"despoiled" poems
WHERE suns chase suns in rhythmic dance,
Where seeds are springing from the dust,
Where mind sways mind with spirit-glance,
High court is held, and law is just.
No hill alone, a sovereign bar;
Through space the fiery sparks are whirled
That draw and cling, and shape a star, -
That burn and cool, and form a world
Whose hidden forces hear a voice
That leads them by a perfect plan:
'Obey,' it cries, 'with steadfast choice,
Law shall complete what law began.
'Refuse, - behold the broken arc,
The sky of all its stars despoiled;
The new germ smothered in the dark,
The snow-pure soul with sin assailed.'
The voice still saith, 'While atoms weave
Both world and soul for utmost joy,
Who sins must suffer, - no reprieve;
The law that quickens must destroy.'
4.5k
14th Feb 2014
They are all around us,
within, without, above, behind and before us;
Fanning the flames of the famous, the wealthy and fortunate
with secret agendas and infamous fame of their own.
I throw a stone
send it crashing through houses of glass; I see their
comings and goings in the Grove of Bohemia;
drinkers and liars; role-playing fraternity fools.
There are rules.
It takes more than just peeing at trees to be properly manly;
secrecy more than life is at stake when the fodder is human,
throw off your cares to the punitive furnace of hate.
Such ill-fate
that begets our world leaders, hatched out of a tangible darkness;
parasitic, calamitous, venomous world-gobbling evil
Mammon, devourer of souls, will preside at the feast.
And the Beast,
Fourth Beast of Daniel, squats at the head of the table,
fabled for pitiless torture of souls in transgression,
slavers and gloats over innocence lost and despoiled.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
On the sidewalk standing in the rain
the old man is a wounded dove.
Longish white hair: wet feathers
grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy
and repeats itself, like buckets of water
thrown out of windows.
The old man stands there
holding a memory or a wish.
Under the streetlight
his wet hair glistens like tinfoil.
The downpour is a creature
that’s eating him up.
Darkness projects
from a deserted apartment building.
The ground floor windows and doors
are boarded, nailed shut.
It appears dead, like an old disease,
or stripped, like a despoiled tomb.
Its bricks cracked and crumbled,
wooden casings dry rotted and helpless.
Painted in bold red
across the boarded front entrance,
a graffiti-message: Girls Rule.
Looking back at the old man,
he stands the way a king stands alone
when doubting himself.
Dark crawls around him. The old man stares
at the building. He is motionless,
in memory. Rain gallops over him.
Inside the warmth of a café,
my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets
are laundered clean of everyone
except for the old man who stares
at the apartment building. Time has grown
over his face and body, has grown
over the broken down building.
Now the rain is as heavy as mucus
and with his tiny body
the old man shuffles away into the dark
and gradually disappears
like a casket being covered with earth.
_______________________________________
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved
"In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in
'Switch (the difference) Anthology'
from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly
And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
And often launched our bark upon that sea
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,
Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home
Till we had freighted well our argosy.
Of which despoiled treasures these remain,
Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line
Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine
Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,
The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,
And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.
2.4k
She was in a panic; her husband was dead,
while the fear of dread had filled her head.
The local creditor wanted to enslave her sons;
she desired to keep her family from being undone.
She observed the seriousness of her situation
and sought the prophet for an inspired solution.
In their meeting, Elisha asked about her resources,
to determine a course of action, for him to endorse.
“With my spouse gone, my finances have been despoiled;
all that is left, is but a small container of oil.”
“Listen carefully my sister, and I’ll instruct you
with the needed wisdom, for your divine break-through.
Seek out your neighbors, for many, empty pots and jars;
be diligent in your search, with friends, near and far.
Once you have completed your first task of collection,
lock yourselves inside, with the jars in your possession.
Then take your original vial of olive oil and begin to pour,
filling each, empty vessel, behind the safety of your door.
For once you start, you will see the blessings of God flow,
according to your level of faith, His grace He will bestow.”
One at a time, she filled a cleaned vessel and set it aside;
when she was finished, her and her family were teary-eyed.
Upon further instruction, she sold the oil, paid her debts,
and was thankful, that their future needs were… completely met.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
2 Kings 4:1-7
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
‘The time has come,’ he heard them say
Outside his tiny cell,
‘Go in and get the beast to pray
To save his soul from Hell.’
The Priest then walked up to the bars
And stated his intent,
‘Will you confess at last, my son?
Will you, at last, repent?’
‘The only thing that I repent,’
The prisoner said at last,
While staring at the Priestly face
At length, through double glass,
‘Is how your justice operates,
Your Judge sits on his bench,
Determines guilt before the trial
And brooks no argument.’
‘You have been tried by twelve and true
Your jurors had their say,
Condemned you as a murderer
Before they walked away.’
‘They would have found me innocent
Had he not been precise,
And sent them back to change their view,
Not only once, but twice.’
‘The law’s the law,’ the Priest replied,
‘The verdict said it’s you,
You had your day in court, and now
You’ll have to pay your due.’
‘I’m innocent,’ the prisoner said,
‘I swear it before God!’
‘Take not his name in vain, my son,
It’s time to reck his rod.’
‘Your God is just an ornament
To keep us fools in check,
If he were real, he’d swoop on down
And break the Judge’s neck.
The only God is in my heart
And he knows everything,
He welcomes us, the innocent,
Hypocrisy is sin.’
‘You risk your soul,’ the priest replied,
‘So hold your tongue in check,
For soon it will be silenced as
The rope, it breaks your neck.’
‘How many Nuns have you despoiled,
How many children died,
How many now lie buried, spread
Across the countryside?’
‘You hide behind your surplice, and
Your cassock and your gown,
You say you represent him, but
In fact, you put him down.
You tie us up with ritual
And steal our Peter’s Pence,
Then hide your sins by making all
The laity repent.’
‘I’ve had enough,’ the Priest replied,
Then turned and stepped aside,
The gaolers tied his hands and feet
And shuffled him outside,
They dragged him to the gallows and
Put on the dreaded hood,
But still he called, ‘Repent yourself,
Oh Priest! You know you should!’
It barely took a minute for
The rope and then the drop,
And then just twenty seconds for
His beating heart to stop,
The Priest’s thin hands had trembled
As he walked out in the cold,
And prayed, not for the prisoner,
But for his own poor soul.
His sins lay heavy on him as
He walked up to the nave,
Then knelt before the altar asking
God, his soul to save,
But God was strangely silent
And the Priest had felt like dross,
The morning saw him hanging
From the altar’s Holy Cross.
David Lewis Paget
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
I'll never forget those despairing eyes the very last time ours met
Washed away as my love was drained but that's not why her cheeks were wet
She knew it could not be the same, she knew our time had passed
On her lips, another's name, despoiled I stood aghast
How could a love so sweet ruin so quick
What was once thought everlasting, die without being sick
How could she be so reckless with a kinship deemed so hallow
Burdened with the weight of love on shoulders far too narrow
I begged her to share her woes, alas her tongue held fast
I bargained with a currency of joyous days gone past
Her mind was set, where plentiful lakes of passion once sprung from her heart
Lay a baron desolate wasteland, two extremes, poles apart
I had to close my eyes and curse the stars above
I couldn't watch her wash away in a flash flood of my love.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
up on Boot Hill
the sun sets early
the soaked anguish
of grieving mothers
swaddled in
twilight's vestments
mourn the death
of another murdered
child
we roll our eyes
and speak in tongues
tiny prayers
incant
RIP
these reflexive bits,
our shattered votives
litter city boulevards
on each solemn
street corner
new alters
of desecration
are erected
then despoiled with
the wasted wax of
misspent novenas
our extended families
are bloodlines of fear
spawning
prostrate men
tattooed with
multicolored pain
who refuse to cover
body marks
bespeaking epic tales
of sorrow,
divisions
countless separations
also marking
righteous reasons
of seething
resentments
eager to settle
accounts
sweet vendettas
clever ambushes
carefully deliberated
for generations
by discordant clans
believing in malice
exalting guns
shared loss
is our
common
affliction
uniting everyone
in envelopes of sadness
becoming live
Dear John letters
bearing news of dearly
departed loves
atop the coffins
of dead children
votives pile high
with scrawled eulogies
of fevered graffiti
solemnly pledging
“gonna make someone suffer
gonna even the score
never forget you
RIP”
and we all die
looking stupid as hell
lamenting
love don’t rest in peace
hearing
it scream from the grave
witnessing
the hallowed earth
churning with revulsion
accepting the bitter ashes
of another dead child
for the love of you
is your funeral march
love don’t RIP
it stalks the tomb
of indifference
it mourns
the ambivalence
of its devaluation
it haunts the
day dreams
of what could
have been
it restlessly
flits among
the playgrounds
of our minds
cluttering the rooms
of our homes
with grief
up on Boot Hill
we clasp the
small hands
protruding from
shallow graves
groping to find
a graceful sleep
for love don’t
rest in peace
Stevie Wonder:
Love Is In Need of Love Today
Written to honor
Love Appreciation Day
jbm
Oakland
1/19/13
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
“Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain”
- Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy
Clawing at the cages of this most abdominal confine,
The twisted pulp of bitterness and confusion screams.
Upstairs lies consumed, engulfed in the comfort of self-obsession,
Whilst the walls shake and collapse with the splendour of Jericho passed.
The corruption of the temple is absolute.
Though, the officiousness of the disguise is haunting;
None put forth to rid this virus of the domain-
For it is allowed to fester. Curious be the work of the Despoiled.
Just as Lucifer: son of the morning,
We are misguided into the obsession of control;
For there is none to hurl us into this accursed damnation
Except for the selves.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
403
The Winters are so short—
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—
Myself—for scarcely settled—
The Phoebes have begun—
And then—it’s time to strike my Tent—
And open House—again—
It’s mostly, interruptions—
My Summer—is despoiled—
Because there was a Winter—once—
And al the Cattle—starved—
And so there was a Deluge—
And swept the World away—
But Ararat’s a Legend—now—
And no one credits Noah—
1.1k
Aloof you stand, aloof, alone
High moral ground you make your throne,
So sacrosanct as one to be
Despoiled by pride's hypocrisy.
Above the fray that hostile stare
Entrenched, assured to show the care
That others err whilst you yourself
Preen with sanctimonious wealth.
Aloof you stand, aloof, alone
Enshrouded destitute, poor crone.
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 5:04 AM UTC
Embedded in the crease of streets
Lies litter from this wasteland world.
Grandiosity of trees despoiled by plastic bags
Shredded to a baleful wind-whipped bunting.
Cans and bottles glint in summer sun.
Their quenching duty done, they figure
In a losing landscape, tinged by neglect.
Dog-eared gutters crouch against the kerbs,
Lusting for a sluice of cleansing rain.
At least the leaves all lavished beauty once,
To cast a vibrant coloured throw
Across a calloused landscape
Through the gnarl of tarmac
And turgid, timeless traffic.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 10:55 PM UTC
There are fears
I can't stand for
when there are reasons
to get out from under them
We cast stones
and hide the hand
for there are chances
To find we're doing too well
Lying to ourselves
wanting it all here and now
complaining about frustration
but so afraid of existencially change
Scared of the truth
we don't want to know,
carrying our heavy brains along
that feel so full and despoiled the same
So high and dry
once roots pull us deeper
we're too fooled and stuck
But eyes start whining shouting out loud
We pretend to care
of our mistreated spirit
but it's left alone fixing us
spilling visions of good things
bigger and closer than they really were
somehow kept in mind by heart
because being made of love
we're meant to see and feel
and be who we really are.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
I have torn myself
to Guam and back
in search of the
why
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
Fallen Warriors.
Like so many fallen warriors
They lay scattered all around
A heaviness hung within the air
The forest was devoid of all sound
Who would mourn their passing?
Would anyone actually care?
On seeing the devastation
Of a forest despoiled and laid bare
I mourned their passing
I cried and cried and cried
Quite unable to comprehend
Why so many trees had died
The guardians of the forest
Were beside themselves with woe
The Dryads lay down with their fallen trees
They had no place left to go
No care was taken over felling
They just hacked and sawed without thought
My forest would never be the same again, alas
And it was my very favourite haunt
I salute you, fallen warriors
Though several years have now past by
For the memory of that awful day
Will remain with me 'til I die.
© Dragonborne
21st April 2015
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
In Old French language songs and extensions
("False and happy joke") and a "incredulous"
('If I do not err on defense') (UK) IPA (key)
/ Dɪpờeɪv / ****** - SAP (this is the third
To easily navigate, contact with their friend)
(transitive) network (not) above; worst and worse;
the rules of the related related issues to the need.
Completion (difference) is almost immediately.
(Enterprises) or soccer either by mistake or ****** immorality.
"Higher body, Nothing changed. Pervy were ||
(not least) compacted normophilic job assignment
(which can finally be completed) impossible to succeed
in the past past with false heights about pasties;
Angel Club's prophet is there with pencil |||
that we will never be known for political change;
The cult of declamatory sleep; In the garden
of the removal at the outset of the end of the strippers
with Roman matron roots; about the guns, || the lights |
are turning to celebrating staying in the language ||
language of natural; Strength, and culture of the despoiled,
He wrote of the powers of the bridewoman's
Chickens for birth to some of the funerals is no peace,
what is the same, with its pleasant odor enough to the police, that's the Einstein face,
the brush began to feel understood
but he did not move
through the song of the muses, Maecenas and the coastlands,
the grains of grain; Nature is a flame of fire set
in a hold of victory over a few overly made up models
is falling and they will stand in vain perfect,
**** the eggs of the living Chinese,
for the shadows of the city, room, and many people
are fools gathered and the collection of broken tubes of yellow
is extracted from her girlfriend, leaving
the six bookmarks quite famous; The whitening of |
their white glow loves yeast; The teachings
of the original sucker's knee and the ankles of the first thief
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC
In my life I've dealt with grief.
Deaths of family, friendships and innocence.
Still I'd hoped that life and time would make up,
become friends and chime a tolling bell of peace.
Thought ruins dreams.
There is inside us a black so dark we become a void.
Why try searching for the light?
The light has gone aground.
Mankind has ***** this fruitful earth,
despoiled its beauty and its worth.
Money means more than humanity.
Desecration of this fair planet and its inhabitants
justified by the men in suits.
News is just a propaganda tool,
it makes a mockery and a fool of us.
We line up for bargains, forgetting the unfed
We lie to ourselves that good still exists.
Where? When even religion becomes contentious.
Guns, bombs, hate, greed, ****** of the innocents,
who among us opened the seventh seal?
The Seventh Seal was it opened by blood mixed with oil on the altar of greed?
If so, it wasn't done in my name.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
OLMEDO
Cortés, I have a new, but nagging, fear.
I sense the premonition of a time
When you might be corrupted by the taint
Of evils lying latent in our task,
That vice, which our assignment permeates,
Will tempt resolve to heinous compromise.
CORTÉS
Our mission is implicit in its vice,
In evils ineradicably steeped,
And our grand charge requires that we submit
To its contamination and decay.
A man who would embrace the human lot,
To do so, must consent to be a sinner.
OLMEDO
Blood has been shed- For what? Lives squandered- Why?
You, having tripped in sin’s attractive trap,
To thus, in fragrant snares so feebly flail,
Through frail and flagrant failings such a way,
How can you say to me you are contrite?
CORTÉS
But father, mercy with my malice mingles.
These dicey circumstances find me now
In both a ruthless and reluctant role.
What seems intolerable of this plight
Is that it simply will not be reduced
To trite antitheses of right and wrong.
My conscience both opposes and demands
A rouse to action.
Enter AGUILAR, ALVARADO, MALINALLI, and a Mayan Girl.
AGUILAR Captain, by your will,
These endless battles have despoiled your foe,
Who offer you these slave girls as a bribe.
The terrorized Chontal surrender now.
They will be baptized, and befriend our king,
Provided that we leave their country soon.
CORTÉS
Easy to break that promise once we’re gone.
Tell them we shall release all Mayan soil,
And nomadize into the unknown North. Exit Aguilar.
Here, Alvarado, [indicates girl] guide her to your tent.
We’ll see what use for this one we can find.
Exit all but Malinalli.
MALINALLI
Now, silly Malinalli, drop your sights,
You pretty poppet for these bearded frights.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
a convulsive shaking of the head
a tremble ;
it's no trouble
and i've slipped this disarray
shrugged off the character ;
an avatar i've maintained
for a dedicated period
a return to The Cunning
quake the sleeper agent
and unburden the actor
a return to Cunning
the weight is clipped
and the pouch rises to the surface
geesing the code
the dog program :
click the assignment
into a bleedable port
quake the sleeper
and unburden the act
charge up joy for the task ahead
start cleaning the toys of the trade
re load the literature
retrain your physical form ;
blessed with muscular memory
and a breathing plan
the domestic ailments of the house
are striped and packed into the guest bedroom
the body hair is shaved to minimum
the workplace is given a sick call
then all the tech is despoiled
and the signal singed out
no more Mr. civilian
snuffed
the soldier
with unmarred purpose
is gratefully reattached to physical function
and mental manner
the soldier makes channels of the streets
tags favoured places
****** in relished corners
puts out an advertisement
a secretion
seeking to rejoin his staff
of instigation
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 1:21 PM UTC
Why speak when words become weak,
And in-unique, forever alone and meek?
Because all you want is in the darkness,
So hear my lesson and mark this.
Happiness will never meet you,
and your prince will never seek you.
You will die unknowing,
from your heart with blood flowing.
Beating and pumping,
all of your life into nothing,
You'll be a stain on the soil,
to the dust and the rain despoiled.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.
Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** **********
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.
From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-sexual night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.
Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(*But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings*.)
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 5:23 PM UTC
Corporate world transformation ambition
New definition in team composition
Once human agents now robot cognition
Enter the post-human workforce transition
Efficiency skyrockets
Low people, high profits
Delivery, optimized
Retailers, digitized
Dialogue, personalized
Despite hefty savings in stress leave and tissues
The droid revolution is riddled with issues
Compassionless robots corrode
Human relations are slowed
People speak less
Smile less
Trust less…
Science boffins add humanoid humour
and vulnerability augments compatibility
within hybrid social systems
Sentiment sub-routines
avoid awkwardness and
tame transitions
Androids are made more like humans
People-only is ended
Social systems are blended
Human feelings transcended
Workforce entry amended
Now proficient production
is intermittently interrupted
by androids leaking feelings
Patched up too many times
Spare parts are sparse
Units are on their non-figurative
last legs, arms, and heads
Management resists re-investment in the
replaceable, robotic working class
Sad androids stand stranded,
disbanded, drab-handed,
slam-hanged and harangued,
despoiled and destroyed…
To delegate feelings to mechanoid beings
Is fast guaranteeing the absence of meaning
To swap warm emotion for chilly devotion
brings human implosion and moral erosion
Closed system, no weak points
All software, no souls
Is almost as useless as sieves with no holes
Or icing, no cake
For every mistake
ends with a correction
through error detection
Inspection, reflection
And causal connection
That causes protection
and growing conviction
that this is a fiction,
which feeds a new faction
for human affection…
The commerce machine is for people, however,
One person alone can be wrong, but together
The networks of pet-quirks and step-shirks and blunders
Make slipping and lapsing and rending asunder
No wonder the funders are foible-free hunters
To engineer-out human error
The fewer the humans the better
But work is a meaningful human endeavour
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 10:43 PM UTC