally, you know, not—
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don’t think I’m uncool just because I’ve noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It’s like what I’ve heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I’m just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?
What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we’ve just gotten to the point where it’s just, like . . .
whatever!
And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we’ve become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!
I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically
and of course his name
his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son
they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?
Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us,
the
Holy Ghost of Rhyme
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
“The less a man makes declarative statements,
The less apt he is to look foolish in retrospect.”
This was said by someone’s elderly relation
He uttered the words as though they were his own creation.
Turned his tongue with a playful phrase
In hopes it would eleviate his grandson's new phase
The words quickly sunk
Lifting the boy from his flunk.
The child left his life to resume
As he began to pen a script called “Four Rooms”
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
He’s a ***** of in-
tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity.
What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me.
No one understands his esoteric complexity.
He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other
“practical” participation by the particularities.
Part of all that not even he fully understands.
Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism
He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung.
His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung
Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky?
“Unfair Question” he cries.
“Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies.
My brain is numb after one question, and a few words.
He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?”
Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes.
“Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?”
He must be on drugs.
A little philosophy makes a man an atheist.
A lot makes him a believer,
just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine.
Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign
Of conviction.
What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality?
What the hell were you thinking about?
He responds.
A stream of consciousness is all that is,
past is a referent future is a predicate.
I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.”
No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me.
For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without.
If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing.
I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him,
I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her.
“Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.”
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC
“*You are so kind.
Thank you with all the
resolve
in my heart.”*
J.V.
<>
A thank you note,
for a simple shining-of-light,
stuns me into inspiration,
deep chested thrombosis consternations and calculations,
palpitations of the boom-boom variety,
signaling the onset of intracranial contractions
of a new birth~poem
aborning…
who of us these days,
speaks of the resolve in our hearts?
who of us free confesses deep natured thanks,
it is almost too old fashioned.
it is powerful.
it is a thanks that
powers the wattage sufficiency
to light up a city entire,
and even though inward focused,
it yet is shedding Moses-like
light beams
heavenward,
I wrack my heart to even comprehend,
that simplest of actions reciprocal:
1/Thank You
can it, (it can!)
steel the heart,
give its truthfulness a special
power, and more than resolve,
even solves
our equation solution
so elegantly is the endless searching for the
right way to give thanks, to receive thanks,
it is a mutual gifting, for our mutuality is of
two hearts, echoing the words of
all legislative bodies:
”Be it Resolved”
what is this resolution then?
the consummate of English words
with such a variety of shadings,
requiring a declarative,
not a narrative,
consummation
be it resolved,
that two resolute hearts
shall not depart this Earth
before their arms interlocute an
embrace,
the shadows of their eyes interlock,
casting away
interfering long distances,
a single atmosphere shall
be tasted, inhaled,
by their
combinatory sensories
then and only then:
their resolve tested
and surpassed
will their poem
commencé et terminé,
begun and completed
The Emotion is Carried
<<>>
“*The gender-neutral name Jamadhi comes
from Arabic origins, meaning “beauty.”
When thinking about all the beautiful
things in the world, your little one, with
their kind demeanor and bright smile,
no doubt springs to mind! But a name
simply meaning “beauty” doesn’t only
refer to their appearance. This name
is a reflection of their beautiful little
soul, too, on a journey through this world.
Baby Jamadhi could be a gentle soul
or the fiercest of little childon the playground,
but no matter what, a name meaning
“beauty” will always ring true.”
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 3:28 AM UTC
we make love to sounds echoed in language
knee deep
breathless
and escalating
intimacy guided by tongue
**** are the clingy letters you match to declarative words
you are the best show-and-tale
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
The whiskey bottle is empty.
Now there is a sufficiently
sad sentence. Succinct, too.
It speaks a grave-side quiet,
as when emptiness is all.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
Five words leading only
to a garbage can.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
The simple, declarative,
syntax of nothing.
- mce
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 10:24 AM UTC
Talking in declarative circles
Grabbing you by the wrist
Don't detest as you utter in cackles
Trust me I insist
Pulling you to the center of your attention
I write in rhythm not in rhyme
Go ahead alleviate the tension
A new beginning intensifies through the time
Forgetting the bouts that we once fought
Learning to love one another
Remembering the life lessons we've been taught
Coming to understand the earth mother
Devotion to an ocean of imaginative thought
May seem imperative at first glance
However these gifts will always be brought
With each passing moment will come with a brand-new chance
An occasional opportunity may knock at your door
For the first time in your lifetime you'll accept it's power
Spread your wings as you take to the crystaline blue skies, Soar
Your standards will have no need to lower
As long as you believe in yourself
Trusting deep within
Medals of honor upon the shelf
Out taking life for a spin
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 10:31 AM UTC
Downriver...crystalline ventricles
gurgling, bedded stones believe
rest--greenhorn's hymnal.
Land kept at your sides, passed
and passing, love's dicast.
Gushed alter of the wayfarer,
perfect turn of phrase--spurred onward
gravity's lane.
A commingling smoke of candle and
incense--bird's parallel, lucid Coming...
divined gauge.
Euphoric to be had of earth,
overflow at rain's touch.
Errant yonder, solvent sketch...
at-long-last's monotone declarative.
Soul's minutiae in plain, downriver...
downriver...downriver.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
A kiss is a sentence
it may run-on and on and...
stop, step off, take a breath.
A kiss is complex
if you're young or inexperienced;
but not to worry;
with time, it's enigmatic.
A kiss is compounded,
when confounded and complex:
and should you try expounding it;
your kiss may lead to ***
A kiss that is declarative
is indicative not imperative.
A kiss can be inverted;
that's diverted, not perverted.
(or vice versa)
A kiss is exclamatory,
As in, "Not now!" "I'm sorry!"
A kiss is.
A fragment of a kiss.
At osculum interrupta.
When is a kiss too questionable?
When it's probing, or incredible.
My advice.
Skip the semantics.
Don't parse stars and moon.
Just
Keep It Simple Stupid
Full stop
(or not...)
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
What the **** is Cuck?
It’s a brand new ***** word
If you’ve been called a cuck
You should know that you’ve been slurred
You may have come across it
While browsing the Interweb
And seen it used insultingly
When describing a Bush called Jeb
It’s short for the old word Cuckhold
But given a new spin
It’s used to insult someone who’s committed
the Political Correctness sin.
If I may be declarative,
The word is simply horrible,
Be ye liberal or conservative
I’d say it’s quite deplorable
The Donald is no cuck, for sure
When he utters dog whistles like this -
If he says “blood comes out of her ‘whatever’”
The true meaning you just can’t miss
Or when he said the Second Amendment People
Might take care of our dear Hillary
Of whom he impugned would eliminate guns
And promised that he would pillory
Apologies are for sissies
Don’t wait for a pivot or turn
Was it voter suppression that rigged the election?
One day, we may learn
Cuck is the word of the day
Like some chirp made by Pepe the Frog
A new epithet from the far alt-right
Who follow our new demagogue
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
A gala of life,
A crowd humming with melody.
Heaving each hand above,
Waving with the gust itself.
As the spotlight has smacked me,
Perhaps, just perhaps –
That’s the time when he first noticed me,
At the backside, I assumed, there he stood.
The song was brought to a close,
I see people with their hands ready.
I was about to loom them,
But with someone’s gaze, this chap has trapped me.
How lofty man is he,
For when I’m in 5’3,
I calculated our slits;
His black hair outshines the lights,
And that led me to not look at him directly.
His words are about to be spoken,
And left it with a declarative verdict.
For he's about to ask me a question,
That jiffy, I never had spite in psyche.
Asked me with my name,
And I even gave him a reply.
It seems hard for him to understand,
With a brunt, the mob has left a mark.
There was a silence,
But his hands came near mine –
Offering me a handshake as a usual greeting;
I gave him a hand and smiles reflected back.
“What year are you?” he asked,
“Fourth year,” I uttered with respect.
He even asked over my course,
That’s why I thought he discern someone I know.
And it looks as if he hates digits,
And yet told me I was excellent with that –
Without even knowing,
My trouble zone was Math.
I was direct with my words,
As questions were raised by this man.
I don’t know why I responded him,
Or maybe just to give him a reverence.
As someone uttered my name,
I turned back from this guy.
With such proverbial voice,
I seek out where the origin is.
With the seats to which my eyes were hub,
The same guy had advanced me.
“Where d’you live?” he posed;
And I pointed out where it is.
The tête-à-tête was ‘kinda rude,
And we just sit where our things are.
With his eyes, looking at me
I felt mindful where it’d lead.
After that service, I was about to go;
Finding a friend to join me with a way home;
And with his red top,
I saw him with a look yet keen.
*I don't know why. I don't know how. Oh! C'mon! I'm being distracted.
(3/17/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Head aching
Thunderous throbbing throng
Smacking back and forth
Round and round this skull
Water, water God! please
Heal my sickness
Thud slowly, carefully down the stairs
Kitchen? Light switch?
Water water where's the water
Fumbling hazeiness
A hand in the blind reaches out,
Gruffly silhouetted standing leaned
Against the Darkness
A military slouch in shadow
He spoke with a bellow
“Look, you drink too much, it’s not good for health”
**** off you old ****
“Trust me don't touch the poison,
Look after yourself!”
With the mighty declarative of this sort
He rose from the casual to a grumpy trot
Past the light revealing old sad Ernest
He's one to ******* talk.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
I’m a sucka for long eyelashes,
wishful sighs punctuating long
skyward gazes, endlessly searching
for answers to questions as of yet,
unasked,
thus is my manly melancholy primary
tasked,
or rather,
my hurry up need fix for tender loving
by a man who writes me poems that are this fem’s,
as in feminine, as in all mine, even down
to the unwrit, declarative dedication that, is powerful
whispered, avec a-graze~touch
upon my cheek,
“I wrote this for you,”
oh gawd, I even love him despite
his horrible pink sneakers…
ugly to almost ning cute…
BC
May 4, 2024
May 4, 2024 at 10:31 AM UTC
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when you haven't invited me?
You float declarative plans in the air,
and I'm left to jump and catch them, hungrily,
eagerly in a craze to see you, to feel you,
to hug my thighs to your waist desperately.
If I do so, I'm left waiting for my plea to be seen.
Waiting for you to be clean.
Waiting with no self esteem.
But this is our love.
And I will oblige, and not be stubborn
like you call me.
I will succumb to your efforts to be "cool
calm and collected," and unaffected by me.
Is that not it? Is it because you fear of rejection?
You tell me you don't know how to ask for my companionship.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
It's not like I'm not your lady, and you, not my man.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when the air is a bitter cake around us?
Our comfort is a milk we squeezed from my *****
and now I've only drips that your sighs of frustration
soak up every time I express my desires.
I've learned to swallow my words,
because I am lady, and not mama or baby, but the trauma
from the near past has made me wary.
No, I do not want to wait indefinitely for your ideas to play out.
For you to accept my plea to come with you.
I rather know when to be ready, so I can be myself,
and not be your beg-to-come pet.
Does it bother you that I want to be treated with respect?
Or from you, is that too much to expect?
Am I too much, is this too much, what is too much in your head?
Too many questions, to you, enough is said.
You treat me with silence, and I treat you in bed.
Whose anger is healthier? I don't know either.
But lets start with questions we can both answer.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
Yes,
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me, love, so I can come with you.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
1 thank you
—- = —————
X I love you
Teach: Solve For X
X is 1, thank you = I love you
if you are lucky, lucky to be adjudged trustworthy,
someone’s ******** inside insights freely given,
unexpected with no disclaimer, no red stop sign,
“danger ahead,” after all, you inquired sincerely
you caught out breathless, the big data absorption
rate is exceeded, but you understand this tidal wave,
formed thousands of miles away, you and your silly
notions of ‘learning from love,’ aye, were the trigger!
you understand this gale force long in the forming,
the unleashing a cleansing, a self-tallying evaluation,
a crooked trail of struggle, optimism, recovery, both
a reliving and a relieving, and an entree to relief living
and you, fancy shaman, you wordysmith, understand,
you’ve been appointed a trustee of someone’s heart,
can only best muster is an ineloquent encompassing
“thank you,”^
acknowledging a bond you’ve granted, a bond accepted
and overwhelmed by this Rubicon crossing invitation,
you can’t yet blather, pry, think small, just acknowledge
this gunshot across the bow landed squarely tween eyes,
sensing, hoping that this simple response was pitch perfect
minutes later, you receive a summary judgment, to wit
an entirely unexpected
“I love you,”
a declarative, simple equation, understanding that it’s
a spontaneous gush, with no judgment, no risk, pure
acceptance is purely sufficient, that it comes with an
overwhelmingly baked-in affection for,
you, fool,
for just being there, for asking, for learning, eyes tearing, if
you, fool,
have love within you, then you should give it, give it,
give it
3:53 PM
Tue. Jul 21
Twenty Twenty
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 4:04 PM UTC
Still small movements.
Thump.
Heavy thump.
Its the beat of your heart,
It gives warning to keep moving,
fighting, dreaming, and ******* believing.
Believing in who the hell you were designed, contoured, birthed to be.
What sir is the drum of your heart?
Does it move to the rhythm of our mothers laugh,
Tempo of our grandmother's love,
or rapid cadence of our grandfather's
words?
Does his words to propel you?
Do they elevate you to fight,
Fight for the right to be whoever the **** you want to be?,
To be the voice of declarative reason,
Or the man who laughs and cries without reason for fear?
Are you the man that bundles pain for harvest,
Like a miner to coal in anticipation for the cold season?
Are you the preparer?
I tell you what I believe,
I believe you are a bold product of the past,
yet powerful reactant for the future.
I believe you are a warrior and King.
But what do you believe?
Tell me Anthony, what is the drum of your heart?
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
Flying through the crisp air
Waving like my freedom fine
In declarative mind
This is for you
Because I believe the opposite
That somewhere between your extreme and my distaste
Lies the truth
This is what I find
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 12:23 PM UTC
six trees gathered, a single stand,
looking for a gathering, standing of four more,
a prayer circle to make, branch to branch
holding onto each other, to have their bark better
heard, the question on the table, today’s agenda:
why must trees die?
overheard their human querying same, the proud trees
too, puzzled, sending their inquiry to the heavens that
feed them never failing, water to quench a rooted deep
thirst, their role, job description well understood, purposed
to shade the world, give off fruit, so tasked, so asked:
why must trees die?
Caught the busy Lord unawares, dealing with seasonal pandemics,
endemic hatred from the frailings of human weakness, who honor
pretense by their mouth moving, but don’t believe their enunciation,
oh! tiresome battlefront, millions of casualties inflicted on each other,
Lord could not countenance another self-interested questioning of his earthly architecture
why must trees die?
on a beautiful paradisal day, cumulus whites decorating a blue coloratura that never be quite replicated, quieting, five-sense waters at ease, minimal moving, lunching noon hour,the birds, insects, rabbits all retired to cooling reservoirs, munch, gnaw, pollinate, yet the trees misjudge the sun dial iris quietude in the manger, the grove, as the Lord’s good graceful forgiving demeanor, therefore shocking, disbelieving the unforgiving ruthlessness of a deity of love, so the
cracking of a single bolt of punishing, purposed lighting, that knocked all the trees down, single blow, roots embruing, ember glowed, a “sounding” the world hears unoften, unremitting, not understanding its other-worldliness, so rare appearing when an actualized answer is returned, declarative, tangible, glorious words:
because I am who I am, The Eternal, alone, who keeps the imperfect balance of all my creations, without oversight, asking only from them
acceptance of things beyond earthly comprehension...
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 8:20 AM UTC