"divest" poems
Running amok black bellies of hail-clouds
divest their hard cargo
on near-ready harvest and thunder claps
in spiteful applause.
Scudding sails of racing white galleons
arrive to the rescue
and change weather's position as quiet
breaches gale's disorder.
Setting the sun throws magenta feathers
across dark horizon
and to settle the issue parades jade tints
as the landscape transforms.
Waiting small boats plod homewards in
fish-laden formation
while wives run to stoke hot-kettled fires
of ready bath water.
Lighting a pathway half-moon winks as
heavier catches in
hauled nets silver the harbour and men
start night's final performance.
Sating hunger with coming and going
sow-and-reap women know
the meaning of sharing male labour in
scaling and salting chores.
Fisher-folks' world begins and ends
with the vagaries and quirks of weather.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
384
No Rack can torture me—
My Soul—at Liberty—
Behind this mortal Bone
There knits a bolder One—
You cannot ***** with saw—
Nor pierce with Scimitar—
Two Bodies—therefore be—
Bind One—The Other fly—
The Eagle of his Nest
No easier divest—
And gain the Sky
Than mayest Thou—
Except Thyself may be
Thine Enemy—
Captivity is Consciousness—
So’s Liberty.
3k
I’m a steam rollin street sweeper,
Bomb droppin heat seeker,
Warrior and peacekeeper,
Geek tweaker huffin ether.
I’m the sage, and the seeker,
I’m the audience, and speaker,
I’m the follower, and leader,
As I’m both, I’m also neither.
I’m a genius, I’m an idiot,
An erudite illiterate,
I’m about as insignificant
As I am magnificent
The hero, and the villain
Nervous wreck while I’m chillin
I’m the men, I’m the women
Spittin' facts while I’m pretendin'
I am more, I am less,
I invest, I divest,
As I focus, I digress
I am cursed, I am blessed
Serious, as I jest
Hyperactive, while at rest
I’m the worst, I’m the best
I’m the grade, I’m the test
I’m the train, I’m the tracks,
The uncharted, and the map,
I’m the boot, I’m the strap,
I’m the hand, I’m the clap
I’m the black, I’m the white,
I’m the day, I’m the night,
I am everything and nothing
I am wrong, I am right.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
Divest me in lowest twang possible
You're a virus ov benevolence
Clod dockets and nightly shrivels
You're Ideology's ravaged havoc
All slates ov mind embellish at one time
Scandalmonger, a repetitive meddler
I am, you are, a beast like endeavor
Two noddy's going rabid
To divulge and disclose; we're savaged
Trek of dearth and surly in combined minds
Withered, wizened, burnished, refined.
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
I am a certified expert in the sequential pushing of buttons,
this pushing performed, on a good day, in concert with the
expensively purchased, somewhat rare mental model of
the workings of a recently commonplace variety of machine
dependent at its core on the minuscule presence of increasingly-rare
earth metals allowing for the conditional flow of groups of electrons.
These machines, like their precursors, are further dependent on
the supply of slightly less increasingly rare combustible material
for which armed conflicts are routinely fought and many have died.
My interest in the machines began at an early age,
enticed by the illusion of control, and on the whole,
I think, motivated by the idea that these machines
processing information, the core mechanism of reality,
might be used to create understanding.
In the interceding years, it is increasingly apparent to me
that while some are used for this purpose, most,
like most things around me, are controlled and engaged by
multi-personed organisms concerned primarily with:
1) self-preservation AND
2) the collection of, and limited divestment of,
unit notions of rarefied value, insured by the
existence of another similar organism valued for its
1) self- and nearby-environs preservation AND
2) recent track record of insuring continued relatively easy access
to the aforementioned important combustible materials.
—it is generally considered to people's credit that this notion
of value is thus-derived and no longer as frequently derived by virtue
of possessing a metal which, while of certain non-combustible use,
is basically just pretty rare and really, really shiny.
I find myself again shortly in a need of convincing such an organism
that my button pushing is of sufficient quality,
on sufficiently frequent good days,
that it should consider me a temporary part thereof and divest,
of itself to me, sufficient units of value that I might happily
continue to push buttons on its behalf in the pursuit of further units.
I am, for some reason, somewhat less than thrilled with this prospect
finding it, despite its marketability, a maybe less than important enterprise.
I am existentially concerned by the idea that my whole value may derive
from my button pushing, and is thus further dependent on
the availability of rare-earth metal and also-rare combustibles.
In some delusion of importance amongst 7 billion plus similar primates
and a unfathomably vast universe,
I thought you might be interested to know
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
I t seems it was my fate to be
Introduced to this addiction
Born by way of bloods descent
Mixed with generations past affliction
I have watched them sink so lowly
Into the depths of selfish little cracks
Like burdens of un-human kind
Carried on their children’s backs
Feeding on the scraps in life
Of those who struggle to survive
They care not for a child’s grief
When their addiction comes alive
It passed me by with sorrowed grins
Longing and obsessed by what it craved
I watch in mourning as your gift
Of any tomorrow was enslaved
You took the food from our mouths
To dine in the belly of the beast
On our tears and misery you fed
Addiction boasted of its feast
All of you just wasted away
Right before our haunted eyes
The depravity of selfish want
No longer wanted its disguise
I left your addiction to starve
Within its bowels I did divest
IT chokes within my bitter heart
While YOUR life he can digest
I am sickened by the display of false fault of the perverse
I won’t fall prey to your depravity or this ****** up family curse
I know it’s lurking round every corner waiting for me to descend
It's the shadow hounding at my feet and the cycle without end
There’s a needle in my hand
And a bottle of gin on the table
I would smoke this entire bag of ****
If my lungs were able
There are lines drawn out across my mirror
begging for my endless attention
There are hundreds of little jagged pills
That laugh at your impending intervention
There is heaven here
In this ecstasy and elation
Making love to all these drugs
Through oral copulation
It’s not any one of these drugs
That gives way to my endless contradiction
I have found that escaping my pain
Is my only true addiction
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines
The evening star, the star of love and rest!
And then anon she doth herself divest
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!
My morning and my evening star of love!
My best and gentlest lady! even thus,
As that fair planet in the sky above,
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
And from thy darkened window fades the light.
1.6k
A broken guitar tells me to shut it
on every rest note.
And I tell myself to
ditch old baggage
on the side of the road
to clean my tattered knapsack
of cobwebs and broken light bulbs.
So I divest,
Decompress in present
because right now, I'm at peace.
You speak over church bells
at the top of the hour
and I listen like
nothing else matters.
But I only hear the future
My future, your future, our future
the world's future.
It's not often,
but every once in a while
midnight slaps me with a sound
I can't explain.
Even if I explain myself
I ramble around the point
like an arrow with no tip.
The weird thing about time
is it's a lot like music,
or a galaxy,
but right in the palm
of soft hands and ambitious souls
It only makes sense with experience,
and getting lost in a pavilion
of nervous butterflies
only seen in lucid dreams.
The world is old. We're young.
We're lost. And so is everyone else.
Tell me about your favorite constellation,
your favorite letter of the alphabet,
what makes you tick,
and why.
One day, after learning about your spectrum,
and where it intersects with mine
we'll dance in space.
I'll come to my senses
and question nothing
Not even the silence between our lips.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Would you now go spitefully hating the sun
Or go viciously plundering pretty flower beds
Or go crushing underfoot, fall leaves in contempt
Or turn gently into the fresh fold of snow?
Come, come, dear child, hold out thy hands
Let me gently embrace thy spindly frame
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.
If I told you which season you'd die in
Would you relent with ease, when the hour falls upon you?
Should you know I'm not as fearsome as most believe
Could you surrender the lent Light I must return?
You already know the answer without knowing
For it is not how you look, but how you look!
You no longer remember, it's been so long
So, I ask it plain: Would you really want to know?
You are not just a spoke on the wheel of Life
Which needs to, as the seasons, turn resolute
Yet you pass through them all, simultaneously
Save, your linear faculties confine your esoteric bridge.
Take joy in aestival airs, the apex of fruition
Springtime soil so easily squandered, bear in mind
Access introspective glimpses with hiemal hibernation
Autumnal foliage is but a screen, time to get real!
You cannot have the sunshine without the rain
Nor expect fine blossoms without fair travail
Seek thus the true bounty bedecked in full view
If you had but the seer's eyeless sight, dear guest.
As you travelled from one season to another
Did you live fully, even in between them?
Yes, the tiny labyrinth-passages you overlooked
Time to exact the price now run overdue.
Too attached you are to world and kin
For none of these, can you take with you
But beneficial acts and and good intent
Cosmic trick of genes is cecity delivered.
The one whose life you may regard so worthless
Retains a level which allows his soul to pass through
The eye of a needle, not measured in numbers
Hoist your soul on, tilt your core... I carry you home
So, come, wayworn traveller, hold out thy hands
Let me tenderly close thy brief visit here
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak, prithee
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.
Star Toucher, 24 March 2013
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
We are apart, and yet when your voice sounds on the telephone, we are not. In those opening seconds a play of inflections and intonations remind each other of this bond between us. As our words fan out across the mostly inconsequential things of a day past or, if it is early morning, a day to come, that binding loosens and we divest ourselves: to feel comfortable. It is so often difficult, but last night, as I stood between the reed beds beneath Constable’s great skies and you sat with our son on his birthday, there was a kind graciousness between us – and I hold it to me now. After our goodbyes I stopped and thought of this birthdate, of this boy of ours, then years past. I see a photo. The candled cake lit and he is leaning over the table about to blow to secure his wish. There I am, my face wind-burnished from a fortnight of walking the cliffs, daily throwing my ideas from the heights to soar like gliders, and returning safely to be launched and soar again, and higher or for longer. Just now I am holding the past dear, and my days are threaded through with memories of the onset of autumn. I dream of an autumn time free from the beginnings of things that one day we might share together; to go out to pick blackberries and return to our small home, and as we drink tea, watch the late afternoon light flicker and flow through the trees to pattern the carpet at our feet.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
Herein lies the cycle of this existence. Replete with everyday banalities - placid and meaningless - the menials of survival give away almost suddenly, and I find myself plunged into the depths of an unperturbed silence... where a voice within resounds the Om. A rage drives me to divest all falsifications.. those sensuous pleasures and miserable burdens, insecurities and frustrations.. and all that exists/acts in a true sense of transience. I feel calm again - cleansed and breathless on the shores of this Reality. But alas!, the Silence fades.. slowly and steadily the noises of the world begin to seep in, like the first rays of sunshine after a long wintrous slumber.
Crests and troughs, this life of mine. A reckless indifference grips my heart; I exist, unbeknown of whether I am a benign Observer or the perverse Experiment, or evenly both.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
If you walked through the woods with me,
at first opportunity I’d do you the favor
of blistering your skin with tree sap,
scratching you with thorns,
making places for blood and mud to mix.
I’d jump on your back, push your face
into the loam of last year’s leaves,
stuff your nostrils with earth smell,
cake your tongue with earth taste,
mud your eyes closed with earth sight,
all for your own good.
When you remember where you come from,
that even you need water and air to live,
I’ll let you up again,
let you chase me,
pleading with me to buy your shares,
help you divest of your past life;
but I’ll be way ahead of you,
laughing like a nuthatch
all the way to the riverbank
because, like I was commanded,
I love you and not your sins.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 1:00 PM UTC
Don't let them take the life flowing through your stalk
Your leaves have curled in desperation for life
Your once sunny petals, stripped of their radiant glow
Replaced with a shriveled, barren, dangling corpse
Your branch is drooping lifelessly by the edge of the vase
I am told that you have become an eyesore
A bore, a chore
Because you no longer possess that charm you used to have
The life, that ran through your veins and sprung you into a beauty,
was no longer there
And it pains me to say this but,
you are no longer beautiful, my little sunflower
You have let time and the harsh ways of the universe
divest your once enchanting and enticing glimmer
You are still alive
But you are already dead
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
So you have us becoming plain.
We must divest ourselves before you then.
Like guilty children showing shame
Until you feel obscene rich enough.
In control enough...So
We must become plain and cast away
Dreams of dignity combined with happiness.
Is it true if I had need of you
You would pass me to another
Department of you
Like something beyond me?
We do get around.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
a rumor is circulating in gardening circles
on the continent of England
the said rumor has traveled along a long vine
to the down under land
we the vegetable growers of Brisbane
are very disturbed about what we've heard
to us the rumor sounds rather absurd
we've taken it upon ourselves
to send a letter to the British Garden Society
asking them if the rumor has any propriety
sometimes a story
can be misrepresented
especially when the details of it
aren't correctly presented
we're seeking clarification
from those who have the right oil
as to whether the rumor
has any truth in the soil
this is the rumor that has been doing the rounds
and it relates to the High Grove grounds
a Yorkshire man who was sight seeing there
has said that he saw Charles the regal heir
talking to the garden slugs and snails
whilst walking amid the lettuce and kale
we know that his highness loves chatting to the trees
and he's often spoken to the earthworms and bees
we're totally confounded to hear of him
talking to garden pests
and we're hoping of this behavior
the Prince will soon divest
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
*
Now when I have found YOU
And I have found my SOUL
Let the world hear my cry
"I have found LOVE
I have found YOU"
I have lost all my wealth
And I have found your LOVE-wealth
I have forgotten God/dess' name
And I chant your name instead
Only one person took me there
Where everyone wants to go in the end
And that place is inner SOUL's LOVE
And that person is YOU
YOU-my Beloved
Gave me a priceless thing
But for that I had to lose everything
My pride, my EGO, my esteem
My dignity, my self-respect
My property, my career
And bow down with grace & humility
To kiss your hand
To accept the fate that had LOVING YOU
As my destiny...
I lost all my capital
To find LOVE's CAPITAL that
I was searching for several births
I have lost my family
I have lost my friends
I have lost my world
I have lost my health
I have lost my knowledge
Just to realize YOU within me
I lost my outer body and being
To realize you within my inner-self
Now NO one can take away my LOVE of/for YOU
Now no one can spend a bit of my LOVE'z treasure
I hold in my heart & soul for YOU
Now no one can invest or divest YOU from my heart
Now no one can steal you from my SOUL
My wealth of LOVING YOU increases multi-fold
More during the nights than days
More in the darkness than light
More amidst isolation than within crowds
In my boat of life,
I lost way in the desert
My 'guiding-star' became YOU
So it guides me back to the ocean
To drown myself in YOUR
Oceanic blue warm waves of existence
For whom I breathe and sing and dance
And write poems and prose and letters
My breathe holder is YOU
My BELOVEDz is YOU
YOU - YOU are my suave LOVER
*
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
a rumor is circulating in gardening circles
on the continent of England
the said rumor has traveled along a long vine
to the down under land
we the vegetable growers of Brisbane
are very disturbed by what we've heard
to us the rumor sounds rather absurd
we've taken it upon ourselves
to send a letter to the British Garden Society
asking them if the rumor has any propriety
sometimes a story
can be misrepresented
especially when the details of it
aren't correctly presented
we're seeking clarification
from those who have the right oil
as to whether the rumor
has any truth in the soil
this is the rumor that is doing the rounds
and it relates to the High Grove grounds
a Yorkshire man who was sight seeing there
has said that he saw Charles the regal heir
talking to the garden slugs and snails
whilst walking amid the lettuce and kale
we know that his highness loves chatting to the trees
and has often spoken to the earthworms and bees
we're totally dumbfounded to hear
of him talking to garden pests
and we're hoping of this behavior
the Prince will soon divest
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:50 AM UTC
Look at love.
All it brings.
Through a double sided mirror.
Browse reflections of what could have been.
A dithyramb of doubt.
Without a choir of untamed angels.
Bowing down in synchronicity.
Image diverted through the soul of the bearer.
Donation from the wearer of mortal pain.
Sword in hands .
Soul is sliced by angels' touch.
A promise of melting from the ***
Enticed by he who seeks advice.
Given freedom at hissed request.
The hiss is there the snake is not.
No dealings with badness.
Divest of garments.
Which cover the whole soul.
Petrified as driftwood.
Jetsam.
Discarded on the lonely shore.
Incontestable love.
Incurious woman.
Blithe spirit.
In solo party.
Witch waits in the wings.
Blessed in serenity till war is over!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
Violence sells, *** sells,
but why?
WHY?
Do we have a greed as a society,
greedy need to feed insatiability?,
from East to West and North to South,
Watch carefully what spills from my mouth.
I can not digest what I divest to the dishevelled remains of my day.
I know they are not supposed to end or begin this way,
with tears instead of raindrops falling on my face, rolling down to...
to my paper covered desk, absorbed and lost drying the instant they were
spilled. Have you had your fill with what the world ills your way?
Take time to exhibit patient poise, in all that you face,
you are not alone in your lonely place, some say feel it,
I say try to pray and seal it! Away, oh Lord, away! Take me.
All this which is not the world's best will target you as a test, not the same
day or the same time, but sometimes, it will seem so as it comes all down the funnel
cloud of darkness of heavy woe and the gravity of your circumstances; pulls
at your hair on your head, plucks your nerves till your limbs feel heavy and dead
as your heart pumps red liquid poorly through the frozen pipes that circulate
oxygen with red tincture flowing that could be spilled like the tears and cover
the ground sorrowfully, bleeding ......
heartfelt loss
embarrassed as it is emptied,
from your vessel, with more cracks and
holes, pass me the plumbers' putty please!
Seal it and pray, each crack, each hole, each day,
C'mon!
It is not about how low down and into despair you go.
It is about him, Him! You might not agree, you might not
see, you may not believe, but He believed in you and me,
FIRST, so if things get bad or go worse,
look up from a position of pain, move to a place of
strength, to the rock, to the cleft, to the shadow of
an eagles' wings and then see what His mercy brings.....
Take what His mercy brings hold it close by your heart,
in your face.............your scars......the ugly...... will one
day BE gone........may my hollow sounding words tremble
like a tree-trunk under the weight of many birds that take flight
with your plight, your harsh existence, be carried away in flight
on the echo of "no more tears, no more tears" sends the winged
prayers to flights of spoken freedom........ heard higher and higher.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
Skyward
To the eye escapes a delightful sigh, our gaze so high
Our roots are found there; by forgotten heavenly ties
Without end we contend give us time we will mend.
By nature we look above the level plain, reams of unspooled clouds our dream belies
Life’s unfaltering sail this azure blue, we stand at our earth bound rail.
Who do we assail, but he who rent the veil?
Vagrant be we, can we dare to even tie the knot in this mystery of life. I think not.
Our course set at birth. All your gain lay away with the pain with death to exchange.
With the breeze our sweated brow is comforted.
Divest yourself my soul from this uncanny vanity.
You walk these fields of bounty, to you afforded.
Must you ever be sinking into the dominion of the devil?
Greatest liberty the perfect measure squared.
To this united nation uniquely paired.
Of all earth’s people, you the boldest dared.
With courage and justice for all, tyranny was spared.
You bore the proof man could attain freedom through self government.
This came about from cries of unrest, both political and spiritual.
What ghastly amendment we write, our signature details our torment.
Our politicians are not made to give an account, from dead spirits we have no comment.
You can live in a higher world. [Be transformed by the renewing of your mind] Romans 12:12
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
From the bottom of my heart i hate thee,
I wish you're dead so in peace may rest we. -
Like a fox perfidious you are,
my hateful sight on your face,will leave a scar.
The perfection of thy duplicity
doth not relinquishes my mind in serenity.
That mockery in voice of thine,
cannot vindicate -not even a ewer of wine.
In my eyes,you wear the gown of blame
and no God will divest from thy face the shame.
It is not placebo,this hate of mine
it will-towards you-forever shine.
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 7:06 AM UTC
the election campaign is at the mid-way point
and news poll says it's Abbott we'll anoint
Rudd's electioneering hasn't sparked much interest
of his expensive policies the voters want to divest
soon we'll be turning off the Labor Party's light
we've had an adequate sufficiency of their blight
installing the Liberals in parliament will put things right
we've tired of the present governments turbulent flight
the nation's finances have quickly dwindled away
none of the Labor mob saved a penny for a rainy day
our finances are in need of some urgent attention
at least the Liberals are into monetary retention
there is a feeling that change is going to take place
which shall give the nation a fresh Prime Ministerial face
we are desirous of a policy direction which is sound
for the past five years there's been precious little of it around
to be shod of Rudd and his Labor cohorts shall be grand
they've not governed the country with a very reliable hand
we're chomping at the bit for the September seven date
then we'll send a ballot message to Abbott we want you mate
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
To be pure and not made from this world,
First, is to forget conditions
set to define the very I am, as I am known.
There will be no name to disturb my silence,
no words to call what I eat or divest,
everything I touch will not be known
but tasted or sniffed.
My eyes will not understand
the intention of tears
so I taste it
and its salty familiarity
will make me realize there is a sea inside.
Laughter comes from the same house
where the braying of grief is heard.
Words will sound as crickets sounds,
or leaves rustling, I fail at distinctions
being neither good nor evil,
no urgent need to grasp at clues,
Hungry,
I shall consider devouring you.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 3:23 PM UTC
A soul’s vine is encased with demise.
Towering stalks desiccate to bister mummies and
Aflush dreams of romance capsize into sour, obsidian soil.
Exhausted leaves crumble when the sun goes down
And amber tears of stinging sap drizzle from hollow sepal’s
That once hugged tender safad petals in the raw night
Like a child clinging to their eham biar yadashte.
Eclipsed roots search for taskeen semblance.
Divest thorns flourish on their throne,
Devouring golden seeds of promise.
Tishna fruit wither into ember dust,
Particles brushing away in the restless wind
Until all that lays are flattened memories
Forgotten, forsaken, fanni.
Word Search
Machana Ruh (roo): A Wilting Soul
Safad: Pure milky white
Eham biar yadashte: That feeling of something from our childhood that gave us inanimate affection. Something we, still to this day, can not let go of because it carries all our intimate memories and emotions (Like a teddy bear or blanket).
Taskeen (Tash-kean): The warm feeling of home
Fanni (Fa-nee): Mortal fragility
Tishna: When a person is dehydrated to the point of death
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 4:42 PM UTC
there is little calm
in the American heartland
for there is a man
who doesn't understand
the people want him
to be impeached
for all the clauses
of the constitution he's breached
he holds the highest office
but not for long
from Capital Hill
he'll be hunted by the throng
the people are unsettled
by the laws he's instigated
not one of them
has truly satiated
there will be civil disobedience
in the cities and in the towns
the people wont wear
anymore of what he's let go down
a movement is brewing
throughout the USA
to divest the country
of his overly Liberal ways
Democracy isn't well served
by the current President
the people's voices
speak with malcontent
the stars and stripes
of American patriots cry out loud
for Obama to resign
so they'll again be proud
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC