"epistle" poems
*Supreme Love,
Through a land of barren fields, leads to a nourishing tree, that rhythms in the wind like a heart of bleeding green.
There, you will find me, prostrating in its lingering boughs, gazing into your sky with smiles of Eros.
A nightgown of innocence awaits you in the lotus, falling amongst the constellations of my parallel.*
©Copyright 2007 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
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QUIVER ALL-MAXIMIZING
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
3:38 AM (56 minutes ago)
to Daniel
SOAR OWNERSHIP
/ UTTERANCES OUTLABOURED PILGRIMS/
By the creditor at cyprus and on other grounds:
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Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
Morning Rainbow
Myriad prismatic crystals,
refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies,
we suspend our meteorological selves
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.
Synthetic Refractions
A luminary ballet takes center stage
when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow,
we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!
Spectral Sound
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.
And when this epistle is read among you, cause that
it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.
The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The ‘potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ‘potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
4.7k
I have a purple heart
I used to have so many strings attached
I was the marionette, and you were the master
And slowly, you got your strings around my heart
I never saw you, thread in hand, approach me with such deceit
As you started to pull my new heart strings
I felt the aches as you slammed my heart against the locked door
A cell of bones and blood there to protect from an attack like this
Now trapped from within and unable to escape
The strings keep pulling and the aches never dull
I took it for a long while thinking this was affection
But effective protection would have expelled this spell from hell
Cast out witches! Burn them like they did in Salem
It’s what they deserve for the worth that they earned
I cast you down with stones in hand
Cut my heart strings thinking I would be free
After 16 months, I took a look inside my chest
My heart was gone – replaced by a smooth river stone
I saw the runaways note addressed to me
It said;
"Hey, I liked those strings. I worked so hard on them. It took me the whole 22 years we have been traveling together to create. After all, what do you know of love? You just cut away the ties you had to me. So I’m sorry, I have to go. That woman always cared about us, cared about me. And you cast her into the flames of indifference."
The epistle was signed with a purple heart
So I got my purple heart
From the heart that quit it’s job
I held the letter and began to sob
The tears smudged the ink and the letters ran together
I saw in the river of words a “P.S.”
"PS – I told you about this girl. The one you never talked to because you didn’t have the courage. I told you she was the only one I could care for."
I have a purple heart
And I have no heart at all
A girl took it, without ever knowing
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
Post-truth.
Post-satire.
Monsters celebrated as saviours.
Wide-open, screaming ******
committed during every ad break.
A dynamic new plan to power the national grid
using snake oil.
Hosts of remote-controlled, cybernetic angels
raining down weapons-grade holy fire.
Eternal peace declared
between Eurasia and Eastasia.
The trenches full up with
poetic corpses.
*** doll mouths breaking
bad news to the bereaved.
The orgiastic scarification
of our own democracies.
Blood sacrifices to the Black Friday Gods.
The enactment of nursery rhyme into law.
The Disneyfication of the human heart.
Love only as legislated.
Hate as currency and
everyone a broker.
Strange, reptile creatures
ballroom dancing through
the sludge-filled annals of imminent history.
Endless war
between Eastasia and Eurasia.
A thousand candles
lit in memory
to all the moths that
burnt to death.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
Twinkle, twinkle, GOP
Scaring hell right out of me.
Platforms aren’t worth a crap
I’d like to give your face a slap.
All your antics have grown old
And your twinkle’s not from gold.
Twinkle tinsel seems to me
Not of diamond quality.
None is precious metal grade.
Fake as promises you made.
Hating is your stock in trade.
Embezzlement the game you played.
Missile epistle, you love war.
You forgot what we are for.
We were formed to protect
Not hanging nooses around necks.
Freedom was the reason why
Not to make foreigners die.
Swindle, chisel is your game.
Set the economy aflame.
Locking down the government.
We knew bigotry was meant.
Voters have begun to see
Your ranks filled with villainy.
Sizzle, melting is our wish
Just like Oz’s ugly witch.
That would be a perfect end;
Nothing but a smudge to tend,
Thirty years from now when we
Have repaired your bastardy.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
I've said in an epistle before:
Is there life on mars?
We're leaning towards the yes
Mostly in hope that we're not living on the only polka-dot
With a handful of microbes crawling on it
Slithering around
But that kind of presumption is of course
A space fallacy
To life, I think of you when I hold an apple
Remembering how you might be on Mars
Again, a space fallacy
The apple's not crawling with worms
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
All the worst things in life
Start with a:
A-social
A-theist
A-sexual.
A-bominations to be corrected, but,
And although, in the hands of a body
The blame must go
Tight-gripped and freely clasped
A smile hangs like a necklace.
For, they ask, what grows,
On what shore that glance a thirsting road
Where no artisan of wells
Lets run his craft
Burst with life?
What vines may couple, transect dead veins
Still in a bed of salt
But dead and grey shades of the true?
None,
It would seem, can carry the sweet
Of fertile seeds along the water’s edge
It is but passing as its plumpness
Withers and drops
Apart, epistle, a dogma.
This vampiric little heart takes no form
In Narcissus’ pool it does not
Glisten in the waters calm
Despite the furious mouth
And, gone, lost of all that made it whole.
I go back to the source of the
Grey valley flume
Unknown to impetus,
Cannot find its way in the endless roads
And paths in the sun-baked skin,
The wind may blow salt in my eyes though
The music of its basin fills my ears:
Waves breaking and pressing
On soft earthen lines, scrap-book memories
Faded at the edges like Polaroids
Unfold from the waves of purity
In the sand of an empty shore.
I peer idly into the glimmering stream
No red heart beating,
But a grey heart; one simply searching, pining
For a grey love to begin
And the world that I know
They belong in.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
My dearest Rocky,
You were too old.
Too old to chase after that mischief of mice.
But you were not to be halted.
And in return,
Hind legs destroyed.
Cut up and sewn together
In crisscross fashion.
Once a lazy *******
Then a lethargic moribund mutt.
(But still a *******
On your last leg, (or two) in a literal sense.
You dumb dog.
You balding, simple-minded scoundrel.
Christmas came and Christmas went.
A feast of elegance at your disposal.
Any indulgence you desired.
We bequeathed, as a last goodbye.
Brisket, frozen cream, pastries and more.
Up until the day, our eyes became sore.
One last car ride- One last roar.
One last breeze through your jowls.
Your clacking stomps and palsy-walsy howls,
Echo even now when I walk through the door.
Now silent and still, turned to ash and dust
I hope you’re herding that memory of elephants,
And leading that pride of lions,
In your infinite dream.
And remembering those who you brought joy.
But especially,
The one who carried you
Upstairs to bed
Every night.
I love you still, and always will.
Good boy, ******* good boy.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
i.
In her silhouettes lee, I'm unscathed, unslaved,
Sheltered, free; tis she's mine sea, who guideth
me. Lief i'll cradle her, protectively, lief i'll be
the breath she breathes, lief O' lief; serenity.
ii.
In her presence I shalt bathe in her scintillating
albedineity, plenty O' plenty, shalt be in ourn
Cup; risen enduring creation's, just ourn love
Is enough, verily, verily, accumulating puff's.
iii.
Puff's of the holiness, surrounding ourn locus,
famigerating through the valley's; wherein we
Giveth epistle's for men's focus, that charity,
Forgiveness, and untainted Agápe, mayest be
a missive; for all humankind to copy.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome Poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedication
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
strange professions and true confessions from a lockdown town (4/17/20)
————————————————————————————-————-
not a great idea,
in the not-yet-dawn,
to write
a poem entitled
strange professions,
true confessions
dried stains of prior leakings
upon old ‘n yellowed linoleum,
no need for more friends,
for sure, for sure,
that’s the smart play
you see! right there
I’m professing age
old wisdom,
confessing my sorry face is
well acquainted with
floor coverings,
where even the
soles of my shoes
won’t admit they been polluted,
having stepped in rooms
of low and ill repute,
those them there,
right in here
poetry writing sites
where there ain’t no
guideposts, reminding
what’s in the heart
pretend stays in Vegas,
but what the heck,
since I’m here already,
might as well,
ready go and spill,
things you don’t
need to know but...
help the time pass
in this lockdown town,
where total silence is
the loudest sound around
wine, empty beery bottles,
bad rhymes give me up,
just before I start a hey look!
it’s a brand new
sunny rain afternoon
the governor pronounced
we all gotta be masked,
24/7 inside and out,
the women complain that it
musses hair, the men say,
who me? nah, got
nothing to say about that,
We, don’t make no con-cessions...
when you can’t see
my lips moving, or my
one good eye be winking,
means it’s likely that I’m lying
they say, I’m going
stir crazy,
not me says he,
unlike some guy who
wanted to blow up the
Alice-in Wonderland statue in
Central Park, hell,
u could look it up!
guess I coulda call this
here epistle, official “Lockdown Blues,”
but I jes heard gotta stay inside
till June Seventeen
that’s the good news,
plenty o’time to set
my affairs in order,
burn the poems nobody
needs seeing, those them
there with weirdness galore,
say no more,
you can whine, it’s fine,
no caring, no hearing,
past way the point,
where running or returning
is an option viable for nut jobs
them, with strange professions
and true confessions...
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 4:56 PM UTC
I left my bedlamp on last night by accident because
I fell asleep writing to you.
When I woke up this morning,
I was alone, with the light on, and a blank page in front of me.
I looked and looked and looked
Past the pages we'd scribbled on
Our hopeless little lies and
Bed-ridden nothings that never got any better
That never did any favors, and never sought
Solutions for problems and shortcomings on days like the
Ones I'd missed where you were happy and you
Smiled like you meant it with
Grinning teeth across rosy cheeks with scarlet lips.
Every marbled, mangled, marveled page stripped and torn
With its own story to tell of another
Time we had that slipped away, right past us.
I found the last page you left me,
Creased and folded, waiting to be found:
"I'm sorry about this, and about last night
And for every night, actually.
Don't forget that I'll always love you,
And I'm sorry."
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
And thus, from his spaceship, the spaceman heads off
Surrounding him nothing but stardust and sun
He just told ground control that he had a cough
From that day on, he was only with one
Years had passed with no sign of him
The ground control declared him dead
But among the inky void he swims
As he was all but one step ahead
Two figures, both wearing white, came close
Their silky gowns flowing like words in a book
He stared, he boggled, he had seen worse
All they did was give him a calming look
Ground control received an epistle soon
Startled look as they saw the ink in blue
A few scribbles of stars surrounded the words:
"I'm happy, hope you're happy too."
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
... So now it's been twelve years...
Do you still live? We were torn from each other.
Can you still feel the constrictions of your heart
With every memory brought back to life?
And, sometimes, is the past so real, that you
can breathe the very air we breathed
- and feel my skin beneath your fingertips..?
In my world there is none replacing you
Though I have kept my paper dolls for comfort's sake
My cool resolve is straining.
I can still feel the cool coarse texture of your hair
-and long again for innocence.
Will I carry you in my heart unto my last days
Never knowing what was lost?
This forever unrequited love plays like a tragedy.
Shall we never know our hearts again?
Shall I always dream and awaken empty
-you in your world, -I in mine?
How shall we counsel our children- love our mates?
Are humans never to be allowed perfect love,
But forced to part and seek our surrogates?
I wish for you what I have not:
Conjugal bliss and total amnesia to past perfection,
Renewal of hope - for only that which is attainable
- and gentle sleep without dreams.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
in the basement
where we keep our little gravities-
apparently the earth gave way
and hell announced a cavity.
allow for strange attractors
to collapse before they're intimate.
and never take the stairs
until you've locked the room beneath it.
according to the rule
there may be echoes from the chamber
a misery of wraiths
or a raven in the manger.
or a hackle of contempt
the very air, a shrike of drone.
an epistle from a hornet's nest-
at the back of our throats.
in the very, very quiet
where we keep our little maladies-
apparently the basement is as good a place as enmity.
allow for cain and abel
and perhaps you have the half of it,
swinging from a hook in every room we've heard it laughing in.
according to the rule
there may be black so black it's blackening
and everywhere the hoards of wane
dispel the moon
because.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 5:24 AM UTC
in the basement
where we keep our little gravities-
apparently the earth gave way
and hell announced a cavity.
allow for strange attractors
to collapse before they're intimate.
and never take the stairs
until you've locked the room beneath it.
according to the rule
there may be echoes from the chamber
a misery of wraiths
or a raven in the manger.
or a hackle of contempt
the very air, a shrike of drone.
an epistle from a hornet's nest-
at the back of our throats.
in the very, very quiet
where we keep our little maladies-
apparently the basement is as good a place as enmity.
allow for cain and abel
and perhaps you have the half of it,
swinging from a hook in every room we've heard it laughing in.
according to the rule
there may be black so black it's blackening
and everywhere the hoards of wane
dispel the moon
because.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
why did you leave
without talking to me
I had to hunt you down
in the cyber world,
like some new age cop
in search of a common thief
the cancer took you
they said
you fought well
and did not let the demons of drink
torment you in your final days
they,
those who shared your space
at the end, had names
on their doors
next to yours
but I was with you
at the dawn of man
when we sailed dream ships
through seas of sirens
did you not want me there
while you spoke your last words
while the old dreams
spilled through the soundless air
I could have caught them
before they landed on the ground,
before others trampled on them
because they did not know they were there
did our time, our few moments together
in this long liquid languid
maddening minute, mean nothing
to you
why did you leave without talking to me
I would have listened,
even if you said not a word
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
My heart is soft today
Thinking of the suffering
Of all those who are near
And those who are far
The known and unknown
Living beings everywhere
in pain - in their body and mind
Deep within in their souls
in any kind of tears
fears, trauma, heartache
I raise my eyes to heaven
Pray for light to surround them
The fragrance of love
Succor, consolation, respite
Now and forever more
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
she sits by her window to write,
ever fond of the morning light;
not a day passes when she fails
to pen an epistle to him
she envisions him pulling
the missives from his saddle bags
perusing them a second time, a third,
admiring her chancery cursive
a year now since she saw him:
steady on his steed, his regiment
waiting, eager to join the fray, to ride
north under his proud command
perhaps at eventide, she will
write another letter, in case she
forgot anything she intended to say
this morn, or just to reach out again
before the setting of the sun
a cloud passes as she signs
her name, another as she folds
the paper; soon it seems, a gathering
storm--she places the letter in the
envelope, its traveling home
she turns the candle to pour
the wax, then presses the seal;
another story from her to him
ready for its long journey
the stroll from her room
to the mantel in the parlor
to the pile of paper that grows
higher above the hearth
a cold cavern of late, for
without him, she eschews all
things warm--for she knows
he must be freezing in the
cruel ground where he fell
(Spartanburg, South Carolina, Winter, 1863)
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
in the basement
where we keep our little gravities-
apparently the earth gave way
and hell announced a cavity.
allow for strange attractors
to collapse before they're intimate.
and never take the stairs
until you've locked the room beneath it.
according to the rule
there may be echoes from the chamber
a misery of wraiths
or a raven in the manger.
or a hackle of contempt
the very air, a shrike of drone.
an epistle from a hornet's nest-
at the back of our throats.
in the very, very quiet
where we keep our little maladies-
apparently the basement is as good a place as enmity.
allow for cain and abel
and perhaps you have the half of it,
swinging from a hook in every room we've heard it laughing in.
according to the rule
there may be black so black it's blackening
and everywhere the hoards of wane
dispel the moon
because.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Will anyone look for that One Alone?
When this book on loan
has been returned
to the Library of Lamps as all its oil is burned?
When the waves retreating
have finished erasing
the messages I whispered
those etched with sobs unhindered
on the sands seemingly numbed
on the seashore of your heart succumbed?
Will anybody wonder what’s going on?
The nameplate’s gone
on the face of the closed door
of that room on the upper floor
that a while ago was Altar of Magnum Opus
of the tiring writer’s stylus
and Tabernacle
of a cramped leg muscle
of that voice that preached Darwin’s epistle.
The gong’s now muted
Just yesterday it was calling unrelented
upon fellow believers demented
The sun now starts to peep
As stars bid goodnight to sleep
The frail shadow shall lay down, no scent of frankincense
in the tomb of forgotten replies, with reminiscence -
of a hundred “wait till tomorrow” in any sense,
a thousand “just a minute” in any tense
“see yah later”, for a thousand “Whens?”
“soon . . .”, and now just silence . . .
Life leaves a million lessons.
and yes, I, we, will always remember . . .
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 3:29 AM UTC
Dear Louise,
At 2:30 AM after
two hours of sleep
I feel I am looking
through a keyhole
and reality
is sneaking up
from behind
to give me
a much needed
kick in the *****
Somehow, I have fallen
into a hole so deep
I can't climb out.
The arena of death
destroys the illusion
of safety and
at some point
the naked heart
cannot recover.
Everything seems
after the fact.
Everything is
after the fact.
You can't change
anything after
a split second ago.
I feel a curious desire
to do the right thing,
but there are not
enough right things
to go around.
Is life accessible?
Is life inaccessible?
I have the curious urge
to puke out forty years
of my life's garbage.
Maybe I'll change my name
to Antonio or Ivan,
move to Hiroshima or Dachau
and see the world
through the binocular
but astigmatic
eyes of a tiger.
If you asked me
to describe someone
I really know,
I'd be very hard put.
As a kid I wanted
to be a writer.
I wasn't sure
what that meant;
early ideals can **** you
but you probably
deserve it.
I know I am wrapped
so tight that if
I spring a leak
I'll sink in a day.
Could there be a way
to fence my life in
and keep the world out?
I am consumed
by fatuous sincerity.
I'd write down
all the options
int this case
but I loathe
the **** fascism of lists.
My hormones seem
to be deliquescing
into a viscous pâté
of late life protoplasm.
They belong on a shelf,
not in your pants.
I guess if no one else
will make use of me,
I'll have to make use
of myself.
This is a difficult task.
My life has been
a long preparation
for something that
probably won't occur.
For too long I have
defied almost everything.
A strong man would simply
drink himself to death,
but I'm not that strong.
Many of my sins of omission
are beginning to bother me.
Perhaps the only real use
for today is today.
Maybe I need to get
back to the basics:
eating, ******* and dying.
How to maintain
my equilibrium in the face
of incomprehension?
Waking up is a kind of homage.
Or could it be that
I don't need to change?
I'm just this.
Anyway, it's 2:30 AM
on a long night
in a strange life.
I'd better go.
Dawn may creep up
and release the
stench of coffins.
Louise, if you get this note
and understand it
please let me know
because I don't.
Sincerely,
Mikey
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
My mission, Chanel St. Marc Love every women as my sister negating all ****** desire and my appetite of lust. Regard every man compatible, my brothers, similarities or differences----- no two seeds from the same garden are identical. Yet we are formed in same soil. My attempts to covet godschild are countless to ****** grace from rushing temptations. Prostituting my body for notoriety, Not committing everything to heart .I believe in love but help me in my non-belief. Help me when I ignore friendship for ****** encounters. Discounting the meaning of trust I raise my eyebrows high whenever *** walks by. Lord oh lord it’s the vamp in her, the beast in me. Fire attracts fire burning as we sin openly. For the time being I repent and relapse back in to action. The devil focuses my eyes on the worst decision I will make for days to come. I took back my life for my own and shared it with my demons. Control was given to the worst, my blood is now deadlier than poison and impairs my soul. Free my feelings from filth. Fear of being forsaken before death. My mission, Chanel St. Marc Love every women as my sister love every man as my brother.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC