"exerts" poems
Oh! Rama!
Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they tread!
Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mamons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
That will bring peace, progress, stability, justice and unity; not Pax Romana
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
Oh! Rama!
Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they trod!
Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mammons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthapanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
That will bring peace, progress, stability, justice and unity; not “Pax Romana”..
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”
Jorge Luis Borges
I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.
You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.
Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.
The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.
Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.
I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.
I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.
White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.
And the same color of your so polish, european skin.
The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.
I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.
I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.
I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.
Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
The scorpion
knows
not truly
of the
consequences
following
the
sweet, poisonous,
painful
venom
he
exerts
without a sound
into
his
prey;
venomous,
dangerous,
penetrating
the naivety
of his
victims
without even a
moment's
notice,
it's
done;
slithering
away
before
he can assess
the damage,
the
carcass of
the unfortunate
accidentally
infected,
left to rot
alone.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
(The rudiments of tropics are around,
Aloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind.)
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.
He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.
Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms.
But though the turbulent tinges undulate
As his pure intellect applies its laws,
He moves not on his coppery, keen claws.
He munches a dry shell while he exerts
His will, yet never ceases, perfect ****
To flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.
3.1k
The morning birds sing to the rythm of her soft heart beat under sky
blue sheets
Warm air exerts from each nostril along with a yawn from her
baby doll lips
Gold framed women in paintings above her drop forward
over the headframe
in envy of her glamour
And the sun gleams against her cheek bones creating a halo around what already is an angel
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 12:01 AM UTC
Hail, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequall’d accents flow’d,
And ev’ry ***** with devotion glow’d;
Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin’d
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.
Behold the prophet in his tow’ring flight!
He leaves the earth for heav’n’s unmeasur’d height,
And worlds unknown receive him from our sight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,
And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.
Thy pray’rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries
Have pierc’d the ***** of thy native skies.
Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,
How he has wrestled with his God by night.
He pray’d that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell,
He long’d to see America excell;
He charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine;
That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift that ev’n a God can give,
He freely offer’d to the num’rous throng,
That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.
“Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,
“Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;
“Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
“Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;
“Take him my dear Americans, he said,
“Be your complaints on his kind ***** laid:
“Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,
“Impartial Saviour is his title due:
“Wash’d in the fountain of redeeming blood,
“You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”
Great Countess, we Americans revere
Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;
New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,
Their more than father will no more return.
But, though arrested by the hand of death,
Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath,
Yet let us view him in th’ eternal skies,
Let ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine re-animates his dust.
2.1k
Air is for us to take O2,
Air is for autotrophs to take in CO2.
Air can form cyclone, tornado and hurricane,
It goes up to form cloud and give us rain.
Air is rich in nitrogen,
It is also present with the molecules of hydrogen.
Air helps the iron to rust,
Air is the envelop of gases present on the crust.
O2 and nitrogen makes the bulk of air,
Co2 and other gases are very few so it is good or not fair.
Of course the less amount of CO2 is less in air which is good.
But, how the plants will synthesize their item & how we will get much food?
Air exerts pressure,
Sometimes the aroma is mixed with air and gives us pleasure.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Eyes the color of twilight hours,
looks down from a canvas throne.
Captured for an eternity,
her languid form, in repose.
Queen of all she surveys,
within these crumbling walls.
Moth eaten Brocade, silk spider's web.
Marble stairs and dank halls.
Once the matriarch of a dynasty,
that lived beneath this roof.
She still exerts her own will,
as watches, uncaring, aloof.
She is within the very mortar,
that binds these ancient stones.
Her blood is on the very air,
that chills you to the bone.
The floors and she are now as one.
Listen! You can hear her footsteps.
There within the mournful wind,
hear her laughter where she once slept.
The ballroom still hosts soiree's.
Muted music of bygone years play.
While in the South Rose parlor,
you can feel her pull take sway.
She will conjole and pout,
until you agree to stay.
Then she'll lead you to the cellar,
where all her guests must pay.
These windows, on a stormy night,
show shadows walking by.
Tattered curtains fall into place,
while evil hides from prying eyes.
But do not feed the impulse,
to enter and investigate.
For within these walls, her spirit dwells
and for fresh blood, she lies in wait.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 6:31 PM UTC
*Winter, tricky entrapper,
cozy cuddler, night fiddler
nuzzler, tantalizer, whistler
sharp nailed cruel lover
seasonal unfailing seductress,
sprawling on the bed cloth of December,
rolling over a few months either side,
I would never take her for granted.
I see her peep through
the window curtains,
spying at the warm days eyeing me
and waiting for her to climb down the steps;
she is jealous, as she wants to linger
playfully riding on my back.
she seeped in to my blood stream,
like the narcotic effect of grass,
before I know it happens
little by little to make me
forget my other loves completely
even without my permission.
Her wiliness is stealthily at work,
to monopolize me fully
separating me from others
yes, winter is cleverness clad in white.
Now, I am at her mercy, completely
my fingers, chest and lips strangely
enjoy the cold caresses, she gives each!
I realize, she has taken over-
my body and paints my mind's canvas,
with bubbling hallucinatory white,
she wants others tightly on her leash,
my other loves complain:
"you act just what is her will
you always wear her fragrance,
on you what an influence she wields!"
can I help when winter my darling,
brooks no excuses!
She exposes me before others
I look like a pusillanimous one,
cowering and cringing before her
none, even my true love, has
such absolute control over me
like she exerts, it's a secret
but true that I wriggle to get out,
of this white net she tenderly knitted-
for my comfort, which is,
pleasurable I think, to an extent,
yet difficult to accept at the same time.
Let us part before long, not to make
our relationship much complicated,
I'll wait, till the next season arrives
you are in my list of periodic partners,
I'll be ready with warmth in my heart,
for your eventful visit, that leaves
an impression far too long to ever forget.*
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
The media has taught me
From the time I was a child
That elegance
Is all I am worth.
"Strong female characters"
Have to be encouraged
Have to be the draw of an entire series
Why can't all female characters be strong?
Womanhood is not an industry
Sexuality is not a marketing technique
My body
The flow of my waterfall hips
The curvature of how my ******* move into my waist
Does not exist for your entertainment.
Elegance is a knife in my back
Allowing the split in my spine to control me
Allowing the bloodshed of feminine timidity to cover me
I am not one to be shut down
By the jagged teeth that collapse their jaws on my tongue
I spew fire from my mouth
Not just a dark hole
Not just a lonely home
A home for a lonely voice
A lonely voice for a silent nation
A silent nation of women
Who have had their bones broken
And their wrists tied behind their backs
Forced to deep throat society's impossibly standards
For them to suppress their own sexuality
While satisfying a man's simultaneously.
Do not tell me to be elegant
Because my body exerts fury
And I will burn this place to the ground.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
you fall like umbilical cords
for the purpose of befriending
bacteria at the site of your
bloated corpse collection.
the way you make me vibrate is a
witch trial, my talismans shaking
as i grasp the embryonic roots. do you
know what kind of flora we found
in the red maple swamp today? do you
wrap around the left horn of dionysus?
there is a space between your lips,
not the upper, not the lower, but the
plane at which they meet. this is where i
want to stir my cauldron, this is what i
want to bathe in poison.
water bearer! do not bring me
indica, do not bring me purple orchids,
i am only pleased by small mammals
writhing from the corners of your fangs
(a secret that can only be sealed sanguinarily).
and now tell me: when your veins
turn like supernovas, when your minions
dance for you in throngs, do you exhale
the debris? do you eat the coral berries?
do you remember when we hunted that
mammoth in full cryogene, in full rhapsody?
i held you at the sun's eclipse as time slid by like timid snakes.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Avenging activity among our society
Based behind our bravery,
Centered in our controlled community
Dances our dimes distantly,
Eating the Economy entirely,
Freeing some family’s from financial stability
Giving the Government full guidance to “Give willingly”
Help save history and fix the hired hereby diligently
Isolating the problem Indefinitely before another civil war breaks out immobilizing us internally,
Jacking up jumping prices to live within our jungle of commonality
Killing Kids futures by leaving them in debt for keeps of knowledge to secure their vivacity
Living our Lives in stress leniently because we are your servants dwelling down here in the low depths of poverty.
Massing out our Money on your table tops feasting morbidly on fattening foods while millions suffer from malnutrion
Nobody speaking nervously now
On the open opinion’s on our governments greed
People pacing the streets for a piece to eat
Quiet our questions or riots will quake the streets
Rage ripping through our roads radiantly
So sustain us all seriously separating the needy from situations of squandering
Take hold of our Tantrums and turn them on the ones demanding this tangibility
You’re yearning for yesterday’s better life
Venom of today’s values vast out over our minds
When will they welcome the revolution?
Xenophobia exerts exteremremitys on our souls
Zero Tolerance for Zaberism and Zolism is the way we go.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Exhausted
old
he exerts himself
no longer
Nothing left
no energy to expend
for simple
useless
survival
He does not eat
or sleep
but calmly closes his eyes
dying
at last
drifting with the tide
and
returns once more
to land
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
Power of a Picture
Little girl from a place far away in the world do you know that you are a part of forever you stare so intently does it mean you are one who sees beyond the common bonds of your home. The field is small the house barely marks the world you hold a emblem of wood covered with art from your culture it is in the form of a cross is this meant as a grave marker to one that you have lost. Or is it the touch stone you use to contact the Great Spirit that lives in the mountains and valleys. They speak of such places on the earth where the raw power exerts such force as you open yourself mystery and reality come into focus its only a deep valley a barren land a high mountain but in these climes as in no other the vestiges of the long forgotten seep into the curious mind fertile pollination lightly brushes inquisitive petals from this small impetus ever wider do the rings expand from just the single tossing of a small stone.
The wise know a road that seems to wound aimlessly through the heather across the moors its reach spans the globe it is home in the Gobie as well as the great cultured cities that as diamonds shine with brightest thoughts words to ignite the mind of the seekers. To all who make a purposeful sojourn from humble villages to the ends of the earth? The mind has no equal problems its meat with digestion then the course altered it is fixed it answers only those who believe there is rich and soulful meaning to the world no matter how cold and brutal the abrasive veneer may appear can this life be less than the total of the wonders to be found in every vale and sun drenched corner that has had the greatest evidence of the divine because there is found the foot prints of man. Whether Redeemed or not together the world and man are intertwined by glorious holy design.
What a great world you are part of we would be incomplete without you, a small unknown stream somewhere will join the great Euphrates or the unending Amazon or the sweet tender flow of the Brazos but all are an integral part of a larger whole dust was thought to be nothing then the dust bowl happened Steinbeck immortalized this tragic upheaval in the Grapes Of Wrath. So thanks little one you speak a lot with your eyes of innocence.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
Dear Best friend.
I cried today.
Not because you left me dancing in
another hemisphere.
Not because I receive one paragraph
of sparse-nothing information
from you a week.
Nay-
I cried because
you are the kind of best friend
who wafts beside me
(like that time we led each other with our eyes
closed through the
crowded theme park-full of nonchalant
cotton-candy-people)
in all my sly, lively moments
and exerts more merry influence upon my wanderings
than all the other
7 billions souls on this [The Foolish Blue Globe]
put together.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
Tears stain
mother's cheeks
as she
struggles
to fill
her child's
tummy.
She skips
another meal
and
feeds,
nourishes,
protects.
She hears
the moans
and cries
her
baby
exerts.
The dark
circles under
their eyes.
So tired
of being
hungry.
Hungry.
All other
thoughts
vanish.
Hungry.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Fifteen
million.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
A chilling breeze touches your face
Eye's blinded by the dusty powder
Your heart beats at an un-even pace
As if affected by the abstruse silence
Louder and louder it gets
warmth from your person exerts into the air around you
Chills run through gashes in your clothing, distinctly smelling of cigarettes
In the distace, echos of chattering and shivering
bounce back from the white, icy layers askew
A toe, Then a heel
The ghost of heat that surrounds the body is gone
Gusts of algid nothingness blow in your face by a small pinwheel
Darting pupils reveal scintillating lights,
Appearing one second and vanishing with the dawn
Something embeded in the mind, forever dormate throughout seasons,
The silence, the serenity, the solace of winter
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 7:41 PM UTC
I can feel it burning,
it's sat inanimate in my hands,
with my hands I'm turning,
trying to exert some life.
It's intricately strewn there,
nearly opaque and bland,
hardly seems unfair
that this curse has fell.
With a scent repugnant
it exerts itself entirely
into another psyche
to destroy their front.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
t's so hard to walk in this old town anymore
since the cemetery took over every inch.
Wherever you go ghosts nibble your toes.
Dead people pretend to smile, but are resentful
Their mouths mumble but they say nothing.
The grave stones are shaped like former houses.
The lanes between them like streets you strolled.
Now the invisible exerts a ruthless domain.
There is not a nickel coke to be found.
Only empty glasses and bloodless lips.
Rather than become a flâneur of the lost,
I'd rather just stay inside and remember.
It's so hard to walk in this old town anymore.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 5:53 AM UTC
I can feel myself becoming more and more
Withdrawn.
Slowly drawing away like a picture
Faded in the sunlight from endless
Summers on a warm dashboard.
Smoky breezes pass and swirl around
Radio airwaves like a ballet.
Gently, it plays.
Like my voice.
But sound just gets eaten by
The east wind and carried
Downward into the mundane.
There is an impulsive dissonance..
No one recognizes who I am anymore
[Except for an equally lonely barista].
Perhaps her and I are the only pair
Who hear the dissonance ringing?
Perhaps we can lighten one another's burden,
But we're much too reticent for conversation.
Breathing harmonizes with the whispers
Of air passing through the trees,
Still my voice is lost somewhere in
The hot atmosphere,
Whipping around like an only child's
Lost birthday balloon in the bright sky.
The balloon gives up and pops under pressure.
No one hears its melancholic resonance
Through the crashing airwaves
But see its shriveled carcass falling
Into some suburban lawn.
The distance grows like sunflowers,
Germinated by the buzzing few
Who enter and exit my life as
Quickly as they possibly can.
I watch as people attempt their facile exit
As if speeding through a traffic light.
"Eventually they will crash", I tell myself.
But they articulate too well with one another.
Heat radiates and swells within my chest.
Lines blur together.
Forgotten images become the
Cloudy shapes of a projective
Test for the heartsick.
A wearied aperture opens and closes
Trying to capture a glimmer of an
Accidental memory,
But the heaviness of summer light
Exerts a certain gravity upon me;
Ultraviolet-B lethargy.
Everything has faded.
Even the black smudge,
The careless finger who eclipsed
The camera eye,
Is faded to a hazy grey .
With time the heat swallows the photograph
And leaves behind an empty canvas
As I become withdrawn and absolute.
Now, there is no substantial evidence to prove
My existence...
Except for a blank polaroid waiting to be recycled
Into another portrait of someone less forlorn [extinct] than me.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Without fanfare
It has come to this
I am alone
Even in the light of day
My own shadow has run
Away
From me
Its mate
Its source
Of life
What depth
Can be plumbed
Where despair
Can thrive
Where answers
Go to die
Where doom
Is afraid
To speak
Where gloom
Is cut
On its own blade
Where the only true companion
Nature's signature
Refuses to lay
Even when I beg
The sun to burn through me
And deliver the light
That will color my back
The only shade worthy
Of my plight
It will not be delivered
By day
Or night
What irony of pain
Exerts itself
Where darkness
Is denied
Refusing to join
Refusing to listen
Only willing to abandon
Completely
Because
It knows
I must go alone
Because
It was my mistake
Because
I was wrong
So wrong
I can do nothing right
Not even make a shadow
In the light
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
A simple serenity upon secretive men
Women with ***** features may reel you in
Take presence of a nurturing nectar
She may lead you further than an imagined sector
Let up a bit since she only comes off as wicked and wretched
The girl exerts what is reflected
Though what she deserves is much better
Puzzle pieces were given to you to put together
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
She has changed me.
She is the only person that could change me.
Pulled me away from all the sorrow I have encountered.
She helped me forget.
She helped me remember all the good times.
The times filled with happiness and joy.
She turned this utter wasteland I once called home,
Into a lovely form of happiness.
All the tarnished memories she exerts from me,
She ripped them up and disposed of them.
All the pain and the tears,
Is no longer floating around me.
Now I am a warrior.
I couldn't have done it without her.
I am now armed with pride.
My life is no longer falling apart at the seems.
She helped me,
Healed me,
Fixed me,
Made me whole.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Cult is not a religion that could
allow diversity of thoughts and belief.
It demands conformity and exerts control
over the thought of its subjects.
Any deviation is punished severely.
All dictatorships are harmful but religious dictatorship is the worst of all.
All political doctrines,
whether leftist or rightist,
once proven false, are abandoned,
but religious fallacies endure,
coz they're believed to be from God and therefore infallible.
" The heaven and earth can pass but the
word of God won't."
Rational people are willing to accept its
irrationality and philosophers
endevour to rationalize and legitimize them for intellectuals' consumption.
But lies are lies, no matter
how elaborated they're and how
long they have survived.
General acceptance of a lie, does not
make it truth, nor universal rejection of truth would eclipse it's
splendor....
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC