"frailty" poems
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,
Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,
The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.
As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.
He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.
There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.
Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.
The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…
With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,
The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.
But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
My pen bleeds
As its ink seeps
My words cry
The seer weeps
I keep scrawling
Until my pain recedes
Walking on my way
Where my lament leads
Crumbling to bones
Changing to fit the needs
My frailty drives me
As nothingness breeds
In madness I did
Those fearful deeds
Now I'll have to pay
The price of my greed
Making me suffer
My demons succeed
In the garden of love
I feel like a ****
I am looking for my way
To the flowery meads
Where the chains will be shattered
And then I will be freed
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
my skeleton never liked me
very much. it cracks in unusual
places, ribcage poking out of its
skin prison, the frailty of it
breaking beneath the musical
whispers of the wind through hollow
spaces. i see
light bursting beneath the flash
of a camera and my skin
incinerates - do not look do not touch
do not look - and the charcoal in
my lungs is set on fire. i wake up
with ash beneath my tongue
far too often. my skin
despises me now that i have
bruises in places no one could
kiss better. there's this scar above
my right knee, which dislocates when
my life falls out of its socket, and it
reopens and blood pours from the
renewed wound too often. i think
i have a body that likes to believe it is dying.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
once there was a time when frailty was the word that best fit me.
i was weak and childish and it was hard to wrap my big body with soothing words and well fitting clothes.
my body was so large and my self esteem so low that when i looked in a mirror i couldn't find my personality i couldn't find who i was.
my wrists shook under the pressure and my voice screamed out when i thought about dying.
i was weak and could not live.
now, 3 years later, both my body and self esteem have gotten larger.
mirrors don't make me cringe anymore.
my best feature isn't my ability to become invisible here i am.
over the years i have developed a flashing neon sign over me called confidence.
i may not wear short shorts and revealing clothes but i have this new found aura of confidence.
here i am.
i will not hide.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
I sat by his bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled his body and soul now had complete control.
He fought kicking and screaming
the night the men in white came to take him on his final journey
like a great wildebeest struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken down by young lions. The way so many had said he
probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout his life from the very beginning.
That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the medical centre at the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of rows of stationary lights and fluid winding rows of transient lights in-between and thought how the light of this window is just one of many thousands.
At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields worlds above this city of light.
My father had spent most of his life just a short six-mile drive from here under the scattered lights of his hometown.
He turned to me and asked,
“That’s a big city. Where are we?"
Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It
slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky snake
handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares.
It seemed like it all caught up to his body. But it was good to see much of the bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade.
On that night compassion ruled the day.
I could not say it then but it has been many years, where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity.
In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room
bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up from a bad dream and asked,
“How did this ever happen?"
If only I could have told him.
Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sit by his bed and lean in close to his ear and sing softly his favourite hymns.
By morning his lifeless
dilapidated body laid in the fetal position. His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree.
All I can do now is hang my head and think of how weak and frail we humans truly are.
Like compassion forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above
the pedestals the former is made of to somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Hear ye, hear ye
hearken from the medieval times of old
where knights in the round once roamed
jousting with deeds fought in truth and honor
to protect the weak, the helpless, the oppressed
with an ideology lurking since the dawn of time
that all are born free, unshackled from contrived ordeals
only to soar high with the eagles to become one with the heavens
and bask in the glory of serving the frailty and holiness of mankind
Hear ye, hear ye
it’s Merlin conjuring a magical spell for the spirit
to behold, to marvel, new stages of self-enlightenment
where the essence of the King invades sleeping visions
possibly foretelling ominous events awaiting new missions
or predestined journeys one must endure to become so bold
in knowledge and wisdom offered, living in this world’s mold
not necessarily realized, instead shrouded with unimpeded urges
akin to the signs found in youth, immaturity, the close-minded
Hear ye, hear ye
the quest to sip from the Carpenter’s silver chalice
and taste charitable love for family, friends, and foes
where reckless pride and hatred are speared with the arrow
forged in devotion of a noble belief, tempered with selfless feats
where the sun rises and sets on the wicked actions of human nature
slaughtering the divine lights prematurely, locked within many souls
yet crusades against evil continues, no retreat, no regrets, no surrender
price to uphold the spirit of Camelot, payment in full, services rendered.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
Blind are the eyes
That stare deep into their own reflection
Dead is the mind
That worships thoughts of its own creation
Even the angels are made for more.
Humanity is frailty we mustn't ignore.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Almost every day,
I am fake.
Not in my beliefs,
or my personality,
or even my body.
My emotions are fake.
The ones that I choose to display, that is.
Or, I should say, the mask that I choose to wear.
A mask?
What does my mask look like?
Well, it looks something like this.
Strong. Happy. Confident. Independent.
In control. Smiling. Lighthearted.
Life is good.
No one would guess that all of this is fake.
And do you want to know the
thing that I wish most
for people to do?
I wish that they would see behind
the mask.
I wish there was someone who can
see my true feelings.
**Who can see the depression in my smile.
The anger in my silence.
The weakness in my confidence.
The frailty in my strength.
The need in my independence.**
I need someone who can not only
see these things,
but is willing to talk to me about it.
Whose willing to not just
watch me wilt away
and force myself
to struggle on my own.
I need someone who will slap
me in the face and tell me that
*I am not alone.
I don't have to fight this by myself.
I don't need to hide.*
But,
there is no one like that.
Not for me.
All that people see is
the happy, benevolent girl who
always smiles at everyone she sees.
I need someone who can
see the expertly concealed anguish
behind the constant, cheerful mask.
I need someone to rip that smile away and show me that I don't have to hide.
Yet,
I fear for that person to come.
I desperately need my mask to stay in place.
I can't let people down.
I can't let down their expectations.
I can't show them that I really am not happy.
I can't disappoint them.
And so, I desperately wish no one
will see behind my mask.
It's a paradox.
I need someone to see
yet I fear for my life
if they do see.
I wish my mask would burn in
Hell.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
How awesome is your name throughout the earth and your majesty is far beyond the wonder of the earth and the heavens far above. It is exalted by all creation, even from the mouths of newborns. You have fashioned praise in defense against evil and chaos and render them powerless. I look to the heavens to marvel at your handiwork. The sun, the moon, the stars that you alone, by a word, have set in place. How is it that one as great and awesome as you would notice us, to care, and love us? But in all our frailty and mortality you have created us to be like you, a little lower than the angels. You gave us glory and honor. You have us power and authority to rule over what you have fashioned. You gave us dominion over the birds in the sky, the fish in the sea, and the beasts of the field. You have given us all of this. How awesome, how great, is your name Oh Lord My God throughout all the earth!
Lord, we exalt and we praise your name through all the earth. How great how marvelous are the works you have made. You have lifted us up from our smallness and weakness to be like you, to be close to you. You have given us power, authority, and dominion over your creation. Help us to be good stewards to take care of and nurture all of creation and all life. We are too prone to turn our thoughts to the evil one and we don't always protect and respect this gift as we ought. Forgive us Lord, look with love and compassion upon your beloved, and lead us back to yourself once more. Amen.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
Heart of mine
you ache
****** truth-teller
be silent.
As I lie here
alone
with my spirit flailing wildly
normalcy and whatshouldbe
hold a pillow
and smother its breath.
**** opressors
they are everywhere
they're in marriage
and picketfence
but some cellular drive
made me leave you for them.
I want you
so physically
and cry out in pain
as my heart begs and pleads
for the one that it loves.
I need you
you know me
my mirrortwin, completely
Never have I been so naked
as I am beneath your gaze
I look into a liquid reflection
that adores me,
ether,
bone.
I have simple words only now
they squeeze out of me
bloodied bullets
I wince as I extract them
my gutless runner's high of a promise of security
wears off now
and I notice and I notice
and I notice
the pistol lying comfortably in my own hand.
Oh! my love!
I feel I'm dying.
You were beauty......
On the wind now
the warm, bitter wind
you are gone.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
With the frailty of a butterfly
Books for warmth, fading out like old photographs
Antique white skin
Brassy bloodied cheeks
A swarm of dragonflies laces my face
Ancestry nightfall, ghosts of the drowned
Faded gnarled patchwork, eating away my mind
Limbs of the tree growing out of me
Divided from everyone else
Inside the pinwheel blindfolded
Wading through hours and days
A slave to this disease
It's the only one that I breathe
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.
A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.
Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.
What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.
The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.
The life is still, but forever infinite.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Our ashes have settled on the cliff of pride
while the seed of today sprouts your frailty beginning.
We have at last seen the face of our god
which you have not even learned to utter
or never will at all.
Your intelligence gave you power that
failed the comprehension of our yesterfathers.
You built humans in just a sprinkle of *****
on to the skin of alligators and ants
on to the stem of a bee and the sting of a plant.
And you called them your sons
And you called them your kind.
The burrowed earths have no more riches
and they are left unpalatable to worms,
no more worms even
for even these decomposers
learn to tire feeding on your greed
no more shades of blue in the putrid waters
to which this bottle was thrown,
to which this letter longed to swim with your same species
that can never be in our family tree
for it has grown dead atop the impotent soil.
How we wished that your sons wished they
were with us in the time when
sparrows roared in the Kamagong tree when
wild boars chirped in the dancing bamboos when
the snow-like smokes breathed in the cone of Mayon when
the bangus and tilapia worshipped the nets of the singing fishermen.
How we wished they wished they knew.
How we wished they wished they saw.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
Be wary of me
My friend of frailty,
Because we see love
In different shades and
Express it in diverging ways.
I admit:
I'm a ****
I don't way my words and
My actions are driven by
Impulsion and confusion.
My biggest fear is that one day
We would break
Or rather,
I would break
You.
I don't know how to say what I mean;
I can never fathom what you really feel.
My laughter may be hurtful daggers;
My silence may sound like crashing thunders.
Can your bones stand my embrace?
Can you hear me whispering
The things I'm too shy to say?
Truth be told:
I love you
But
Save your heart
And save my dignity.
Darling,
I think you should
Stay away from me.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
*blink an eye and it will disappear
blink the other and you will cry
a thousand tears of joy
blink them both and watch
fireflies alight the azure sky
in suspenseful darkness the alabaster moon
croons its romantic breath over all those vineyards
angels taste the dryness of the grapes
and laugh at the waste of another year’s wine
move out of the way of human frailty
share your space with our immortal stakes
a slavery more terrible than any mankind has yet to try
the Goddess is our home
sower of seeds for those that fast internally
rise the quickest
and dance the hardest
seek the longest roads
give more than you’ve ever known
swallow whole this ocean filled
with the bones of your daughters
forsaken in trendy delicatessens
our heroes are just myths that drift
like derelicts in psyche’s mythos
i am pathos, eros and shadow
i am daylight’s twin brother
her-eyes-on the horizon
yet she could see through to his soul
her-eyes-on the horizon
if we are destined to find our way back home*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
Collaboration with Alyssa Underwood!
*I'm not getting much from life,
it makes me want to scream!
Won't achieve my smallest goal...
let alone my dreams!*.
**Your life's hidden in Christ's hands
and your competence comes from Him.
His Spirit's working His purpose in you...
despite how things may seem.**.
*I'm frail and I'm weak,
I'm sorry. I'm not strong.
You say I can handle this test...
You couldn't be more wrong!*.
**Frailty's the best start
for watching our egos flee.
Once we know WE can't do it...
we begin to get set free.**.
*I am sick and tired
of the daily drudge!
And fellow believers?
All they do is JUDGE!*.
**So lay it all down.
Jesus died to bear
the indomitable weight...
of every burden you wear.**.
*Does God answer prayers?
I wonder if HE DOES!
If you go and backslide
He seems to hold a grudge!*.
**I find He answers differently
than what I might seek first,
for what's pleasant now...
May not fill my deepest thirst.**.
*Alright. He makes us patient.
But I can believe the lies!
He has no provision
to make me savvy... WISE!*.
**If wisdom like the world
is what the soul most craves,
where's the contentment...
in those who are its slaves?**
*The believer is the candle
Jesus is the flame.
Thank you sister for your help...
I'm calling on His Name!
I will heed your sayings.
I have been absurd!
He's good to all His promises...
They're written in HIS WORD.*.
**It's not absurd to question
or probe into our doubts.
HIS WORD can stand resistance...
through every skeptic's shouts.
We're here to help each other
find truth along the way.
JESUS IS THE WAY AND TRUTH
AND LIFE WE LIVE EACH DAY!
Alyssa Underwood (the voice of Truth)**.
SoulSurvivor (the doubtful believer)
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
Do you know what is backbiting?
It is when submerged in the ocean,
the entire ocean will be cloaked by a vile smell.
And when reigned over the humans' hearts,
all of them will be fragmented.
Never see others deficiency,
Nor talk about their frailty.
And Say NO to
Backbiting.
Jun 14, 2021
Jun 14, 2021 at 6:00 AM UTC
The girl gazed into the vast, velvet darkness.
Tiny bulbs burning softly just for her
Stare back.
She wishes upon the glittering sky,
To watch from above;
To twinkle not die.
The sky replied,
To the foolish, dreaming girl;
"Even we, the stars, beautiful and sublime
Fall to join your dance.
The mortal dance of frailty and time."
"We stars dont dream,
Nor fall in love.
We burn and watch
And guide from above."
"The heaven you worship
Is empty not here.
But the earth at your feet
Is breathing sincere."
"So even your lives,
Small, fleeting and bright.
Spark more fire
Than stardust in the pale moonlight."
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow’s glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart’s echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute—
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman’s knell.
When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee,
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.
2.6k
Wilted flower, ageless in
A time of frailty, never wishing
For her glow to fade, but
Every flower wilts over time.
She was weak in sympathy
Seeing everyone though her
Outer shell was, of ill taste,
Souring there eyes.
So those of younger skin she
Spat upon in hated gestures,
Until she could not see beauty,
Only those having what had
Faded upon her over time.
She was a seamstress of cloth,
Fashion was in her eyes, beauty
For beauty now all was bland
As her image tainted, She was
Upon a plan.
She would take beauty from those
Unworthy souls, who abused the
Gift for it should be collected,
Harvested, so began her crime.
The first was a nose, cut off still
Breathing jagged edges ruined.
She slashed upon beauty as stillness
Settled in there eyes. Like a canvass
Now ruined, ugly in her sight,
Discarded in to the river the fishes
Feasting upon her crime.
She harvested, parts each dead
for moments but stillness brought
precision, each flawless gem, with
Precise loops each part fell in to place.
She only needed one more ,the lips
So delicate, so fragile. She carved
So many kisses from the bodies,
But never the correct, impatient
She became, enraged with failures.
Her moments of rage, became news.
"The patch work doll"
"The seamstress of beauty"
She liked this name for beauty
Was a puzzle that she stitched
Together to hide the ugly inside.
Then upon those fated moments,
"Excuse me do you know the"
Her mind forgot to listen, transfixed
Upon those ruby gems, Yes ill
Show you the way.
"Thank you mam"
Ill fated beauty, single breathes to
Take. These where her jewels of
Her crown as each most delicately
Removed, stored so not to break.
The patchwork was finished, **hideous
Monstrosity** of flesh dead, but she
Revelled upon her creation. Missing
The point that she was only faded inside.
She wore this mask, **the seamstress of
Beauty** now wore the blood of others
Upon her face, each was a life taken
For this moment in the mirror, she
Looked upon in happiness, in joy
Of others pain, but the moment faded.
All she saw was others, her beauty hidden
Upon the stiches of others face, she
Couldn't see herself only the faces of
Each life she did take. The lips moved
Spoken words upon this face, you want
This beauty take it cut it with the knife.
She cut upon this mask, deep cuts
Upon her own self, the mask fell
To the floor, spare parts of meat.
She cut around, bleeding down
Kissing the floor as it fell. Till she
Stood there, her skin, meat upon
The floor.
Those final moments the seamstress
Saw she was beautiful, that it was
Underneath that was what she had
Missed, so much beauty spilled for
What, as she ran screaming towards
The window.
Like a mirror shattering shards
Showing her a reflection of the beauty
She had become, she was the seamstress
Of many faces but know only one
Face hits upon the unforgiving ground.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
Bloodstained sweatshirt with no recollection of how it got there, or who's it was.
Hands nervous and gentle, assured and rough, sitting terribly low on my hips.
Street lights an unflattering amber on our pale skin, illuminating his eager eyes and my perpetually self-conscious ones.
The sweet scent of teenage boy clung to him in the best possible way.
These are the details of the first time he kissed me, the push of the domino.
Since that night, with the neighbors' swing set alone as a witness and the brave frailty of a fall night's cold, I have been hooked. Trapped, spellbound, moonstruck, indelibly in lust with him.
My back against a concrete wall, hands roaming and tickling the valorous strip of skin that really should be covered by my shirt.
Lips on mine, hip bones digging into mine, hurried and heavenly. This was our last kiss.
It was not tender, like the first one. But I was still too enraptured to worry about a **** thing, and he still had the upper hand.
I do not know if we will get to re-do our last kiss, but god do I hope we do.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
Drowning out through seeping acrylic
Unconventional canvas on a rickety easel
Not even possessing the power to paint
The broken wing of a broken swan
Despite her weakened frailty
She paints
Using her beak, using her feet
The swan finds it consoling to know
That the littlest, infinitesimal purposes
Are purposes
None the same
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC