"frailties" poems
Throw away thy rod,
Throw away thy wrath:
O my God,
Take the gentle path.
For my heart’s desire
Unto thine is bent:
I aspire
To a full consent.
Not a word or look
I affect to own,
But by book,
And thy book alone.
Though I fail, I weep:
Though I halt in pace,
Yet I creep
To the throne of grace.
Then let wrath remove:
Love will do the deed;
For with love
Stony hearts will bleed.
Love is swift of foot;
Love’s a man of war,
And can shoot,
And can hit from far.
Who can ’scape his bow?
That which wrought on thee,
Brought thee low,
Needs must work on me.
Throw away they rod;
Though man frailties hath,
Thou art God:
Throw away thy wrath.
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if learned darkness from our searched world
should wrest the rare unwisdom of thy eyes,
and if thy hands flowers of silence curled
upon a wish,to rapture should surprise
my soul slowly which on thy beauty dreams
(proud through the cold perfect night whisperless
to mark,how that asleep whitely she seems
whose lips the whole of life almost do guess)
if god should send the morning;and before
my doubting window leaves softly to stir,
of thoughtful trees whom night hath pondered o’er
—and frailties of dimension to occur
about us
and birds known, scarcely to sing
(heart,could we bear the marvel of this thing?)
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It is impossible to compass life without suffering harm
from loved ones.
Wrongs that take the ground from under the feet.
Wrongs that hurt heart through and through.
Wrongs that make us distraught victim.
Does forgiveness immunize us for further injustices?
Does forgiveness soothe suffering?
One thing is certain, everyone has been hurt in life
and everyone once inflicted wound:
betrayal,
selfishness,
criticism,
unjust judgment,
bad word,
emotional abuse,
unfair reward.
Love that bears all things, and endures all things
shows the principle of overcoming evil with good.
We live in times where love is seen as pleasure.
When there is lack of fulfillment the connection ends
instead of support in moments of weakness,
jointly bearing burden,
willingness to give up the ego.
In relations underflow of virtues is worthless.
Every love at some point hurts.
The more we love the greater the suffering.
Remember, that you are also sometimes hard to bear.
One of the most important lessons in life
is non acceptance of evil.
Always we are entitled to protest and defense.
There is a difference between sagacious enduring of injustice
and permition for hard time and humilitation.
Defense against evil should be free from desire
for revenge, hate, wrath, punishment and anger.
Leave vengeance to God.
The point is love. It is she who shows the right path.
The cure for the human pain of injustice is forgiveness.
Man needs time to forgive,
therefore necessary at times of touch of hurt is compassion.
Does forgiveness mean to forget?
No, forgiveness is an act of will not of forgetting.
Great injury can not be erased from memory.
Forgiveness is duty that gives hope and strength for the future.
Forgiveness is the transition from helplessness to peace of heart.
Forgiveness is overcoming anger and grief towards acceptance of reality.
Is forgiveness reconciliation?
No, although it is a quantum leap in the direction of reconciliation.
There is no way to force act of reconciliation.
Forgiveness is one thing,
and to be mature for reconciliation is another thing.
Most important in forgiveness is not to rely
on gesture of compensation.
Some believe that only weak people forgive.
Forgiveness requires tremendous effort and courage.
It is easier to sail away in anger
than creative dialogue which leads to remedy of the situation.
Without forgiveness you can not win
with guilt, abyss of past and human frailties.
Forgiveness is above all priceless gift for yourself.
Forgiveness frees you from inner poisons,
and also opens up new lands.
If we are able to injure,
we are also able to say the sorry and make amends.
Act of contrition allows for a true change of heart.
Act of forgiveness is the bud of heart at peace.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
by
rgpage
you live in a world which you don’t know
sheltered by your host’s resolve,
to keep a place of love’s warm glow
where all ‘round you revolves.
like a pedestal queen you’re held on high
in a world all of my own.
a world of warmth for you and i
and love you have never known.
this is the way this world must be,
a world of love’s perfect touch;
for reality holds another for me
whom i love and care for as much.
a woman who gave of her body and soul
and youth in good times and sad.
the one that i love yet cannot protect
when human frailties turn bad.
(yes) safe in this place of soft flowing grace
from realities out stretched hands,
never to want from life’s hectic pace
nor cry from hope’s ill-fated plans.
to my wife i give of my life
all that i humanly can.
now age and life’s strain have claimed their
fare share, leaving little with which to plan.
yet returning to you in most private of time
free from life’s flesh grinding grip.
naked and young we caress and arouse
and share in young love’s perfect trip.
my hope is you’ll read this humblest of script
for there is no more i can do;
to tell you aloud would dash our whole world
and more over mean losing you.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 9:07 AM UTC
Frailties overlooked--
**** is fragrance, snoring a nocturne
with affection.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?
the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.
i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.
there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.
all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.
we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
I used to live alone before I knew you
so
of the mundane tragedies endlessly writ
repeat rinse repeat
repeat
how awfully awful
is the complaining without cessation
of busted everything;
recall the the doctor’s office sign
"no cure for the broken heart here"
so when I hear a Buckley sing
the words of the Cohen, High Priest of Songs,
I, a broken hallelujah,
smile with recognition
though the true cure is
yet still forever being researched
patience is a patient within me,
for my muses and their endless,
poking aching whispers of write, write, write, right,
they are the company I keep,
they are the company that sweeps me up
I, a broken hallelujah
they are not the desired flesh, true,
that affirms confirms and denies me
denying my needy frailties
but for now,
mine company to keep,
so when we do meet and
you greet me with a
tell me about your previous lovers
as you humanly must
will recite my poems from
from before I knew you
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
A drink isn't hard to swallow,
but a divorce, a lost child, death, they are.
The wind comes up, blows away dreams,
ends marriages, sifts through plans,
hopes, throws out what it wants.
A drink isn't hard to swallow,
but growing old, pain, dying dogs, they are.
The wind comes up, tears our garments,
exposes our frailties, our nakedness,
thoughtlessly shreds our defenses.
At times like these
A drink isn't hard to swallow.
---
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
Knees, keep supporting me
You know I believe in you
Stop with all the frailties
And get me where I'm rolling to
Unscrew
All the blues
You sing and keep running in time
Well fed, sleep when you're dead
Or at least aT the end of this rhyme
Pause time, wipe off the grime
Focus on the words I have to say
Ran five hundred score, just a few more
And we can be in a happy place
Don't stop
Don't drop
Reach mountaintop and valley low
Haters degrade the progress made
Saying that we run too fast, too slow
Oh yes, do your best
Until you glimpse that finish line
Past the dream to reality
And see it was you all this time
These knees
Strongly
Wanted to finish just as bad as you
God be blessed, revel in success
We all run, but how you finish is up to you
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
~
who knows the definition of a poet?
~
*for my friend, S.Y,
who I will embrace with both hands,
both eyes, when he hands me a signed copy of a book
that answers the question*
weighty subjects deserve your best work,
expressions of affection and introspection,
need careful reflection, a proper set up for the
tumult inevitable when delving in the unopened recesses
where the answers kept
so, of course, the writing commences well after 1:00am,
when the darkness of night clarifies the process,
for I work by day but live by night,
when summoning up my one tool no one can take away,
the joy, the relief, the spectacular exultation of
rearranging the aleph bet in new ways,
when the quietude of reflection transports me
across the continents in visions of what will be
I don't know if I know the answer, perhaps, any answers,
but when this man demands
the ebb tides of soul to depart,
to make him stand alone on the shore of endings,
forcing him to acknowledge his reckonings,
lonely, only humanity and frailties
I hear a voice gruff growling and me laughing-
"cut to the chase, make your point, get out of people’s way"
so in your honor, this simp fool who asks questions
no human has any business, the answers knowing,
will one last stanza grant and give and
yours to keep,
and commence countdown waiting for that day of welcoming
*from the underground comes a chorus of voices,
in one voice but many languages, chanting:*
***all humans are poets
who acknowledge and freely confess that the
blood and stuff, the kisses and the touches of family and friends,
parent and child,
are the ***** and the egg,
the beginning and the circulation of the never ending,
the open entrance that penetrates the berm surrounding real life,
all these are the root and the stem and the blossoming,
of poetry writ large, for they who have these in their possess,
are surely by definition certainly
humans, poets***
~
5/14/17 2:05am
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing.
For why should others’ false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own.
I may be straight though they themselves be bevel.
By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown,
Unless this general evil they maintain:
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.
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god sieves and strains,
heaps and hurls,
molds and unmakes,
unmakes and molds,
blood and clay,
fire and ‘nay’ to frailties
before sculpting
our hearts.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:48 AM UTC
I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70
I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both
I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands
I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses
I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction
I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship
I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist
I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree
I want to be like Jeff Lebowski
I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties
I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path
I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies
I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral
I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, **** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’
And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be,
I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now,
I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke
I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow
I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11!
I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be
But right now, I am the me, that I want to be
And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
(In Memory of Miss Araceli M. Katigbak, TMA’s Miss Grammar)
You taught us
to talk and write head up high
in a tongue to foster,
that is not our mother
The scroll of rules
and the roster of exceptions
you’ve mastered
and you made us master,
patiently you nurtured
the timid buds
diligently you challenged us
daily, and your voice
still reverberates –
Correct practice makes perfect!
Beyond subject-predicate agreements
Your treasured grammar lessons
taught the young at heart,
the malleable minds:
Every man or every woman is
but
Men or women are,
regardless or irrespective
of beginnings,
required to know:
1. There are rules to be followed.
- and we expanded this to our lives,
and not just our paragraphs and sentences
2. There are exceptions to be considered.
- and you indirectly taught us,
to recognize differences
and that difficulties of the English language
are just like people’s frailties
and our friends’ idiosyncracies
3. Mastering grammar is good
but honesty is the best!
And thus, your lessons most precious
are far above your prim and proper dress and shoes
and your gospels of correct usage, syntax and other linguistic gems
delivered good citizenship and how-to-be-a-good-friend items.
The Good English we learned are words to live by
You’ve given us treasures no money can buy.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
Into the darkness of midnight lies
the fall of many righteous skies
devoid of love and self-assurance
where demons thrive through perseverance
to consume innocence with haunting fears
which overshadow their victims in despair
for the hope of light burning internal
dims as concern rules the fraternal
hidden under the guise of dignified uncertainty
to follow the footprints left by predecessors
tormented by the visions of conquest
over land, possessions, and prominence
able only to behold the frailties of souls
buried deep within shallow but hollow goals
conjuring sinister thoughts to become undead
to greet fate with a hideously gruesome end
as they ***** the life out of reason and wisdom
feasting upon the remains like laughing hyenas
until the rise of daybreak only to scurry away
and eagerly await another knight to lose his way.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from my self depart
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe though in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.
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*for my friend, the artist,
Ayesha Joy Burkey*
the answer simplest,
is there any other way?
we paint, fashion jewelry,
even human beings,
for and from
wire, stone, DNA,
and paint
our harshest critics,
ourselves,
always we busy saying,
not good enough
so South Dakota,
breathe release,
let one whom,
you have never
in flesh seen,
see you through
the ten plagues,
to a promised
answer~land
long have I searched for my
flawless poem,
knowing it my be
my next one,
each a doorway
to the next
this one,
and the
one before,
never good enough,
keep the essay going,
in fourth gear
so South Dakota,
in hot springs,
salve and be saved,
rapid city breaths exhaled,
in Jerusalem,
see the deal sealed
breathe release,
read out loud,
for hereby,
and nearby,
your voice must join me,
in this semi-silent
collaboration to make
this solo poem
into a
partnered painting
all yours,
your very own
can't you believe,
the mere question
you posing,
within,
the answer,
reposing...
The creation act,
frailties fraught,
what we design,
never good enough
but we paint on,
for the paint,
when eyes embraced,
says
*a piece of my grief
herein encapsulated,
and so on and on,
to the next,
thus it's entirety
lessened,
one step closer
to diminished
you, grief painter
right hand cunning,
me, grief writer,
lest we forget,
through our art,
that even if our
words fail
our tongue, the ears,
to comprehend,
to communicate,
to convey,
but the eyes
they,
cannot be denied,
eyes,
that have gazed upon your
painting prayer
Of course you heal,
tikun (repair) of your world,
in every brush stroke,
you answer,
sufficient,
dayenu,
and then you
Restless Painter,
ask again, and answer,
af p'aam lo maspiq,
never good enough,
and I say it once more:
can't you believe
the mere question
posing,
within, the answer,
reposing...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*"Two small paintings are part of a number
I did as an assignment
when I went to stay with my son.
One of his OCD symptoms
is seen in a difficulty to get through doorways.
When I showed the collection of work
to my teacher she said
"do you realize you are painting open doorways?"
And indeed, the motif was there
whether abstract or realist.
Can one heal a child through paintings?
Or one's grief at being helpless to change things?"*
A.J. Burkey
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Edges of shadows
In the corners of eyes
Too fast to see
It might be me
Is it true
What you see?
Is it real?
Is it really me?
You do not hear my voice
Or know the colour of my eyes
You would not know me in the street
Or recognise my accent
Should we meet
And yet
You have seen my soul
In the words I write
And even the spaces between them
Those who care to look
Can know my story
My frailties
My vulnerabilities
My reality
This may be my curse
And my gift to you
Whatever it may be
You know that it is true
By Phil Roberts
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
She feels her frailties
Gnawing at one another
Believing that's the escape
From the somber vessel in which they've been trapped
The vessel that constantly strives to set them ablaze
Yearning to free herself
Of these blemishes that keep coming back to haunt her
As if they never really left -
As if they've always just been watching -
From under the bed
Or through the window
Tormenting her with their eyes
That seem darker than the hollows around hers
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Remembering our dead
Mansions, or humble abodes
Virtues or deeds
Learned by heart
Nights of gladness
Morning sorrows
Stories as grains of sand
Forming eternal rocks
Or leaves from a tree
Shelters of hopes and dreams
Ocean waves drowning breath
Dreams crumbling as castles
Small homes becoming shrines
Images we choose, or not
Our great grands looking back
Thinking of us as we of ours
Long for memories to grow
Good grows as hands reach out
In time to lift, serve or destroy
Things break and lose charm
Those we feared and loved
Or guides found with sobs
Moments of shared delight
Human frailties, loss and pain
Keep us in want
Never enough, always too much
The hell of heaving
Infernos of inherited pride
Or careful purpose and deeds
Blessing those left
We follow their climb
When plotting our course
In darkness hides the light
Doors close in mind
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
Should you follow footsteps
walked in blackouts?
Age bring wisdom
to some.
To some it brings concrete
to set them in their ways
and it weighs them down to younger days.
Rage forms little more than a fist,
a tight grip that holds. It unfolds
under the eyelids; that's where he hides it.
In control of a beast
that should've been tamed or destroyed.
I saw prints in the debris of adolescence
and followed in an immature suit.
Eventually this led me into the night
docile, hostile and not always an honest smile.
An enemy that's almost like a brother to me
preys on my frailties, daily. But
if words form *****
then I am the four walls.
Why does it sometimes feel
like I'm the role model?
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Emulating the reflection of seasons
passing, its waning desire to stay.
Lingering in flurries of breath until
it descended in frailties last moments .
Life became fragmented an outline
now broken.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
Love's burning desire
Life passes by much too quickly. More often than not, we lack an appreciation for the true value of time. Almost like in the blink of an eye another day has past. Then, another week. Then, another month. Then, another year. When we finally come to our senses reality starts to settle in. We are now left with that ever recurring question of, where has the time gone? Ergo, why not come to this appreciation for life while we are still young. At a time, perhaps, when we still have most of our basic faculties intact and an ability to use them more beneficially and productively while "age" is still somewhat on our side.
Below is a poem I wrote in an attempt to get this point across in a more creative way. Here we can see the development of that passing time. Here we see the changes time necessarily impacts on us. The message is clear, don't let human frailties and shortcomings from stopping you from enjoying, accomplishing, living, experiencing, etc. Don't let things like fear, laziness, depression, unhappiness, or anything similar restrict you from appreciating everything that life has to offer and for you to experience. So mush exists in this our beautiful world. So much awaits us to experience and to grow. Why squander away that precious time that so often steals away everything we have from right under our noses. The real tragedy is when we finally see how precious time is. We see why it is thus so precious. It CANNOT be replaced. Appreciate Life! Enjoy Life! Don't even stop to turn around.
The sun will shine, and the clouds will rain
these winds will blow, and love will yet feign
the eye will see, and the heart will crave
the body will sin, and sin will enslave
The baby will crawl, and the boy will walk
the man will run, and love will soon talk
love's burning desire, but a fleeting fire
age overcomes, desires quickly retire
The old man now stooped over
memories have but faded away
that life once full of living, alas
sitting in solitude, nothing but decay
So in youth, don't ever miss the chance
never stop dreaming, a time for romance
the days are shadows, years will soon disappear
don't miss these opportunities when you're young
just because of this word called fear
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
*I think I love you so much because
of your frailties and sometimes regrets.
Perfection in people is boring
And this you are not.
Never to have reached up and failed
Never to have fallen stumbling
only into one of life's trap's.
Set there for us to learn a lesson.
You are unlike them,
the virtuous and untested.
You are completely immersed,
In the revelation of life's possibilities.
And life has revealed its beauty to you.
And now you share it with me.**
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
The silence of the night is enticing,
A cold chill is blowing from the north.
Walking barefoot under the moonlight,
I look up at the sky and think of you.
I light my cigarette and blow out the smoke,
The smell of rain is still fresh in the air.
Walking down the empty street,
I see your reflection in every window.
The night closes in and the darkness deepens,
As the nagging doubts and frailties of the mind begin to appear.
The clouds above twist and grow with anger,
The moon hides behind the impending storm.
The smell of your hair, the delicate smile on your face,
The softness of your lips, the warmth of your embrace.
These are the shadows that haunt me,
These are the demons that persecute me.
I take another swig of whiskey to try and clear my head,
To warm my body and steel my thoughts.
The demons taunt me with memories sharpened like knives,
Reminding me of hurts so deep that left scars which will not fade.
However, as I lie on the moist grass and take another drag,
I see your image shimmer across the field.
I remember falling asleep in your arms,
And waking up to the sound of your voice.
Suddenly, the sea of clouds disperses,
And I see a great moon shine bright and proud;
The shadows and demons flee at the incoming light.
And with the last puff of my cigarette I see,
Your image fade away into the night,
Leaving me behind with a smile and the taste of home.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC