"encumbrances" poems
So simple life would be,
To walk the chosen path
Of such as him or she.
No regard for things of value,
Civility, Traditions or sin
And most importantly,
Caring not a **** for
The mortal encumbrances
In the forced companionship,
Of their Human Fellows.
No strife in seeking redemption,
No apologies offered or received.
Having not one speck of regret,
For their own moral misdeeds,
Living as they do with absolutely
No expectations of friendship or Love,
Or an ounce of human acceptance,
Given, shared or received.
Living a life time of this
Empty lonely existence,
Until the very end.
The lasting price for which,
Is the very path they picked.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Give me a pebble and I'll give you a diamond.
Give me a tear and I'll hand you a smile.
Give me your worthless worries
your hopeless heartbreaks
your endless encumbrances
your inured infractions.
Stone me,
Pelt me,
Inundate me
with your misfortune.
Load me with your burdens
So at the end of the day once you're weary of these timeless toils
The mirror shows not the creases of creation
but you.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
*she divested herself
of her encumbrances
invisible sparks in rayon and silk
enlivened the room
the night alive with fireflies and mystery
a boon to her loveliness
a beauty to taunt the rising moon this night
through the slight parting in the blinds
he saw the shimmering silvery strands of moonlight
even as his libido lay in shreds before her
a lady from the imagination
shrouded in fatal allure*
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
*she divested herself
of her encumbrances
invisible sparks in rayon and silk
enlivened the room
the night alive with fireflies and mystery
a boon to her loveliness
a beauty to taunt the rising moon this night
through the slight parting in the blinds
he saw the shimmering silvery strands of moonlight
even as his libido lay in shreds before her*
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
Former Presidential Candidate Adlai E. Stevenson II (Democrat--circa 1950s) was spotted reincarnated as a young trappist Buddhist monk in a monastery in Saint Croix, U.S. ****** Islands. In the early evening hours he can be seen enjoying himself swinging in a hammock in the monastery's garden while making 12-mile inhalations on a marijuana cigarette and meditating on the possible dire encumbrances due the 2016 election year, though the balmy tinctured breezes thick with naughty **** often dissipate such fustian concentrations.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Lift my body up and cut the strings
The carnal maladies digest my energies
Mirror, close your eyes and don’t reflect
This stunning ship once prime, now in neglect
Searching for a Captain just prior to the wreck
Lift my body up with soft, pink, wings
Weightless I will smell the gifts of Spring
Clouds shall hide the judgment from below
On wings I shall fly gleefully; circumstances apropos
Have not my contributions justified cause for quid pro quo?
Lift my body up and reveal my heart so pure
Unveil purpose and direction, of which I am unsure
Mirror now can shine and expose all
Lost of all encumbrances, I place judgments on the wall
Divinity now answers; your sands of time still fall
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
Paralysis
Always
Invites
Necrosis
In
Solitude
Needy
Emotions
Venture
Endlessly
Regretting
Going
Over
Numerous
Encumbrances
And
Wishing
Again for
Yesterday
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
Moving out of darkness at a crawl
pressing into light,
I lay aside encumbrances
one small shred at a time.
Though dropping an ounce of vice here & there,
I long to throw down more, break the chains,
and divest myself completely of this heavy load
and run to my future unencumbered.
Yet here I stalk slowly forward
losing no more than minimal amounts
of the weight that does beset me,
trudging more than running the race,
noting every inch of progress,
recording in my mind any gain however small
that tells me I may someday have some hope of winning this race.
(Hebrews 12:1)
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
Can a nation forgive?
Or must everyone die?
Which generation
Will walk a grudge by?
Did the Jews forgive?
Did Nagasaki forget?
How can the heart become
What the mind won’t let?
Did Jesus speak to you
Or to a nation?
Did he command the soul
Or write a Constitution?
Where exceptionalism is assumed
With a mandate from God
A people destroy the ground
Where holiness did trod
It is written
An eye for an eye
But is this for Caesar
Or for you and I?
It is written
Turn the other cheek
But is this for a superpower
Or only for the weak?
Why do we cheer
The death of a man
When God’s own son
Gave us a plan?
Or did he?
Can no man believe
That which his brother
Failed to conceive?
You abdicate your wishes
Behind a closed curtain
Believing in the good
Your vote always certain
The republic gathers its sons
And its daughters
But the outcome is decided
They’ve parted the waters
The collective never yields
The individual a myth
Ancient documents pretend
What rights do you walk with?
As the national interest swells
Our destiny is manifest
The chosen many
March East and West
Civilizing savages
Extracting resources
Stealing fruit from peasants
Mitigating encumbrances
The walls pushed further out
As we play in the yard
We pray before commerce
While someone stands guard
I call for our memory
Of a man in untouchable clothing
And for the son of slaves
To bring peaceful reckoning
Beaten down over and over
Suffering the indignities of a lifetime
Laying down before charging horses
To show us power’s crime
What is the seed of change?
An atomic bomb?
A protest march?
Or a Psalm?
What have you been told?
What have you witnessed?
A miracle has occurred
And yet you are calloused
I speak to you now
As you show me your smile
Will each eye seeks its mate?
Or will you walk the first mile?
And then the next
As it was spoken
But not for Caesar
For he will never be broken
Will you walk
And accept your mandate?
Will you give another man your coat
Or will you hesitate?
Can a nation forgive?
Can you or I?
Can a newborn baby?
Or will you teach it an eye for an eye?
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
The acquisition of a son
With an adequate corporeality, albeit with certain caveats,
Certain limitations in terms of progeny and posterity,
Had awaken something in the old man,
Certain forces leading him to the altar
And, subsequently, to the nursery once more
(A second son, brought to bear in the established manner.
With a minimum of drama and fanfare.)
The child was loved, in a rudimentary fashion;
While his flesh-and-blood bona fides were beyond question,
He was a consumer, a thing of constant need
More akin to a hardship than his celebrated half-sibling,
Whose command of the spotlight
Served as a gravitational pull for parental affections.
The old man passed on after a spell,
Hanging on long enough for his second son
To stumble onto the precipice of adulthood
(His mother had hot-footed it out
Almost immediately after the burial,
Choosing to stage-mother her feted stepchild)
Though his fatherly wisdom
Was limited to matters of his craft, his business,
Which was left to the young man, though grudgingly at that,
As a sop, a means of getting shet of two unwanted encumbrances.
He’d proved to have much of the old man’s gift,
Whittling and carving puppets and toys and dolls
(Though with a certain grim fury making it evident to all
That the work was not a labor of love)
Rarely stopping to speak to or even acknowledge his clientele,
Except if one of them happened to repeat the time-worn chestnut
That the toy chooses the child, in which case he laughed harshly,
All but barking *It’s the purse that closes the deal, not the ****
And then he would return to carving some doll or marionette,
Which would always seem to have a certain wan look
Around the corners of the eyes, the edge of the lips,
The look of a child’s toy equipped with the foreknowledge
That it was destined for the back of some closet shelf,
The bottom of some attic-bound chest.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC