"decreeing" poems
Standing beneath black skies' hush,
cold rains' fall a stimulating touch
bringing rise to forbearance
forcing stormcells to pressured positions
above our expanse.
These words escape to nothing.
Thick air mixed in
with each vowel of smoke,
straining to glimpse beyond
those choked fragments.
I caught your shadow
skirting the edge of visions
and slipping past my bounds.
You were cloaked in millennia,
time soaked from downpours
seemingly lost of origins,
be they long past
or still forecast,
you were,
falling drops rolling
from silken hair
still bruised in memory,
forgoing present presentation
to reacquaint opportunity
with overlooked encounters.
Soaked to soul,
the ripples spread quick
stepping to the plane of...
...wait,
where are you...
when are we...
...will you be?..
...or have we been
lost in relativity
and escaping in
each word I breathe.
Comprehension critical,
compassionate clouds constantly
reminding of drowning you out,
professing this changing view
in hallowed hurricane whispers.
An angel you became,
living upon these grounds
your plague, living on,
earthly existence anathema,
each second foreword
another progression of
decreeing beating heart
a final concerto, Ava Maria
your soliloquy, serenading
dreams in a missing tongue,
with dying tone
and a pulse set out for loan.
Loneliness my investment,
appreciating until the light was blinding,
pain breaking anthems,
scaling back to feed off
what was left.
I missed our true nature until it was reflex,
illumination only brief glimpses of a passed future,
grief developing to timelines sutures,
bleeding blending was
and has,
with will be still the memory
I'm forced to foresee.
Broken in neutrality,
droplets still caressing the shadow
skirting the corner of my eye.
Your life was short,
I let us die far too young.
Consider it your sacrifice,
the reason for the crying clouds
whose pain soothes these brainstorms
vented through cigarette breaks
wasted pouring words
to howling winds.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC
Weaving itself, the dream-spider:
I see an aged man
(Wearing his evening time-machined body,)
Walking,
Traipsing upon the jogging track
At a pace which nature observes.
His frame battered,
Pummeled by age's indignation—
Of youth's battle lost.
His mowed grass-like hair showcasing
a white hue patented by age's theme of perseverance.
Beholden to years which he beheld.
His suspenders holding matter elegantly
Despite the invisible mass adhered to his layers
Excreted by years matured;
Increasing his gravity
Making him denser, heavier;
Decreeing excess energy.
Yet he obliges with his compromised gait
in reiterating verbs of motion.
Taking twice as much time to complete a revolution,
Taking twice as much
As his yesteryears.
In a witness's capacity, I relay:
Everything is a disciple of change,
But your energy...
Your energy remains as the constant
to the proportionality of age and will.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 5:33 AM UTC
If I ever were to describe myself, I would be despondent.
Never happy when alone.
When with others, I would be absorbed into their feelings.
But really, my feelings couldn't be faced.
If I ever could depict my past, The painting would be bland.
A lone grey figure struck against a white wall.
The child without love nor maternal instinct.
Paying for survival with absolute compliance.
If I ever told you what I was thinking right now, I'd be lying.
Surrounded by a thousand paper target in a warehouse.
Suffering through your interrogation.
And you dare call it conversation.
I remember shouting at myself.
Decreeing my own hell.
Whispering in that sullen terrifying voice.
"You are the epitome of nothing, unable to love or be loved."
In truth, I was loved.
I was loved and cared for.
My love, was conditional, it was always paid for.
And for that payment I will never love back.
If I ever wrote you a poem, disregard it.
My words are better off in the sea.
Closing the book on my heart.
You, who loved me.
I, who needed you.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful
alienation, expulsion, ostracization
from body politick
if member of society resistant,
indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
(across the figurative board)
intolerance opposing ethos,
asper unspoken social graces extant
(albeit manifested amidst diverse
livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas
automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
challenging precepts via rave and/or rant
thus when born into whatever culture,
steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
til ivy blue in the face,
or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost
hence creative pursuits one direction
can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
with perceived restrictive parameters
and cuss like a sailor
with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
With The Stars), or
choosing subterfuge viz
writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer
daemons spring to life, when computer code
following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler
(case in point - myself, hoot
ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
greater reason to rage
against the machine before
turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
with equal pay, cuz a working wage
aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
of this pooch iz gaseous
boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
with other nerdy mutts.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
First the child, who squeals at the foaming waves and sniffs the salt in the air, distracted and amazed by the colours of the sand.
Then, the teen, trying to hide carefree bliss behind hair fondled by the sea breeze.
Suddenly, the proud parent, presiding over all and remembering the days when they were but a child theirself.
First the child, clutching their plastic ***** and diving into the soft, scorching powder.
Then, the teen, who sighs in apparent derision whilst hiding the longing to play.
Suddenly, the exhausted parent, buried and towed and made to inspect various pits of faith.
First the child, clumsily scooping handfuls of damp, soothing grains.
Then, the teen, sighing and crouching to help whilst decreeing helping is not "playing".
Suddenly, the knowing parent, catches the eyes of them both and nods a nod of serenity.
First the child, studding twisted shells like wavering mountains dotted across a globe by a clumsy god.
Then, the teen, rolling their eyes as they arrange a symmetrical formation of emotion.
Suddenly, the grinning parent, watching as two formidable castles become a fortress of hope.
And then?
The tide
Took them all
Away
And the castle's glittering flag washed calmly against the shore.
Until
The child
Could come
Again
And there it waits still...next to the misshapen lump of sand that was once a fortress of dreams.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Somewhere I sit beneath a tree
& elsewhere that tree sits beneath me
Somewhere there are people who speak colors
or else they cry for what they see
Somewhere lay a thousand eyes upon us
deep within clouds we do not pierce
& somewhere else the plants have voices
men are silent, they've ceased to be
Somewhere the moonlight tints the morning
& the sun does not set; it refuses
Somewhere all that is will be upon us
in an instant; all insanity
rends the minds of logic
granting bird-calls to the one who's truly free
Somewhere still, the all-at-onceness
strikes in holy totality
& decreeing that the sky must now be parted
to draw distinction between o'er the deepest sea
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC
Platinum framed mirroring you writing your song prose
Getting what’s mind, decreeing like in a new age western frontier
In this town with its millions of light lookin’ like star clusters
Fate says, my road’s lamps need reinventing, they don’t understand
But dareling with precise gold mine ears, please hear this call
Add more made-up brightness, enthralled, enthrall
Tell me I’ve the music to match a torch soul
Sunset sound, saying dream, stay up a little longer
Send me to your madly sought paradise
Flareling monied with cinemascope electricity, send me
Embarking as an ember fueled by nearing iconic fires
Not very long now til there’s light enough to read my prayer, this emblem
It goes, American paradise, novel sunshine
This is what I think of driving towards the brightest sky
Volume louder, like the progress through this score
Chose the teaching, try for the best reel, all play, dreams beget reality
Tropicana, records, street signs, finally shameless of my persistence
Fantastic, still on this road of escape thru golden seasons to noon Sunday
Looking up, thought it all strange but brilliant, even shooting stars have an end
So I don’t care
Sitting by the fountain, hearing it say one thing, it went live oh live
Stealing from the poet laurete’s treasured inspiration, and I don’t feel bad.
Wondering at the azure ripples, song verses shimmer like ‘em,
Long hair gleams, statuesque eyes, mysterious surprising only way to live
They said beware through tears, I say, it’s alright to be scared
Rather ask for paradise and rush there before the answer
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
Circa Holy Roman Empire
between ninth
and thirteenth century
after common era
(approximately 800 AD and 1200 AD)
benchmark year 780 bracketed
Benedictine monks
of Corbie Abbey
devised cheeky guttural lingual rapartee
vis a vis European
calligraphic standard script inked lined
writ via extant Irish and English monastic
members nsync
strong influence of Irish literati
eased communication
popular Latin cognoscenti
common lingua franca
spawned Carolingian Renaissance
Codices, pagan and Christian text
plus educational material
written viz Carolingian minuscule
Emperor Charlemagne issued prescription
(hence named Carolingian)
boosted unified modus operandi
he advocated learning,
though somewhat illiterate
recognized value of education
predicated on singular
codified regional alphabet,
the then webbed wide world
linkedin, sans uniform symbolic shapes
uncontested salient advantage
offered up ease to master
clear distinct explicit letter formation
simple logic boosted
rapidly transmitted standardization,
especially with exceptional legible
readable characteristic
adequate spaces between words
Merovingian "chancery hand"
still reserved to draft traditional charters
Gothic and Anglo Saxon
favored traditional local script
as opposed to Latin
learning latter involved less tricked out
embellished flourishes
or interconnected strokes
drawn by a scribe
allowing, enabling, and providing
greater popularity to teach masses,
latent etymological nuances apparent
centuries following implementation
quasi initial Carolingian letters
steadfast, where Carolingian
influence moats strong
adopted local stylistic signature flavor
divergence woke since proliferation
stoking diffuse prospects
decreeing entrenched footing,
where auspices boded prescient
until groundswell didst surcease
sub limb mated into modern patois.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
To the guitarist perusing the fretboard in boring , endless combinations , my ninety dollar ticket for a migraine headache in the back row.. For the artist throwing paint on canvas and decreeing this art I offer my head scratching amusement . To the 'gifted hands of the physician' whirling poor people into the river of bankruptcy I've nothing but scorn ...
To the Garbageman and the 'Street Sweeper' my lifelong admiration ...
For the 'Laborer' and 'Ditch Digger' my endearing praise , 'twould be an honor to have a 'Janitor' occupy the crown of my dinner table on any day !
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
A mood is lifting,
As we tilt our chins up to face the rain.
This bitter detox has been hard to swallow,
A new range of old stone tablets,
Decreeing buy and sell, buy and sell,
And that everything can be owned.
We have defined ourselves
By the patterns of the weather.
Capricious friend, my book companion;
Steer with me now, across the bend
And into insanity. We can embroider
Limbs over our Sunday mattress,
And salute the new week
In ****** and teenage songs.
I’ll take you through the bridleway.
These approved paths of nature,
Contrived and confined by beaten mud
And memories of the 585 bus departing.
I will hold your hand
But not hold you to anything,
Freeing up the paths you made
Before ours intersected.
Yes, and take me to that barren farmland
Where you learned to drive.
The mud-splatter and swearing
Contained within it the only happy memory
Your father ever gave you.
This mood is lifting as we indulge each other,
As we laze into love;
As we warm by the flame.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
I have a particular fondness for snort-laughs.
They are among the most graceless, horrid, undignified, embarrassing, beautiful truths in the world.
You didn't want to admit that the pun was amusing and give them the satisfaction.
You didn't want to break the societal norm decreeing silence and sobriety.
You tried to hide your innate childishness so condemned.
You needed to keep up whatever stoic, unfazed "cool" facade someone once suggested you wear.
You clenched your jaw against the giggle, but the spurt of it could not be contained and was released as a jovial exhale.
Graceless.
Horrid.
Undignified.
Embarrassing.
Beautiful.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC