"donning" poems
Purity is not just about virginity,
It's also about dignity,
Purity is not restricted to femininity,
but requires the protection of chivalry,
and regard for responsibility.
Purity is not innocence out of ignorance,
It's making a choice that's different.
Even when facing a challenge.
Purity is not just about hiding behind a white veil,
Or donning a white spotless gown.
It's about going through a season of waiting,
even if it can be tough.
Purity is not just a state of being,
It's a state of knowing,
valuing and protecting...
The sacredness of a marriage.
The loyalty to one's spouse.
The unity of two to form one flesh.
Not giving up one's body to all the rest,
but leaving it for God's best.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
I was acquainted with a raucous older man while I was still young and as impressionable as plaster-of-paris
Malleable as I was
He left a mark
And now
I watch you wearing baldness with classy elegance
and donning beards with ease, easy on my eyes
Can we fly through space safely?
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
and when fireworks stop cracking on the
night sky
and when the stars
refrain from blinking down at
streetlights guiding the path to our future
and when you kiss me goodbye with
burning lips
and my own are unscathed whilst my neck is
blooming third-degree burns,
flesh melting on the site
and when the sun turns to moonlight
because its own flames have known
no heat
and when i will stop finding metaphors
about firefirefirefirefirefire
and when every winter
you'd put us through ceases
its frozen barricade
and when i stop
discovering myself hovering over the
edge of a lake donning memories
that refuse to drown
and when i
stop wishing there was some possibility
of drowning myself in the bathtub -
i will finally have the guts
to say
i don't love you
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
Walking through the woods at night with increasing fear,
you'd better be scared because the silent watcher, Slenderman, is here.
You stop in a clearing, mouth ajar in fear.
Before you, is a man with no face nor any hair.
His skin as pale as flour, donning a fancy suit.
You take off into the woods in fear but it's too late, he's already in pursuit.
Fleeing through the woods at night in overwhelming fear, you try and try to hide in the darkness of the night.
But even still, you can see his featureless face as a dimly glowing light.
You cry out for help in the darkness of the night.
But, you're too deep in the woods for anyone to assist in your plight.
It's too late now to ever escape, you sit and cry with your mouth agape.
He silently approaches and waits, you stare back and decide to put up a fight.
It's no use, no help at all.
When you entered these woods at night, you were doomed to fall.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
*A father's love...
whether throughout times of sorrow,
or times of glory, is all but shallow.*
A father's love is a thunderstorm,
rumbling through a once peaceful sleep,
finding my awakened soul as company.
On the back porch, we seek credence,
as we share stories, and simple silence.
A father's love is a music tune,
carried from good intentions,
deep in the lungs.
Becoming bellowing blues
from a harmonica.
A father's love is rolling mountains,
as endless as eyes can see,
resonating with nature's peace.
Where he finds sacred hollows,
and gains perspective on his woes.
A father's love is a blissful brew,
aromatic, donning a frothy cover,
incredibly complex underneath.
It is a multifaceted flavor,
sweet, bitter, delicate, of earth.
A father's love is in the now.
It is there when the water is muddy;
it is there when the mud has settled,
and the water is clear.
It has nothing but patience.
*A father's love...
whether throughout times of sorrow,
or times of glory, is all but shallow.*
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
The Holy Ones
I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting ***** I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my **** sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a **** like this in their mouth before. This would be my **** **** This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of ******* and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This **** is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this **** And my own **** getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You ****** me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m ****** up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
Mickey Mouse is so
Scary
So one-dimensional
So simple
So odd
That eerie grin
And his three fingered hands
Each with a clean, white glove
Slipped over them
Why gloves?
Why white gloves?
What about his fingers?
Why would a mouse need fingers?
And why does he only have three on each hand?
Is he some type of ungodly
Ghastly and disfigured
Form of a man?
Or did someone
Drop a rat's DNA in with
A man's in a test tube?
Nuclear radiation, maybe?
Other-worldly being?
Resident of a parallel universe?
Or we're mice and/or rats walking around
Smiling relentlessly, donning red trousers
White gloves, and cursed with two three-fingered hands
When the dinosaurs
Were eating each other?
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
*Mist told me in her vaporous touch
"Let me dress you in my fine muslin clothes,
though you may find it a cold comfort
my love will endure till sun drives me away"
And sun, strode in donning his warm golden gown,
splashing his sunny voice, he announces,
"Purple, red, golden yellow, as time moves,
choices you have, folks, till i go back with my stock,
mine are silk, the purest for you to luxuriate
unlike with others, my love for planet earth,
is something never fully told, whoever does it "
Ah, then comes the lady clad in sensual black,
with her one powerful color that makes,
none stand out in the line, all are equal in her bed,
dress she gives you have to accept,no choice there,
somnambulist deem it a privilege wearing it,
those ones that vanish, seek out her winged dress.*
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Come and hear the tale of a falling
This failure of a king, his story appalling
Come and hear of his last moment's calling
This man whom we once called our king.
A mad king anointed with power in mind
Crowned by desperation, crowned by the blind
A tyrannical king; No worse will you find
For this man is a servant of Hell.
He comes and he swears in God's holy name
To cater the people and lands that they tame
But it's I who knows of his little game
The political regime that he runs.
He sits on his throne and barks at his men
Demanding the whys and demanding the when
Slowly but surely he wears the string thin;
For the people may tolerate so much.
He works through the town, donning his crown
A hat that is envied by all in the town;
For the man is rich, the man is renowned!
This man whom all call their king.
Beneath him men die, but criminals don't pay
Put them to death, that's what I say!
This kings way is in no way the right way
But we the people can do naught but pray.
But good men exist, whom jail the unjust
Good men who work to earn the town's trust
And these good men speak out, shaking out the dust
And speak out against their king
The king starts to fear, his gate is now closed
And he starts to regret the options he chose
And now by good men this king is deposed
By good men this king is denied.
Now we call him a tyrant, we call him a fake
We spit on his image, his throne we forsake
We take up our arms, pitchfork and rake
And march to his door to knock.
Some killed by guards, but good men prevail
And blood rains down like late Summer hail
And in the end we hear the king wail
His death is announced the next morning.
Good men cheer and king's men glance back
Wondering what it was the mad king lacked
Though who didn't expect his castle ransacked
For was not the king of the wicked?
It matters not in the end, you will find
Good men un-knotted this terrible bind
They laugh and jest at history behind
And cast themselves to a new king.
But this ballad of history will soon be repeated
For in the halls of recurrence it is seated
This tragic comedy of rulers so heated
This tragic tale of a king.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Spanish
El ancla de oro canta…la vela azul asciende
Como el ala de un sueño abierta al nuevo día.
Partamos, musa mía!
Ante lo prora alegre un bello mar se extiende.
En el oriente claro como un cristal, esplende
El fanal sonrosado de Aurora. Fantasía
Estrena un raro traje lleno de pedrería
para vagar brillante por las olas.
Ya tiende
La vela azul a Eolo su oriflama de raso…
El momento supremo!…Yo me estremezco; acaso
Sueño lo que me aguarda en los mundos no vistos!…
Acaso un fresco ramo de laureles fragantes,
El toison reluciente, el cetro de diamantes,
El naufragio o la eterna corona de los Cristos?…
English
The golden anchor beckons, the blue sail rises
Like the wing of a dream unfolding to a new day.
Let us depart, my muse!
Beyond an anxious prow, the sea stretches itself out.
In the crystal clear East, Aurora's
Blushed beacon shines. Fantasy
Is donning a rare garment of gems
To wander brilliantly over the waves.
The blue sail
Unfolds its private oriflamme to ******
The supreme moment!…I tremble: do I know–
Oh God!–what awaits me in unseen worlds?
Perhaps a freshly picked bouquet of fragrant laurels,
The golden fleece, a diamond scepter,
A shipwreck, or the eternal crown of the Anointed Ones?…
3.2k
bobs his head to a swinging beat
donning that same purple sweater
as we shake the music room
walls with each jazz-infused note
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
the Hebrews call the Greek myth of Icarus
by name: Lucifer - i know man is prone to plagiarism,
esp. in the religious realm, the easier the plagiarism
the easier the governing of men -
for indeed the Hebrews claimed
Icarus prior to the Greeks, the former with Lucifer
and the latter with Icarus -
but how i loathe peasants claiming
medicinal endeavours
of knowing only the spotlight cursors
to curate and environmental care of origin
of such negated ease,
they have no knowledge and no power,
their interests in the subject matter
would never encourage them
to run a marathon for accumulating funds
for a cancer charity -
one word answer? ***** they're basically
***** should have engaged in a family
life before you blamed me m.d.!
take your regressive anger and shove it
up your little bee magnet **** to take
a **** like extracting honey - now i'm ******
but look where i'm writing it: on a colour
of defeat - militant heaven of the archangel Michael
sword in hand and Satan defeated waggling a
tongue - isn't that importune to speak of
the current times with the defence of a freedom
of speech subdued by a fear of insult
demanding? monotheism did as much good
as it shouldn't have - and did as much evil
as it should have - and did, crafting the strict
labouring of judaism's orthodoxy -
so for each niqab there came the madness of
a jewish girl's care for wig - translated into
christianity as the donning of wigs in the 18th century,
and the 17th - bypass the concerns of
monotheists and you came across cuisine
freedoms of mandarin, and the colour backlash
sprinkling to a billionth birth, a land
where the homeless have a mother kamadhenu -
and celebrate Holi for chance of extracted mundane
hue of man polarised with fluorescent ivy
and x-rayed orange... or that's how the thing was said.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
I remember when you took me
corkscrewing down kaleidoscope tunnels for the last time
mounting hummingbirds to fly through the crystallized sky
air splashing against our skin
like an intoxicating perfume, dizzying
old daydreams, new friends like
humans with spectrum eyes and hair that coiled around their shoulders like serpents, all donning galaxy cloaks
reptilian monsters that sprouted raven feathers while chasing each other through smoke trees
silhouettes with rusty-nail teeth who danced like leaves in a gale
inky, spindly limbs reaching
trying to catch the moon
fingers entangled like a dreamcatcher
We were more then the kings and queens, heroes, idols
We were gods,
ruling from the velvet mountains to the silken seas,
everything beneath the candlesmoke clouds and the caramel sun that drips like wax
everything shining beneath the stars
made out of that smoldering purple dust we know so well
always whispering to us in scritch-scratch voices
reciting elegies and hush-hush songs of longing
but then,
reality ignites and burns beneath us as we soar,
elysian fields crumbling,
flames consuming the wonderland we’ve built
that is nothing but a paper thin house of tarot cards
the future written with seeping poison ink
We are left keening in the ashes,
tears to late to douse the inferno
but maybe
they will help some seedling fester beneath the scorched earth
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
One of the most frightening things a person can do is to lay yourself down (mind body and soul) in the palm of another's hand. Let them strip you down until you are bare, donning nothing but your skin and the contents of your mind.Trusting another to find you just as beautiful (both inside and out) as you value your beauty to be.
The ability, to allow another to see the truths that compose your existence, doesn't always come easy. It takes a tremendous amount of bravery and courage to trust another person with the composition of your flaws and insecurities. Impurities. To give yourself to another; to hand over the key. Left only to wonder if they could still love you once they open the door and see.
When hoping for the best, we must leave space in our hearts to expect the worst. Nothing is ever promised, but if we keep faith in the universe,
Nothing is impossible.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
This cosmos, indisputably, a sheer wonder
We cannot but bow before its grandeur
To what strange terrains opens its doors
And what secrets, hidden beneath the stars
From the merciless emptiness sans light,
From the deep silence of the horrendous night,
Was heard the bang of hammers
On the anvils of eons like thundering fire crackers
Abruptly through a gas cloud burst of inexorable force
Life emerged from stardust, our energy source
This is what the exponents of Big Bang assert
Life, from cosmic egg was hatched, some others purport
No doubt, this universe is an infinite stretch of lattice
Woven in the loom through billions of years by gratis
Where myriad wonders exist in the intergalactic space
And man has been on relentless effort to trace their course
As the wheels turned and as the fires burned
Through cosmic vapor the first atom was churned
How, over the eons, life here has flourished
With man’s wisdom and efforts nourished!
Galaxies are scattered in infinite space
And our planet Earth is well balanced in place
After the day’s vigil, when the mighty sun sets
The stars invariably take over on their night shifts
Multitudinous stars glitter and twinkle, a wondrous sight
As branching chandeliers, shedding luminous light
They are gems donning the night sky with their splendor
Where meteors dash and star light dances in nebulous glare
Some extra terrestrial hand has set the Earth in tune
And everything needed to hold life is benevolently strewn
Through countless dawns and sunset
Endless generations did come and beget
Just as this universe was born, it would one day die
With all the planets, stars and starlets of the sky
Who can predict how it is going to end
With a bang or whimper, or is the end impend?
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
the first time i felt like a woman
the ends of my fingers polished, lashes crusted to the sky, and sticky gloss that glued my mouth shut,
cotton bullets on strings in cardboard casings and demonstrations of crushed
flower petals—feminine virtue
defined by the presence of a *****
the first time i felt like a woman
fingers curling around the rubber fetus in
my pocket, nine year old hand
pressed to my nine year old womb, as
my classmate’s mother, donning culottes
and the armor of God, issued
Psalm 139 bookmarks to the class
the first time i felt like a woman
the stain of Life, wine dark and blooming
across my blue Fruit of the Loom’s
during fifth grade band class, at home
my mother demanding to know why i didn’t tell her of my first period, she asks if
i am a compulsive liar and leaves the
Wal-Mart bag in my room, unaware she
bought me the wrong bra size
the first time i felt like a woman
my first love said “I’m not putting it away until you touch it” and i hear his voice
when i check for ankle slashers
under my car before i climb in
the first time i felt like a woman
in tenth grade the chapel speaker’s mouth saying “the most precious thing a woman can give to a man is her body” to a room full of teenagers, i wonder if
my future husband sits among us,
and if he wonders what i look like naked
the first time i felt like a Woman,
my girlhood had to die.
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 4:27 PM UTC
there is a spider crawling up my back
sending bite-sized shivers as he climbs up ascending vertebra
i think of you and he makes his way to my thighs
spilling rose hips perfume
medecine of angels
the drowning ache
the tingling between my toes
delirious drool language not meant for you to hear but meant for me to answer
Trembling
beneath this tiny mess of appendages and swoony eyes
i can see your mass traveling through each season
your soft tufts donning golden shimmers then glimmering at the dusk of white
but i knew you when the bees knew warmth
spitfire busy buzzing sweet melodies to the open flower fields
but i knew you when your bones kissed your skin too tight
before falling renewal and peachy light
spiders making their homes in unfamiliar hiding places
crawling hyperbolic
a silly old mess
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Hello old friend,
With your tall sweeping evergreens
Towering almost endlessly
Into a blue clear sky
The endless swell of traffic
Cars peeling down the street
The smell of roasted coffee beans
From some hole-in-the-wall cafe
The obvious transplant donning an umbrella in the Autumnal warm rain
The light sprinkling of water enough
To nurture the verdant green
Hello old friend,
Mt. Rainier, she greets me,
Looming ever majestically
Over expanses of tree and road
Her white peaks cresting over
Fields of blossoming flowers
The tulip fields scattered across the sloping
Skagit Valley, her vineyards spanning for miles and miles
Hello old friend,
Seattle's grungy nature
Masked by her streets of trendy
Cafes and farm-to-table restaurants
Her mom and pop cafes
Her canvas gray dress marred by graffiti
And street tags
The busker on the street corner panhandling for change
The homeless sheltering under a cardboard blanket outside of a Starbuck's
The transplant with the umbrella stopping down to drop change in their jar
The crumpled dollar
The locals who pointedly ignore him on their way to work, to school, back home, to somewhere...anywhere...
The constant dazed bustle
The stench and pungent odor of ****
Curling around every seedy corner and
Affluent street crossing
Hello old friend,
It's been a while
Let me nestle into your newness
A new coast greets me across the horizon
Replaced by homespun everything
Pastoral fields where the bovine and equine reside
Hello old friend,
I suppose you're home now
I suppose you're home...
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
*go with your flow cause when you hold
on to fear it slows everyone down
like when your clothes get soaked.
Aren't you tired of listening to that cold sounding channel?
Switching frequencies to love is like donning
a warm flannel blanket but
our minds are a storm of thoughts pouring
down in a rusty trough filled w/ GMO foods
bathed in pesticides--
we've forgotten the well deep inside ourselves
it transcends space and time cause
we're with the divine one teaching us lessons like
a father does with sons and sometimes we don't understand,
it's ok, we're human
class is always in session
jamming like musicians listening for the groove--
the beat and rhythm our self produces to dance to,
a soothing tune like fresh water splashing our dry tongue
a song sung from nourished hearts
where every action is artistic as we listen to our one connection
hitting our ear playing our lungs like bagpipes
bodies in vibration swaying with reckless abandon
dancing like when man first discovered fire
to enlighten up a whole nation.*
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
#*
As it dawned upon them
It was their final chance
To dance through the night
And they danced
Donning the colours
Of the new dawn
As it was
The final countdown
To forevermore
For the words to forge
The unwritten
The written, Unforged*#
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
Hera puts on a new set of armour
donning hairnet, yellow washing gloves and an apron
She washes the dishes with fervour
but wonders why she didn't marry Poseidon
For old Zeus was built like thunder
and she used to feel that electricity
but she know as she reaches for the plunger
that his heart feels no pity
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
You have no pear to share with him, standing so far away, eyes never meeting, in the harsh light of a barren field, not one of the many hills has a view, near, near the beginning.
A chaste experience you were for him, shut off by your mouth that blinks like a dying fish I wouldn't take your pear ever, again, it isn't his turn immediately as she isn't fast enough to give me her pear, ever again, never to feel the gaseous caress, the distant beastly past has been erased.
Amber wheat is still devoid of desire of the dull and cold earth, quickly, distance is a joy, the best sobriety Sell yes sell civilizations splendour, you are no longer part of my bloodstream.
He will shy away, knowing your crowded mass of discontent, quickly donning his pants secondly, two by two, the work, running away from you while dressing, ugliness personified.
You are logically, logical earth, laying in the fire: him, you used to bury his flames, cooling his geysers
He has no desire for your pear, you long to taste his; with its lies and sweetness, you shall not indulge, his gifts are no longer yours. Now you kiss dogs. Your lies.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC