"fostered" poems
XXVI. TO DIONYSUS (13 lines)
(ll. 1-9) I begin to sing of ivy-crowned Dionysus, the loud-
crying god, splendid son of Zeus and glorious Semele. The rich-
haired Nymphs received him in their bosoms from the lord his
father and fostered and nurtured him carefully in the dells of
Nysa, where by the will of his father he grew up in a sweet-
smelling cave, being reckoned among the immortals. But when the
goddesses had brought him up, a god oft hymned, then began he to
wander continually through the woody coombes, thickly wreathed
with ivy and laurel. And the Nymphs followed in his train with
him for their leader; and the boundless forest was filled with
their outcry.
(ll. 10-13) And so hail to you, Dionysus, god of abundant
clusters! Grant that we may come again rejoicing to this season,
and from that season onwards for many a year.
7.8k
emotion
canoodles
with
thought
begetting
words
frivolous
and
impermanent
until
i
baptize
them in
ink
and
then send
them away
to
be
fostered and fed
by
those
kindhearted souls
who
read and wish
them
to have a
chance
to
succeed
in
the hard hearted world
into
which
poetry bleeds
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
IX. TO ARTEMIS (9 lines)
(ll. 1-6) Muse, sing of Artemis, sister of the Far-shooter, the
****** who delights in arrows, who was fostered with Apollo. She
waters her horses from Meles deep in reeds, and swiftly drives
her all-golden chariot through Smyrna to vine-clad Claros where
Apollo, god of the silver bow, sits waiting for the far-shooting
goddess who delights in arrows.
(ll. 7-9) And so hail to you, Artemis, in my song and to all
goddesses as well. Of you first I sing and with you I begin; now
that I have begun with you, I will turn to another song.
5.1k
The sun hung low,
sliding down below
the trees,
whose leaves had turned a golden yellow
from autumn's adoring
kiss.
The clouds looked gray,
seeming to bring in
thunderstorms
that weren't to come,
at least not today.
We spoke of
mysteries,
created poetry in our
realizations,
harmony fostered with the gentle
breeze
as we laughed.
The aha's and uhuh's,
the self-discovery and
conceptualization,
they were the sermons,
the creed,
the metanoia.
The rooftop sunset was
the sanctuary,
the gust of wind the hymns,
the moments of silence were
moments of reverence,
our spirituality
birthed in the
gravel
under
our feet.
The world is
our religion.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
inside an early morning
the sky flipped around
cart wheeling above
lightning bolt flashes
big thunder boomers
some clouds fostered
the rain which leaps
onto the earth just as
Zeus flushes the toilet
and the entire world
stops to listen for
him to zip.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
I've seen cops
way too many times,
too many times
to go through my ****
ripping apart pillows
with switches
and against my better judgment
I did nothing
as I heard the glass of
my grandmother's picture
being tossed around
in the back.
Too many times
asking me questions
about this
and that?
Him or her?
If you help us out,
we'll help you out,
understand?
in their rooms
where no love is grown
and no help is on the way,
their eyes were filled with the fire,
they were finally
gonna get this ******
make him pay
for crimes he didn't commit.
Too many times
when i was asleep
in some old sewer,
and rolling up
asking me if i was on drugs
or drunk,
and if i didn't leave
they were gonna shove
a nightstick up my ***
get me used to it.
Too many times have they slowed down
at a light
and turned slowly,
keeping their eyes on me
like I was a wolf,
when they had blood in their eyes
and teeth
in their holsters.
"Where you going tonight?"
as they surrounded me,
another inmate
inside the bounded
bars of an external prison.
Cops never helped me,
never asked
how I was doing,
or why I was doing it,
or why I felt trapped
inside my own body;
all they saw
was another ******
making problems
for the civilized people.
God will remember them,
just as I can't forget.
And most of the time,
it was other black men,
some fruit bred strong in them,
to hate them bottom-rung *******
because they had escaped
and remade themselves,
apparently.
In truth,
I have killed many of them
in my sleep,
but when I step back,
I see that they are a product
of the same system
that says the guns, drugs, and violence
are part of the ****** condition,
that only shows a ****** on tv
when he's ***** or killed somebody,
another mugshot for you to put in your
scrapbook of fear.
So, no I don't hate them,
I hate seeing people that look like me
getting killed
before they come to fruition.
I hate that
:"black"
is used as a term
meant to engender
fear.
I hate that I walk down the street,
and a white girl
walks ahead
turning around
to
check for me.
I hate that when me
and some of the homies
walk down the street,
our hoodies pulled over our heads,
people look behind us
for the grim reaper.
There is hope,
but without
it being fostered,
The fruits
die on the vine,
noosed up
in a new way
as they drop.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
The intimate connection
A closeness
where proximity
is never the issue
words caught from mouth to mouth
like a French kiss of communication
Seductive cognitive stimulation
Tingling understanding
from ear to heart to mind
As soon as the first word uttered
first glance in flight
it's as if
loneliness was never known
The lighthearted playful connection
Laughter released roaring from
the core
A dream fostered by two
to champion the fantastical
adventurous night of
spontaneity and the birth of a different self
Veins, blood, cheeks chuckling
A direct line of yellow energy
from one being to the other
spreading like unconscious permission
allowing comic relief
and free-spirited flight of
words, song, dance
It's as if
consequence of action
never existed
The healing connection
Rage and pain
spouted out of a
heartbroken hose
A desperate hope for rehabilitation
And then another enters the space
Alas, another enters the suffocating space
and pumps oxygen back into the room
for hurled haughty words
and salted wounds
No need to choose a side
the center of the bed, saved for you
to curl and cry and become lost in
another's blanket embrace
Holding exhaustion for you
It's as if you had four shoulders
to hold that world of yours
instead of two
The forbidden connection
Two beings
owned by another
through
rings
or promises
or time
The universe, introducing them
The light accidental brush of a hand
Longing iris to iris
Lust permeating the senses
Logic and sequence futile
Crimson licking up breath,
movement, muscles
It's as if for an instant
a wish thrown out to the stars
to be an article of clothing
hugging crevice, curve, skin
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Tsk tsk tossed
go out
Your suggestions.
Whisk whisk washed
flow south
Your directions.
Hiss hiss sorry
no time for
sage reflections.
Songs you sang will not be sung
Nor any tales of strength believed.
The brain embodied in such young
Must think it he first to perceive.
Ask every man
Who first made sparks?
From rocks to barks?
Blinding night and fooling fear?
Wholly gone ghost
Our first bright creature
He harnessed fire
Then disappeared.
Realizations when thought anew
Seem to skip from us awry.
So no Salutes
nor an ovation
For those who fostered
Us will be spied.
Gods truth your lips bespoke to youth
Yet still it's not their time to hear.
For these ears are full of magic
And your end rolls
Crushing near.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But ****** them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Mirage of red
passion coursing
emotional courting
Love being placed
hopes being fostered
an inner dawn offered
Seeing worlds flourish
strength arisen like lazarus
nothing remotely hazardous
How one person
can paint your world anew
dripping in the glory imbued
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
You had to be me
talking **** about Aristotle
then finding him in the poem on the next page.
We had been talking about how rhetoric makes students of analysis
feel like they live in some intelligent matrix.
You had to be me
to know that was very topical at that time in my life.
To know what wild bewilderment meant
at it’s actual size.
Two eyes, about the size of spare change, must of been going crazy,
but I couldn’t know unless I was you.
You had to be me
to feel as if you were enclosed in open space
feeling simultaneously,
empty objects come to life.
Tugging at the connections in mind
I was bound to make because of where
those same mechanical hands
had already fostered me.
Making me think something like god
could be construction lights over my exit sign
creating a tunnel out of the kind of darkness
night tells tired protagonists
exists to make you stronger.
You had to be me
to know that strength is a metric of preparedness,
and preparedness is a metric of memory.
I forgave mine.
I only know an instant,
the past shrinks under the weight of my experience
like a shivering body
under a bed sheet.
My strength dreams quiet fists and
sweats from voracious hips.
Unlike the stories,
the night has made me a tender man.
Unlike the stories,
that’s ok.
I’m dying just as fast as any hero with much more romance.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
Breathe in the freshness
of the arduously picked commodity,
That you hold between your lacquered fingers.
Don’t let synthetic ingredients
dissolve your thoughts
and obscure your vision.
The liquid remedy we sip is drenched,
With pain and protracted nurturing
Carefully fostered
through inclement weather
drink in the story that comes with it
That fuels caffeinated conversations.
Refined and defined leaving us blind
to the painted secrets of lives that were once lead
different lives intersect,
different thoughts and opinions interject.
Leaving lipstick kisses on the porcelain skin
Sipping away worries and pain.
Inhaling the smell of impelling advice,
fragments of sugar coated anecdotes melt,
integrating within, interfering
with the raw, strong, sharp taste
that can pierce through.
the rare intense, earthy aftertaste
is tainted with artificial garnishing,
suffocating the fresh natural essence
neatly contained in the teacup
ready to serve and ready to present
taking shape of the porcelain guise
Don’t sprinkle it with processed collaborations
of sugared doubt,
Contaminating your imagination
Manipulated by dainty voices
Resonating in your head
Like the delicate teacup
You anchor with your soft hands
Weighed down by the overly sweetened tea.
No longer holding significance
of the vast fresh fields it sprouted from
Forgotten and drowned
in the voices of someone else’s drum beat.
cloudy vision reflected in the saturated tonic
you sip elegantly, pasting a smile
suppressing your own desires,
under someone else's acceptance.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:20 PM UTC
I'm sick of sad teenage girls
crying out
"I've been used"
"I've been had"
"He lied"
"I was never loved"
Fear not sad teenage girls
it is clear what happened
the castle you keep your heart in was stormed
and
that tiny little princess that knew no evil
lowered her drawbridge
So, may I say?
Let it go
Mistakes will be made
That little princess can still grow
because she now knows
some are evil
dastardly
deceptive
all for the lowering of that drawbridge
Gard that castle well sad teenage girl
and never again will you know the selfish deeds
of some "Prince Charming" mounted on a less than noble steed
the sad will fade and trust can be fostered
just make sure he isn't an imposter
accept the past
because life is more than your love last
move onward
smile
Or, he might pass by
as if he were just another guy
So I say to you sad teenage girls
This too shall pass
in the meantime,
take your
melodramatic
self-absorbed
excuses
and toss them away
move onward to bigger and better things
because you are beautiful
strong and empowered
move on teenage girl
concern yourself with life
so later
if you choose to be a wife
she will not have to feel
like that sad teenage girl
lowering her drawbridge
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
S is for Seduction, a vast verb saved for flesh,
But in her outer-worldly tune, my thoughts become enmeshed;
Like at the great Salamis, where strength sought strike the feeble,
Seduction marked our birth, their fall—an end without a sequel.
L heralds in some fifty lads, of whom mere five would pass,
Bugsy, Daphne, Sylvester, and Tazzy, above their peers compassed.
The tests were long, the trials were tough, from nothing we had fostered
A team of lucky, noble lads to fight these migrant monstærs.
A is the assault, outnumbered and outclassed,
Our heroes boldly braved their foes until their stalwart last.
Despite their lead by tyrants, such Nawt of Hispaniola,
Our foes were forced unto retreat, costing us Lady Lola.
M is for the ones who’ve fallen, for them mourn reminiscence,
For those who proudly placed their names for our petty subsistence.
The fight is done, the beasts beat back, denied all loot and hoarding,
And so a statue is ***** Honorum Mikael Iordan!
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
I've always been clairvoyant.
*Your thought processes have just fostered the most reasonable belief
which has doubted my upper statement for at least a fraction of time.*
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
I want to write my memory all over your body.
With kisses born of love and longing,
Passion fostered from your embrace.
I want to fit my body to yours and hold you,
Breathe in as you breathe out.
Leave you with images of me content in your arms.
Wrap your arms around my name,
Write your love across my heart.
I am yours to hold through the night.
I want to imprint myself on you.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
I drink to every night that you don't text me
Wasted
That girl up on the bar
Making a fool of herself
Mumbling, slurring
What we once had is no more
So brief, I should have known
Blame myself. All of it.
Silly boy, don't you know.
You are the kind.
The kind of boy that does this.
The kind that breaks girls.
Kills their spirits.
Turns them heartless.
The next girl to blow you off,
The next unforgiving ***** to ruin your day with her condescending, catty comments?
She had a spirit once
She once lived
She was once carefree and full of love
You took her happiness in hand
Grew it, fostered it,
let it fly,
And then destroyed it.
You killed her
You drove her to bottles
Those of alcohol, those of pills
Her addiction that she's now just over
She may be better.
She's still broken.
The insecurities and depression still linger.
Silly boy, you didn't think
You don't realize
The chaos
The headaches
The stupidity
She felt
You're ******* horrible.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Finding myself dismissed
For my slow speed
And small size
I see there is no use for speed in the eternal
As there is no use for size in the infinite
For I have the tortoise way
As God has given me this glorious shell
That the world may throw down
Its smugness and contempt on me
For it just rattles like rain of a roof
As I draw my head in
I hear the pitted patter
Of the world's pain softly
Raining down on me
I relax in the warmth of my own shell
They may keep their childish ways
Their one upmanship
For I do not seek the high road
But the low
Where my heart brushes with earth
And I feel close to God
For I love the earth so much
That I did not choose to be born
On two legs and tall
But on four legs and small
With my heart as close
To the earth as possible
For I love the earth so much
Bound to the earth I appear to all
As they laugh and chuckle
In their disregard
As I am humbled by the earth
And my own limitation
But God rewards me with long life
As he does many gentle souls
For I will be hugging the earth
When they are long gone
And their empires have fallen
Listening to the whispers of a tortoise
Will bring you great joy
For seldom will such love be matched
As they guard the earth
With their warm heart
And shield it from the harshness
Of the World
With their beautiful shell
Where underneath an intimacy
With the earth is fostered
and can only be known
By the beauty of a tortoise
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Don't fall in love with a boy who loves himself more than a mother loves her newborn
Don't fall in love with a boy who compares himself to Alexander the Great (even though they both won every battle they had ever fought in)
Don't fall in love with a boy who would rather look in a mirror than stare into your eyes
Don't fall in love with a boy who had enough confidence to make Kanye look humble
Because he will never love you more (at all)
Because he will never use his greatness to climb mountains for you rather conquer you instead
Because your eyes only gave him a new source of reflection
Because no matter how much confidence he had, he will never use it to build you up
Broken girls cannot love secretly broken boys.
Tattered converse cannot stand next to Italian leather.
Despite being fostered by the same unknown force, insecurity and bravado cannot fall in love.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would do so much more.
When I say the things I do.
the terrible words that I see douse the lights in your eyes,
I cannot help it.
They flow from my mouth like wine from a bottle,
a bitter cognac into a cup,
and though your flame should sometimes be fostered by the alcohol,
at times it is too much.
For that, I apologize.
I would be better for you.
I would fight your battles,
be the brunt of every joke,
be the example of those who do not care,
take any punch your enemies might throw.
I would believe.
I would feel passion enough to believe in something.
I believe in nothing,
but
I believe in you.
In your light and darkness,
in your speech and silence,
in your disbelief in me.
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would die for you.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
This is not a beautiful story.
This is about you and me.
This is about two common thieves who could never see the forest for the trees,
and every word we breathed to one another in the spaces in between,
choosing to believe that we were anything but sinking vessels,
rending holes in the other’s heart-
this is about you and me in the dark,
sinking to the bottom of the sea.
See, this is not a beautiful story.
But the narrative you crafted was of two lovers in a romance, and you said that it was best that we keep it in the darkness, under the ironic promise that it was in the name of honesty to be fostered between us-
I suppose I wanted to believe it.
I was yours, and you were my secret.
But no heart ever knew a secret that didn’t grieve it, and it grieves me to think of unveiling my beauty meant for another man beneath the wandering of your hands,
and you said you didn’t understand why there were tears in my eyes.
Well neither did I,
but it still keeps me awake at night.
And I didn’t know it, but every time we parted you went home to finish what we started
alone in the dark with your computer screen.
This is not a beautiful story.
You used to say that we were more than the chemicals responding in our bodies,
like what we had was more than lonesome, broken misery masquerading as intimacy,
but it wasn’t.
You just needed a warm body
and I needed to be enough for somebody
we could never alleviate the pain we were trying to escape,
and If I could see you today, I would tell you that I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
*I forgive you for all
Of the changes you never make,
The blame I've had to take,
The broken promises that fostered doubt,
The nights of my heart being strewn about.
I forgave the friend with whom you left.
I forgave you for leaving him bereft.
I forgave your cowardice in the face of guilt
And my trust in you being sound as silt.
The shrapnel in your wake, left for me to sift,
Has created rift, after rift, after rift, after rift.
Although I duck love's fists anew,
I forgive you ***
It's not for you to undo.*
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
on a hillside facing north
into an infinite blue Jersey sky
Sarah was laid to rest
on a brilliant crisp
Monday morning
she was surrounded by
loved ones and friendly
Highland Peaks
gathered together this
Thanksgiving week
to praise, honor and
give thanks for the
the life of a beloved
transfigured soul
Sarah entered
the world with nothing
yet departs on wings
filled with an abundance
of riches garnered
from a well lived life
she nurtured generations
of family and fostered
a bounty of diverse friendships
all who count themselves
fortunate to have experienced
the grace of her love
Sarah was a
strong loving matron
of a vibrant clan
her home
filled with
laughter
and the chatter
of children
guests found
a hearty
welcome
and genuine
hospitality
her door, ear
hearth and heart
always open
to anyone
in need of
refuge,
understanding,
a good laugh or
a loving embrace
Sarah's legacy
bequeaths an
extended lineage
of flourishing children
blessedly assuring
her presence
remains a vital
life force in the
spirit of future
descendants
as Sarah was
committed to a
final earthly embrace
to rejoin her
beloved husband
George
white wisps
of gentle
cirrus clouds
gathered to
anoint the brow
of reverent
Highland crests
Well done
Aunt Sally
God bless you
and Godspeed
Fleetwood Mac:
Landslide
Sarah C. Lundberg
Born: August 01, 1933
Died: November 18, 2015
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
So what if there's nothing beyond the walls of
a garden.
A corn maze turned to stone by
Fear in excess.
But I'll walk along with you.
I can't hold your hand but
I have your heart,
And I'll walk past stalks and stumps
and march through long and twisted paths.
I'll touch each vine and breathe life into
Every flower.
And I lost you along the way,
But I keep breathing, and walking
Knowing that hearts are around in plenty
And I have flowers to give,
So long as I breathe deeply.
I went to live at the water's edge
And breathe my garden into
Salted air,
I went to sow my seeds in tides
And float my flowers in the rivers,
I went to breathe my pollen into every crack
and every winter stopped me.
But I know that knowing hearts are plenty,
And I have air to share,
Pollen to breathe.
The ivy grows on stony rock
Where I fostered it here,
And it takes time.
But I had you,
And I have them
So I breathe in deep and soak up the
Salty air.
The sharpness clears my mind
And the pollen soothes my soul.
So I collect my thoughts to grow here in my garden,
And take root in the hearts
That led me here.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC