"fortressed" poems
I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch
I bear it nobly as I live my part.
My being would be a skeleton, a shell,
If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,
And makes my heaven in the white world's hell,
Did not forever feed me vital blood.
I see the mighty city through a mist--
The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,
The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,
The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate,
Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.
1.9k
Cat three-tooth, cat stone-deaf, cat sidewinder walk,
Old Bealman stalked the croaking, the croaking,
with forepaws meek stroking
airs of a summer cool night.
*Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.*
Delphinium, the roses, lupine interposes
a shadow of fortressed green leaf
disguises the notion my Bealman supposes—
to seize, dismember it through,
make self-concocted, dishering frog stew.
*Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.*
Night hours accounting, morning’s surmounting,
a bird warning Bealman, his patience to thin.
Croaking still blending, a flower stalk was bending,
two legs, peaking out, sent Bealman straight in.
*Bealman, O my Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Frog fisher & free.*
I saw Bealman beaming; I saw Bealman beaming.
How cats manage beaming I’ll wonder again.
Since Bealman was twenty, any beaming is plenty.
I loved my old Bealman, my frog fisher friend.
Bealman, Bealman, My Meow Dear Sealman,
Bealman—frog fisher & free.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
The repetitive sunset strikes again,
Seeking to withold all the power from within.
Striking without pity,
It beholds the truth silently through its benevolent fiery.
Yet alone it will not taunt,
As it requires an army to persuade its almighty flaunt.
One alone may not fight this war,
As the sunset will strike again and dissipate the power from afar.
Exacerbating all its forces upon the person,
Igniting a flame so passionately fortressed.
Vengeance may arise to the unforeseen eye,
Subtlety making its way through barriers once denied.
All throughout the tenacious journey,
One will realize the reality in obscurity.
Elucidating the truth as it becomes prevalently set.
One will wake up and become the sunset that was once a threat.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
Her hair shifts lightly, breathing in the wind
A million insecurities hiding behind my gaze
A slender hand closes loosely over mine
Even as my eyes push her gently away.
And we float - two islands separated by a vigilant sea
That kisses our shores to keep us at bay
Lest we collide into despondent calamity
Lest we crumble like sandcastles beneath the waves.
A bottle and two glasses stand tall on the table
Against the backdrop of unfulfilled fairytales
Despite myself, a warm affection spreads through my chest
Past all the defences my heart carefully puts in place.
And as I listen to her laughter behind my fortressed walls
I wonder if I'm falling for her
Or if it's just the alcohol.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
You cannot own my river
but I will let you name the sea,
with its fortressed depth
and alien life,
all out of sight and out of mind;
the poisoned sustenance of brine.
Leave the blame at my feet
and forget me over time,
you can take the roads
leading north,
if you allow me to take the south,
with no chance of a future collide.
We can cut a deal over the reservoir
if I can retain the quarry,
it was never yours
from the start,
but you can play the victim's harp,
whilst I tattoo over my scars.
I will sing for the Star of Bethlehem,
you can fall into the arms of David,
you can make it out and
pay your dues,
shine lights onto your winter blues,
whilst I anaesthetise each painful bruise.
You can paint over the wallpaper
whilst I am replacing all my strings,
we can change the meaning
to our favourite songs,
I will sever the ties to unalterable tunes;
all of those words that lead back to you.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
When I was a boy, the castles of education
soared impossibly large: Brick-laid with Blake, mortared
with Marx, wound round-about with subsidized ivy, rooted
in the 17th century.
And me, just me, on two legs, from 1981.
The flickering incandescence of rebellion started in
these fortressed halls; ideas more snapped than volleyed, until
at the end of our emotional tether, we society on our pale legs,
we sure did fall to a gust of reason.
Emotion pounded at the walls in every century; and minds, fortified with logic and stoney fact, beat back, beat down, beat away the
Crying, yelling minds. For tears do not make progress.
I was tender, careful, deferential in my youth—an idealist without ideas; merely the powder keg of emotion lurking somewhere beneath my epithelial smarts. Ready and willing to rain against the parapets of education with unsightly feeling.
And I stood, in my academic frock, at the feet of the great hall of learning. And I wondered if my legs could stand it.
Is it any wonder I was raised to be an intellectual?
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:39 AM UTC
Catalyst, you are
hovering,
elegantly
chasing the
kryptonite of my being.
Cajoled helplessly into the sweet
heaven of improbable impossibility.
Eager to break free from the
canopy of a
knavish reality.
Confused in a different kind of
hue that traces the
etymology of a word so foreign.
Chambered upon a citadel of a
kingdom fortressed by shame.
Catalyst,
have me back my sleep.
Echt pain, yet bliss.
Catalyst, your effect I will forever
keep.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC