"engendered" poems
The vulnerability of baring myself fully
clenches the belly
panics the heart
stands my hairs on end.
It is truly the most terrifying thing
to stand in ones authenticity.
And yet. And yet.
The courage it takes.
The great tender strength.
The spine tingling elation.
The heart swells, and magic.
The naked beauty borne, in feeling you have nothing to hide.
The spirit touched ardor of a bare approach to life.
The openings and the mystery.
The expressions: tripping, falling, incomplete, misguided.
The wonderful mistakes, elucidating lessons.
The perfect imperfections.
The easing of honesty.
The engendered humility.
The profundity.
The sense of being touched, touching, and in touch with life.
The unmasked revelations, of full spectral undulation.
The this. The that. The I can accept it all.
The dropping of shame.
The incredible liberation, in shedding that shame.
The finding forgiveness for self, for other.
The quiver of unknowing.
The sweet caress of potential.
The dread. The sorrows. The uncertainties.
All making room for, in their acknowledgement:
Room for what else is there.
Room for laughter, and joy, and luminescence.
Room for flirtation, dancing, spontaneity.
Breaking open.
Melting into Love.
Soaring on the wings of Truth.
The hush, of anxious worry.
The Goodness bestowed.
The empathy.
The compassion.
The connection.
The holy restoration of creative flow.
The fires of real passion.
And everything.
And everything.
And Beauty.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
The teacher stands before her detained class
And from behind her authoritative podium
She equates abortion to the holocaust
A dangerous comparison in an educational garrison
But the other children nodded their heads in agreement
A benefit of having the ear of youth
Is being able to infect it with your own toxic ideology
What bacteria did this ear infection consist of?
Conservatism? Religiosity? Chastity?
The answer was depressingly simple
I was the only one there unaware of Fox News
I was a casualty of the confusion
The confusion engendered
By venom thoughts placing politic-colored glasses
on the entrenched masses
Entertainment
Used to convey anger and hate
Emotions worth conveying
But not living in
The intents and desires of their vulnerable receivers
become an incongruous disaster
What could I have done?
Minds as still as the pharaohs heart
We live in a society where we're all infantilized by one myth
Good and evil
Looking back on what I did do
I didn't do much
But I did do something
I didn't nod my head like a ******** sycophant
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
We have engendered them.
Our babies.
Our annelids.
Facsimiles of Us.
A gushing warm viscous fluid
And a conglomerate of meat
From the womb pods of our hive
Rush out into your oxygen.
Our mass will grow indeed.
And,
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
8 become 16; 16 become 32
You (solo)
Must know by now; no doubt
Individuality is a cold, broken loop
An anachronism of a bygone era
Pass through Our membrane , insect.
And be born infinitely back through it.
We will have you spread-out in our warmth
Under our skins; apart of our million-chambered heart
Join Us.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
The name Theodore has its Greek anthropologies, Jewish anthropologies and also Germany anthropologies. The Greek anthropological perspective of The name Theodore indeed has something to do with the gods.However, the Greek way of looking at life was a frustrated thinking.To them everything was a god. They had a plethora of gods; utopia,cacotopia, Thespis, muse, clio, calypso, and Theodore was a half a god like Gabriel who impregnanted Mary on behalf of God as Joseph the cuckold carpenter patiently looked musing the ballad of a cuckold peasant . So Theodore and Gabriel were godsend.I have not delved to know what it means among the Jews, But am aware of the the cultural and anthropological surroundings of the name Theodore in Germany . It is a name of a male person signifying extra-masculine behavior. I also write poetry in Deutsch, so i know substantial cultural values of the people of Germany. Like in this case the modern social naming systems . I am aware of the anthropology of this Deutsch nomenclatural position.Why would link this name to Greeks but not Germany may due to some silent social and emotional disposition in Europe that the English speaking Europeans have a soft spot for the Greek culture.While at the same time they become victims of high adrenaline level when exposed to anything Germany. they always get repulsed when the word Germany is mentioned.So one's thesis on nomenclatural values of the name Theodore depends on which side of European consciousness one is found; is it Germany friendly consciousness or Germany threatened consciousness? The dystopic component of the name Theodore is purely cacotopic with zero element of utopia , as extra-masculinity is a swine of engendered civilization all the times.
Yours
Alexander k Opicho
NB/ i kindly invite Theodore to come to Kenya so that we do a joint research on the Swahili perspectives of the name Theodore, in Kiswahili the name Theodore is subverted to bwana tadayo
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
the carbon tax is gone
the carbon tax is gone
hey aint that good news
the carbon tax is gone
the power companies
can pass the savings on
now that the carbon tax is gone
electricity bills of late
have been too high
peaking at 18 percent
which has left little in the purse
to pay our rent
Clive and his senate colleagues
have done a jolly good thing
getting rid of that carbon tax thing
which has engendered
in the public
much irking
the carbon tax is gone
the carbon tax is gone
hey aint that good news
the carbon tax is gone
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Maiden crowned with glossy blackness,
Lithe as panther forest-roaming,
Long-armed Naiad when she dances
On a stream of ether floating,
Bright, o bright Fedalma!
Form all curves like softness drifted,
Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling,
Far-off music slowly wingèd,
Gently rising, gently sinking,
Bright, o bright Fedalma!
Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf,
Cloud high born in noonday spotless
Sudden perfect like the dew-bead,
Gem of earth and sky begotten,
Bright, o bright Fedalma!
Beauty has no mortal father,
Holy light her form engendered,
Out of tremor yearning, gladness,
Presage sweet, and joy remembered,
Child of light! Child of light!
Child of light, Fedalma!
3.1k
That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box
And such a starry elation
Came over me
That I got whistled at in the street
For the first time in a long time.
I was ***** and roughly dressed
And had circles under my eyes
And far far from flirtation
But so full of completion
Of a deed duly done
An act of consummation
That the freedom and force it engendered
Shone and spun
Out of my old raincoat.
It must have looked like love
Or a fabulous free holiday
To the young men sauntering
Down Berwick Street.
I still think this is most mysterious
For while I was writing it
It was gritty it felt like self-abuse
Constipation, desperately unsocial.
But done done done
Everything in the world
Flowed back
Like a huge bonus.
2.9k
Alexander k Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
The most misused natural resource is animal emotion
Animal jelousy, animal love, animal happiness, animal libido,
Animal compassion, animal grief, animal ogle, animal ***
Animal ego, animal fear or stampede, but animal anger utmost
It is a resource of value and virtue if used in prudence
Least vicious off all lest ghoulish natural disposition
Whose exemplification follows below in juxtaposition;
Out of anger a human animal kills
Revenges in full feat of anger
Causing accidents and damages
In employment of anger to uphold ego
A snake will not bite until ignited to anger
But in its calm state it’s an agent of ecological peace
Lioness is herbivorous in their truce but irascibly carnivorous
Buffaloes only crash if catapulted by anger
But romantically crazy in the emotional bliss
Man is fountain of peaceful jealousy
Man is cradle of venerative bigotry
Man is a well of murderous love
Humanity engendered is matchless ocean
Of cantankerous infatuation crushing for doable
And non-doables, deservation of pity,
All these natural ornamentations
That echo vicious virtues of man
Are protégés of perfected anger.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
You should hear Her speak of the time
When love had struck Her, left Her blind;
The intuition in Her breast
Was left ignored with just one request:
“Please, love with care (with no hate);
This may prepare you for your fate.”
Then, a One-Eyed-Monster dared to peep
At this starry-eyed Girl with a soul still asleep.
The Monster's nature, as it strove with pleasure,
Pleased Its infinite fervor, which nothing could measure,
As It Schemed, and found, and mostly destroyed
Her love-struck spirit that It yearned to employ.
These reckless hits made by this Daring Dart,
Un-mended the Girl from Rosebud to Heart.
Not believing all the Monster said,
The Girl sought the truth, but found it with dread.
Upon seeing this Monster's very bright colors,
She drowned in sorrow, but refused another
Hit by this Dart, as It still carelessly slaughters
Other Hearts, like Its future Daughter’s.
And then came a time, much later in life,
When the Girl understood love’s unending strife.
Many One-Eyed-Monsters, She now bears in mind,
Aspire to love, but still cannot find
The passion They hunt for and ache to sway,
Because they zip Themselves up when love comes Their way.
Confusion They feel, and this does not die;
But, what can They see with only one eye?
These perilous passings on love’s sojourn
The Girl does not dwell on, nor does She mourn.
Instead, She has found new ways to see
Love’s ultimate beauty, unexpectedly:
A journey enGENDERED with Ladies of taste,
Where only Her own *** can love back without hate.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Polly had a delicate situation
Was zinged by a witch last spring
Which engendered a condition which did cling:
On Tuesdays she was a girl
Who liked scented candles and flowers
And stickers of dragons with magical powers
On Mondays and Wednesdays she was a boy
Who loved dirt bike racing & spicy bok-choy
Thursdays she was a socialist vegan
Fridays a long armed gibbon
And on Saturdays she became, to the chagrin & horror
Of her pets and paramour
A Tea Parti colored Republican!
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
every moment
is continually shedding itself;
sloughing off the skin of time,
dying, into the past,
to freshen in exposure,
this moment.
to live, really
to breathe, by
impermanence.
constantly transforming,
the body is never solid,
here, there, as atomic flashes,
electrons popping in and out
of existence,
an appearance made,
to depart, in a flicker.
all turns off, like this,
always, eventually,
momentarily.
threshed and stripping
bare chaos
voraciously burns,
returning through extinguish
on smokey black horizons.
sinking, into
tendrils weaving,
knitting by fray,
tapestries engendered
by enveloping decease.
you feel this
don’t you?
unconscious
as much of it may be.
it is the nearest of near,
and dearly intimate,
passions corrosive kiss,
oscillating, opening,
to retract, in flow,
pushing in
to pull away,
thanatos is eros
together, apart again,
together-apart,
here-going.
the heart is aware,
supremely aware of this happening,
even when the mind is fooled
by apparent stability,
and the soul surrenders to
it's inevitability,
even hungering for
divine destruction,
as basic an urge
as the creative impulse.
to be composed
is to be subject to decompose,
fertilizing compositions
in cosmic chasms.
our lungs darkly shining
with every fall of the chest
mirroring,
each breath
one breath closer
to the final breath,
each exhale
a letting go
of what can’t be held
forever,
the expelled
foreshadows annihilation,
on the fading road, towards
this mortal coils entropic end;
a preparation.
to live, surely, is to meet loss
over and over,
to love, fully, is to grieve
again and again,
there is a deep
melancholic knowing
that exists in all living things,
water drops
tears like rain,
leaves fall
like sighs,
everyone,
and everything
dies.
our melancholy
might be sacred
could we truly embrace,
and feel, this reality:
death is the ever present condition.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
in the long ago
a randy poet
did contact me
via the site's
internal email
he requested that I should
*pen him some ****** verse*
due to me being
such an obliging person
I wrote the fellow
a few lines
of the hot and steamy
variety
he was quite satisfied
with how they affected
the pelvic region
and it engendered
such a goodly arise
Sir Percy
response
but after several months
all communication
between us
did abruptly cease
for he had found
a more seasoned poetess
to scribe him stuff
in a spicer pitch
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
I find innocuous corners in the unfathomable depths of humanity.
Then I weave a silken web of lies against the tapestries of fate.
The longer the web takes, the more fabulous its construction, peppered both with illusions and realities.
For the greatest illusion is the one most rooted in truth.
I have no need to chase; my patience is as consummate a force as any;
I wait for my prey to come to me on their own,
And then I ensnare them, injecting them with venom,
Rendering them unable to escape.
The web is an extension to my soul. To my spirit.
It is me, and my weapon.
Its substance is known to me.
My webs are lies mixed with truths, despair colored with hope.
They are a crawling infinity of colors,
An eternal tribute to orderly and savage chaos.
Each strand, which links me to my prey and my predators,
Each one resonates under the steps of the dancing mad god,
Vibrating and sending little echoes of bravery or cowardice,
Satiation or hunger,
Destruction or architecture,
Blabber or argument,
Each strand carries my reaction to everyone who is connected to me.
Every intention, interaction, motivation that I have been plagued with,
Every color, everybody, every action and reaction that I have endured,
Every piece of physical reality and the thoughts that it engendered,
Every connection made, every nuanced moment of history and potentiality,
Every possible thing that ever was, ever is and ever will be with regard to me,
Woven into that limitless, sprawling web.
It is without beginning or end.
It is complex to a degree that humbles the mind.
It is not a weapon.
It is a trap.
A trap, one to which I fall every single time.
Infinitely bitten, never shy.
I can renounce the world again.
I can turn away once more.
But it never lasts.
The web is too spread out.
There are other spiders on it,
Spiders, which have tethered me to this plane of reality,
With their own silken threads.
It is too late.
Too late to draw the strings close.
It is too late.
Too late to destroy my prison, too late to destroy my weapon.
Too late for everything.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
There's always a beginning
There'll always be an end
And no matter how you play your cards
You won't see round the bend.
For tomorrow is another day
The morning sun will shine
And the layer of potentialities
Is arrayed for yours and mine.
In looking back a long time
A little boy in jeans,
Check shirt on a pushbike
Amid the in betweens.
Nothing really mattered,
Each day came and went
and before the realization dawned
The infancy was spent.
Mother died of cancer
The agony in eyes
Just 43 years of age
In alcoholic lies.
The Old Man was likewise
Collapsing in my arms
He passed away at 43.
Evaporated charms.
Adolescence came and went
Forced to join the race
Of madness in the unknown
The world's a violent place.
Decision ****** upon in spades
Cut and ****** in life
It's Papua or Vietnam
Instead, I took a wife .
Disaster in the making
A sidestep in the way
I left the complication there
And coldly strode away.
Changed the whole complexion
Altered how it planned
Ended up with knapsack on
Afresh in New Zealand.
Strangely how it re-aligns
The order falls in place
Confusion dissipates to let
What clear defined, creates.
Somewhere I turned the corner
Took it all in hand
Built an actuality
Of promise in this land.
Pride and hard ambition,
defy the odds and graft.
Visualize a rainbow
From inspiration's craft.
Build it with your own two hands
With sweat upon your brow
And know, within your very depth
You're on the right path now.
Lady luck was with me
Somewhere along the way
I found myself a sweetheart
In chance creation's way
Then ragamuffin boychilds
Scrapping on the rug,
Engendered that which matters
In life's eternal shrug.
You touch upon the beauty
You taste the honeyed wine,
You walk on fields of flowers
In the nectar of your time.
Tenderness and kindness
Essential to the mix
Should you wish to be of value
In the blended world you fix.
Some you win, some you lose
Sometimes you just laugh
For as the years meander
There's humor in the task....
And a gentle satisfaction
In the way it all pans through
And in my eighty year reflection
I'll just throw a smile to you.
[email protected]
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 5:00 PM UTC
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world’s good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
1.5k
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
Prayer Before Birth (1944) - Poem by Louis Macneice
I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.
I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.
I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.
I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they ****** by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.
I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.
I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.
I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.
Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise **** me.
Louis Macneice
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
There's an apartment filled with drugs
Somewhere in the past
Where I'd roll around on my rug
With a body of little mass
I was malnourished
And felt like a tourist
I protected embarrassing ****** desires
And felt like I couldn't speak
I thought I'd stay silent until I retired
But the pressure got too deep
I was afraid of what they think
And the Kool-Aid they drink
I made mistakes
And tried to act straight
I felt fake
Which engendered hate
My friends stopped seeing me
After I stopped being me
When everything got too cold
I reached out for somewhere to hold
And grasped a syringe
To erase my cringe
I didn't sleep on a pallet
Or get beat by a mallet
My parents loved me
Isn't that lovely?
I felt pain all the same
I felt like I had fame
And everybody was watching
And grenade launching
I tried to foolishly avoid it
Which proved to be ineffective
I thought drugs might destroy it
Which led to countless injections
I've seen interesting things
Like wives selling rings
To be drug dealer bling
And the constant scheming
Of the get-rich-quick dreaming
These events become boring
After you see girls *******
And homeless people looting up
And pregnant women shooting up
And pulverizing police pulling up
The difference becomes starker
Once things get even darker
My life had no worth
Back and forth
Between rehab and relapse
So much time had elapsed
Life became about learning how one thing leads to another
Like a caring mother who gives birth to two brothers
One is of use to society
For he has proper propriety
The other is a poet
But doesn't know it
He can carve out a peaceful existence
That can be his righteous resistance
He needs to be nurtured
By someone he collides with
Somewhere in the future
At a location to be decided
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
And the cor anglais
Plays
The snake charmers
Medley
In the oriental artifice
Created for you
And the jasmine soaked
Velvet
Of the cushions and curtains
Masks
The devotion
Engendered by you
And the blue tiled
Fountain
And Moorish arched garden
Cool waiting
For moments
Gifted by you
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 3:38 AM UTC
all her nails, freshly painted,
the smoothed shaved legs,
seasonally and saintly nick free,
the eyeliner,
A+ student penciled in,
eye shade applied with lightest of touch sensual,
threaded eyebrows,
curvaceously straight,
streaks of red,
the appliqué upon her head,
parfume strategically dabbed in spots near where any
body's lips might invade,
*and yet,
not one primped place upon her
was safe!*
all turned awry,
when knocked I
upon bedroom door,
bursting to read a poem freshly made,
the oven's writing warmth,
still faint discernible,
giving off the aroma of heated ink,
upon a skin-smooth page,
a bakery smell irresistible
presented her with my best,
a man's rawest essence
refined, honed, then, honored, favored by her
she, overcome!
weeping pleasure at the pleasuring
of my words so gentling,
all by my soft speaking tongue applied,
that engendered this response
she,
in a slow pouring, half turning,
presented me with an act of counter-balancing,
no embrace, no equality of caressing,
nonetheless,
a weighty visible estimation of
her physical esteem and appreciation
presented me a bill for repair,
a body's bodyshop estimate,
undoing the undoing damage done,
by my careless, thoughtless,
ecstatic reading of
only love poetry
she added a weary, seasonal, lyrical
claus(e) of some folk familiarity,
by way of apology
"that's what you get for loving me"
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
Morn hath come, and I rushest out of my bed;
I washest my hands, and striketh my fingers wet;
I cleaneth out dust, which keepest falling from 'em stilll;
I greetest lone dew, clouds, and yon usual mornin' shrill;
I washest my face, and ponderest over Thy Grace;
I soaketh my lips, and saith Thy love verses;
Verses of love, my florid comfort and solace;
Best of wonders, justice, and solar miracles;
I slideth hastily into my white gown;
For dawn hath come, and greeted me when alone;
Night hath but been a dream and a tiny song;
With chords unreal, and words t'at were not long;
When winds are gurgling and my fantasy is torn;
I still wantest to think but of Thee alone;
The verses of love t'at hath long been gone;
Leaving me deathlike, and breathless on my own;
My blood is again thirsting for Thy love;
Whose enemy hath been dishonest all t'ese years;
When I boweth to th' floor and looketh again at Thee above;
Within my chaste gown, I recalleth my prudent inward tears;
Tears t'at hath never real faded, nor waned;
Tears t'at hath hitherto kept me all sane;
Thy verses of love made me once more feel loved;
And healed my congested soul t'at was sorely halved;
Within my heart dwelleth but one lump of scars;
But all t'ese years I'th known Thou art ne'er t'at far;
With Thee only, my past regrets might just seemeth fatuous;
My whining heart cometh relieved, and my virtues turneth joyous;
Ah, Thee, Lord of th' Worlds and of nights and days;
Ah, Thee, Whose verses are prettier than what we hear;
Ah, Thee, Whose Light is tenderer than any poems I might say;
Ah, Thee, Who ruleth but alive and always stayeth here;
Ah, Thee, Who engendered earth, hell, and heaven;
Ah, Thee, Who tamest wild souls, and enlightenest the chosen;
Ah, Thee, under Whom enemies canst be our best friends;
Ah, Thee, under Whom misery canst be glad, and hearts are patient;
Ah, Thee, by Whom an infant shall healthily grow;
Ah, Thee, by Whom days shall fade, and be braced for tomorrow;
Ah, Thee, by Whom th' luminous shall win and as ever glow;
Ah, Thee, Who always listeneth and heareth and ceaseth not to know;
I praiseth Thee and Thee only with joy;
I claimeth my blessings and honour to Thy Prophets;
Thy delight is th' sweetest t'is life canst employ;
Thee, by Whom I was created--and by Whose Mercy I am fed.
And I boweth again and again to the floor;
I criest my deepest tears, and cite t'ose anew from th' core;
Thy verses of love t'at were once then thwarted;
But as I ever know, Thou shalt always leave my heart rewarded.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
Life’s Discards
What arises from a seemingly affront the house abandoned but a visitor arrives and calls for meaning
From chaos she perches on a suitcase in the center of the room wood paneled walls and a white stone
Fire place serve as the backdrop it gives the place its first telling impact a value is suggested put sight to
The test now family items strewn about only make up debris but just a time in the short past this room
Was filled with everything that engendered comfort now the flow is a negative one that runs down
Through each piece that suggests wicker chair you once were deemed precious and worthy of serious
Attachment now you belong in a trash heap but for the heart and mind that is left to assess it is a weight
Of brooding as you fix what at first just speaks of a simple travesty we feel and are moved by forgotten
Things without life or means to speak they convey essential truths they argue for endurance and a
Common thread that shows continuance even though they are abandoned and are thought to be
Worthless by the previous owner the stranger will carry them away in her mind and memory as items
She can’t forget because she elevated them to a place of endearment in the very disorder of ruin she
With tenderness without words ascribes to them a worth even if it is just costly shadows that now enter
The mystery and intrigue that intrude into all of our thoughts at times of contemplation where ever
They arise in the dark evening or at morning twig light this room and others like it make up the physical
Dimensions of that subconscious world the swirl and excitement that crashes against our outer lives
That gives it untold riches meaning without understanding but a buttress a force that defies attacks of
Various kinds we are more bemused than overwhelmed and that power rests in many things but a lot
Are just yesterdays discards
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
On engendered knee
I doft before the esse
The ✋of endearment alightens my being
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC