"genuflect" poems
This forest shares its secrets with the wind,
Its whispered acorns; deeply buried prayers.
Where ferns glow green and stretch out spongy limbs,
And lichened rocks are holy altar stairs.
Black beetles genuflect and flash their shells.
Moth’s tattered wings reach out to supplicate.
The breath within the soil gently swells,
And lifts up cantillations to the day.
A tree trunk lays itself in feathered moss,
While rings of ivy lash it to the ground.
The ancient Oak knew nothing of it’s loss,
And wears the vines as Hera wears her crown.
I knew all this when I was still a child,
When God still showed His nature in the wild.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
Only the eyes remain as they were.
The rest of her face is ravaged
by acid. Acid thrown by two
boys on a cycle. Just
another dare.
She combs her long hair carefully. Plaits it
neatly away from her face. No curtain of hair
to hide behind. Puts a bindi in the battleground
of keloids, scars and uncooked skin. She wears
them well.
The boys genuflect in a temple, mothers kissing
saffron kerchief covered heads
before they gel their hair
and go on another prowl. This is what
men do, you see.
Lakshmi puts another layer
of cream on her burns and then stands
behind a beauty counter selling bindis
and lipsticks to girls with unblemished faces,
like their eyes. Like her eyes.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
For the past few weeks I noticed Concern
The Fifth Crowned Angel whom I will call Great
For Reasons which my own Mind tried to Learn
And attempt to twist my Clock and my Fate
Soon found your String was cut and justly lost
Thinking one of my Dumb Spots was the Crime
Or perhaps, Prunes, which spent your Meal at cost
Left me with no Change to pay for my Time
Why not? Strangers-by-Instinct I advise
Since this Gadget sponsored the Miracle
Which the Good Solicitor-in-Disguise
Took my Guilty Plans to a Cubicle.
Whichever it was, my Brow genuflect
In Deepest Penance I earn your Respect.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
the clay watched with rented breath
the red robe genuflect before
the dirt-dark nailed wood.
strange words were uttered
choral echoes flew
they too would bend their knees
those veiled long hair
those oval faces with scanning eyes.
the red robe spoke
they moved the corners of their mouths
till they were too far
they nodded, and nodded, and nodded
they did not know how to stop.
the red robe did not speak
he read from two slabs.
the air cracked by a
tip-toe cadence of metallic muttering
they held their breath
but there was panting.
with one unseen flicker
that stole as fast as
light shot from up beyond
there
perched on that dirt-dark nailed wood
a dove of light of blinding vaporous whiteness.
we hid our eyes.
our faces too.
we only saw a tall slender spiral staircase
that ascended a long, long,
long way.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
If I were to say;
the devil & god both
rage within,
I would render myself
dishonest.
For despite blind faith
you have never heard
me surrender,
to the devil or god.
The agnostic in me
did surrender, to a name
still unknown.
An internal war
battles of wills I so fought
pleading & praying;
*save me from what I have
so become.*
A war rages within
thirsty blood red, slaughter
a house for the dead.
I fall at your feet, lick the blood
splashed & spilled;
a slaughterhouse will never
be a clean resting place.
I kneel; genuflect
at the
shrine of gods
& monsters.
I whisper;
*What will be?
What will become of me?*
Laughing, spitting,
in the face of anguished despair.
A war rages within.
Nor devil nor god may see,
I am yours for slaughter,
surrendered for you
in this wasteland
my mind created when
you
were first
gone.
© Sia Jane
"I’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me."
Wishbone by Richard Siken
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
The hills burn
Smokey cloud
Over the valley
Wind whipping up
Sparks of misty droplets
Through the windows
Of the house next door
Shadows genuflect
On the asphalt before
The streetlight
Thick foliage shrugs
Its burly shoulders
Smells of wet
Sage on the mountain
Gently the spring
Has closed the
Throat of thunder
I close my eyes
But no lightning makes
Its traces behind my lids
Summer waits...
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/7/2016
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
With bowed heads we genuflect before the wicked grin of the guillotine.
In my mind's eye I go to parlay with the Grim Reaper.
He is seated before me- cloaked in obsidian shadows
His ivory bones offensive against the inky darkness
His scythe glints in the candlelight
its thirst for blood and flesh almost palpable.
His laugh comes as a rumble of thunder
Punctuated by the cracking and shattering of glass (and my sanity.)
He leans close across the table, transfixing me in terror,
staring directly into my soul. He who has no need for breath breathes -
and the smell of earth and death and decay and rot and ruin
tells me that my pleas for pardon will not be heeded.
Snapped back into reality, I close my eyes in defeat.
Suddenly- the angry serpent-air
hisses
and is parted.
Garish crimson stains ivory cobblestones.
Silence.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
I want to tell you that all's OK.
Oh yes, I must confess, things could be better,
but look. There's a whole cacophony of kookaburras
on my patio who couldn't care less
so long as I keep up my largesse.
And my flash friends, the rainbow lorikeets,
those lurid little lunatics, still keep on lobbing in
to lick up all the honey.
Not to mention the crazy cockatoos who want to
chew my bamboo chairs when I’m too slow with food.
So things aren't all that bad, really.
And I could genuflect,
even get down on both knees, to appease
that great spirit who breathes the symphony of trees,
and the murmuring of all those bees and breezes,
the tympani and tyranny of storms,
the heavy, heady scent of jasmine, heaven-sent.
Not to mention the awesome majesty of galaxies and stars.
And I applaud, each morning,
that old crimson king, my Majesty the sun,
who says “Right, we've had enough of darkness,
we'll have no more of that today”,
and then he has a knuckle with the night.
Of course, the darkness flees in fright again
when it sees that blood-red blaze of light.
It's magic when he brightens up the gloom like that.
He shows me every single day is sparkling, dancing, new.
So there's no good feeling blue.
And remember,
love is just around the corner, too.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
Lucid in a lush landscape, baked by burning Savanna sun
The undeveloped endlessness all encompassing
My feet sink into the tender tissue
Of Green Mother and Infinite Father’s lovechild
The watering hole is overpopulated with thirsty families
Suspiciously inspecting the albino primate
I make undeterred deliberate steps skirting hydration
Drawn to his penetrating and omniscient orbs
A genuflect to show respect, my head bowed and gaze on ground
The mighty titan mimicked me and extended peaceful welcome
Gradually I rose and full-figured, approached
Warily, minding his twin osteoscimitars
Hello friend, he said
I heard you coming from several years away
I have been waiting for you
In a thousand forms and figures as the shadowy shapes you doubted
But Wisdom, how?
Baffled now, as I follow worn creases of age
That line his cracked and withered face and date his hardened hide
Come see yourself as I see you, he said
For we are as old as your mind is young
And he led me to the liquid, still and reflective
My own visage now ancient
You often sought me out, and I never hid
But I always came too late
I am with you in every action
Every success and every mistake
I was your hand when you learned to hold on
And your ears when you learned to listen
I was your adrenaline when you lost control
And your uncut blood tunnels when you learned to live
I was your arms when you hugged a forgiving embrace
And the nausea you felt when you lied
I did not mourn you when you died and scattered
For you returned to me as many; come, we have much to teach and learn
We will raise the bulls of a generation
Without another word, I mounted sacred pachyderm
And we became a vortex for wandering energy universal and fluid
The venerable sage and I rode as equals through the night
The savanna sky resting its tired eye at last
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
We are born time travelers,
Constantly drifting away,
Across a vast sea,
Of Time and Change.
We are resilient,
Taking every action to reach,
Across the Great Divide,
To shake hands with tradition.
We are restless,
Dreaming endlessly of somewhere else,
Sometime else,
To fill ourselves.
We are loyal,
Seeking truth in the lies,
We were told in lives before,
To question everything.
We are joyful,
Calling vinyl records and pipes our friends,
As we clench supercomputers and earbuds,
To drown out the sound of progress.
We are unsatisfied,
Claiming a lot in life that has passed away,
We stare at the past and genuflect
To respect the places we will never be.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Conservative these days now means
The richest are the few who glean
The wealth that exists in our land.
The rest of it is sleight of hand.
After decades of this foolishness
We have grown weary of your mess.
We don’t think we can ever win
This country back to from you again.
You seem to hate those who are non-rich
And include them in every austerity pitch.
You refuse to help them feed their brood
Then pay the farmers not to grow food.
You cover yourself with glowing self-praise;
People starve, you grant yourself a raise.
You stand before the rich and genuflect
And subject your constituents to neglect.
You want every child to be born
Then vote to have their allotment shorn.
You seem to want them not to thrive;
You only protect them until they are alive.
You send the soldiers to march and die
And deny them benefits. Tell us why.
Is it because you have your wealth
And no longer care about their health?
The most hateful game you always play
Is making the voters look another way.
While you make laws that take their rights
You engage them in unimportant fights
About who is sleeping with whom today
And who is straight and who else is gay.
Or you worry the people about war
While you funnel subsidies by the score.
You pay your friends and give them jobs
Then call your opponents egregious slobs.
You engage in double-talk about the facts
And claim calumnies are helpful acts.
You accept your fortunes from commerce
And agree to treat the populace worse.
No matter how often you rearrange things
You edits end up being very strange things.
We need to hear our own clarion call
And push this kind of politics to the wall.
We must do more than hope for liberty
And once again fight for the land of the free.
We can’t just sit around at home and mope.
As it is, today, we can only sadly hope
That some liberty you will choose to take
Will cause the regular people to awake.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Genuflect
Is what they expect
But I rather kneel down
To my muse up above
And the pancake
Is supposed to cure
But lately I’ve found
It’s only a thorn
I don’t belong here
In these holy places
Baptized myself a million times
Haven’t been granted no graces
All I have left to do
Is to wait on the angels
With their bagpipes
And feathers
And figure out whether
I’m worthy
Whether I’m worthy
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
the enfeebling mistake
veiled as a no-no
the little miss brazen **** bears the brunt
of what now must be a joke
incoherently fishing about for the juice
indecent glycemic index
meter says 30
profile says 10
or 15
milligrams of the judy blue pastille
no gobs to say about she
but when her jeans genuflect
no tiff
no tease
be a lamb or another even-toed ungulate
and give the poor girl what she needs
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:58 AM UTC
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.,
And the St. Joseph's Sisters,
Made me a Bluejay,
Jay- jaying and soaring
Over Wrens and Robins
Below in five rows.
Teeth marks on Ticondarogas,
Initialed pink rubbers,
Toothpicks and fingers
Solved all those problems.
Sister Lucille showed me Sarnia
On the Neilson Wall Map,
With the Malted Milk,
Crispy Crunch bars staring back.
They looked too delicious,
Her reprimand was contritious,
I'm doing time during recess,
Ninety minutes til lunch.
We stood in a crooked line,
Like a snake, to get marked,
With her drawer a crack open
We'd get a peek at her strap.
Black or red, correctively cold;
Sister Roseangela, we'd heard,
Cried, Quid Pro Quo.
We had football baseball,
And hockey dreams,
Volleyball, basketball,
And funeral teams;
Field Days, Holy Days,
Days needed at home;
Teachers were coaches,
With little time to complain;
But the kids back then
Just weren't the same.
There were skirmishes, fouls,
Strike outs and time outs;
We were sliced white bread,
No rye or whole grain.
We'd march double file
Once a week to the Church,
To genuflect and reflect
At the Stations and Cross.
To confess, get redress,
Display penitent remorse,
Though keeping a secret
From the Confessional box,
A comfort and curse.
Their objective succeeded,
The lessons went deep;
Using the three Rs,
The ABCs, 1, 2, 3s,
To impart and ingraine
How to carry one's cross.
I remember by name
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.
And St. Joseph's Sisters
Who gave their all,
Each day, and always.
They've gone or retired,
But recalled in tranquility
For the life-lessons I admire.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
I crest the hill lined with young red delicious
and pass the rows of rotten purple squash.
Barreling into the crooked entrance
my tires spit gravel and huff dust
into the yard.
The golden maple with palm-sized leaves
is my beacon
through unforeseen junctures and the stony pathway.
Lavender tulips genuflect with the wind
their reflections dancing on his polished granite.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
You have a poem;
Spring brings you poem.
I think Anthony must be your court's poet;
a serf turned grateful for his god-gave muse.
Genuflect he's to this Fürstin,
trip he does, too, over himself
getting you water
both up and down the stairs;
when presenting his poetry,
rebuts extended portension,
yes, pausing liking um-ing, tsk;
and all so when reaching for his dagger
to cut our darkness away,
does seem dance with shadows
like fire was a pomethean bane.
Still he gets it from his sheath,
brings it to her bloodless yet
dulled from the escaped swings
of misaimed blows into shrubs.
Wants me to call him Reichsritter.
I’d indulge him but he’d still
have to synthesize faith from
some avian metabolism,
(it’s known that poets’ health’s all
flat feet, weak livers, shallow lungs,
and consumptive coughs);
or, better yet, find knighthood
in the books read for your sake;
nay, I too must keep honest to you.
So does he, you know? thinks
sincerely that there’s the stuff of art
passed to him when he entertains you;
doesn’t think himself the lordship you insist,
thinks he’s groped and somehow scalded
himself upon the empyrean fire,
and bows recedes away feeling just
a bit impious.
*That’s it though! :
You’re a young seraphim took earthly shape,
faring the angelic order’s routine errand
to forget absolute, embrace listless hate,
then forget it again.*
Well, isn’t this where Anthony missteps?
cries wolf, burns midnight oil,
clutches his stomach in pain.
The ‘seraphim’ draft is just a wish
for your eternal life, please believe.
Every comet and season makes him
just as mouthful and excited.
A heart of love and head of art, tsk.
We can’t judge the heart
and the head
together can we?
Regardless,
a court poet essentially a jester,
pinned his poem
to my chest.
So, meine Fürstin,
you have a poem,
Spring has brought you a poem.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
Now that we are lungs of our own,
no longer governed by each other
or good-humored light,
angled to make us beautiful;
I leave, tightly grappled within,
as if still in genuflect
still spinning
inside our billowing confessions,
two bodies conquered by cool
curious, cunning damnation...
A friend,
in her venues of Valentines,
a countess of stones thrown
proffers me the hangman's colloquial
"You still feel him...?"
nodding, I recall
the contours & colors of love's collision
*"You just keep feeling it,
however much you wish it stop.
Feel it--feel it all,
there's no prompt drug
to make it go away..."*
She coddles my sloth of shoulders
with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.
Nodding, I give in
to the germinating futility...
I still remember him
blowing out the candles
at our small table
with our unfinished meal;
how we thatched anger-strangled hearts
with saffron sauces of exasperation...
each etching kiss
close to a divine cure,
each curve of our crude pose
close-captioned
for the appetite-impaired...
Each saline scurrying tear,
each lonely-wilderness of day,
I force a sort of Nut-cracker's strength
not to feel
that barrel-hollow loss
that gallery of Use-To-Be's
and my friend,
in her Carmen wisdom,
is surgeon savant
stitches me up,
I am less in swarms of his tangibility;
I breathe less of his fetch
flooding
I am slowly becoming
just a single prefix,
my own word and crutch
no matter how often I recall
the music of his touch
or all the colors
we felt so much...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
The makeshift congregation packed into the church.
Hands clasped in broken hallelujahs.
Consecration of this community.
Guidelines for the faithful, faithful for tonight.
At least for now we can be one.
Trascendental divinity, like a silent wind flowing through
Public servants to ourselves.
We are the Church.
Sewn in the fields of the faithful.
Strewn through life like an empty chalice.
Filled with Merlot.
Hear us Father for we have sinned.
Glory to you.
Buffet Catholics asking for salvation.
Forgiveness sandwiched between the bread and pasta salad.
Repentant.
Offering up prayers for the ******
Quick to judgment.
With the ferocity of Charlemagne.
Partial acceptance into our open hands,
You made a valiant effort.
Sign of the cross with water blessed.
Genuflect.
Kneeling on the pews, praying for peace.
External.
Internal.
Oh! My children! God will have mercy.
Part of the flock for once
Maybe twice
A year.
Not even staying for the full length.
The faint smell of frankincense.
We offer you this gift.
Ceremonies steeped in tradition.
Rosebeads hung from the wrist of regulars.
This mass is being said in memory of…
We offer up these prayers for…
The meek will inherit the Earth.
If we leave anything.
Cynics questioning.
We’ve found hope in a paperback on a bookshelf.
Who is our shepherd?
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
I tell the stillness
of an inner hand
to listen for the
celebration of clapping.
I tell a hand
that holds and spills
temple thoughts
to drink from a
pen of communion.
I tell an incomplete
fist to discontinue
angry tightening
and grasp the best
possible opposite.
I tell a bending
orchestra of knuckles
to discern the source,
and the difference
between imprisonment
and blessed solitude.
I tell a waving
wrist to genuflect
for the safe passage
of afternoon thunderstorms.
I tell a pointy index
to return the wild indication
to a form that is
acquainted and most
familiar.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
in a cozy nest
the sect of snakes
did reside
with the chief asp
holding a strong
preside
none would ever move
until he gave an okay
to defy his edicts they'd
be thrown out of the shay
an uncomfortable position
the servile vipers were in
each of them had disclosed
secrets to the overlord's ear tin
after a time the snug abode
imploded on the leader of the sect
the underlings obtained some smarts
and wouldn't willingly genuflect
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
Little brown boys in knee pants
Single file.
Marching forward in reverence and godfear.
Genuflect on left knee.
File in and sit in wooden pews.
Whispering hope resounds irreverently.
on hallowed walls
each word an affront to god.
How do I know?
The sisters told us so.
every Friday. " bless me father for I have sinned"
seven year old. " really".
Crucified idol nailed to a cross.
Kneeling on knobby knees.
conjuring sins.
Ten our fathers and ten hail marys.
neutered males living in denial.
concealed desires cloaked in a Cossack.
cloistered women.
hiding in a habit.
who is ******** whom.
I was ten and the birds and bees
cows and horses, Friends and neighbors
unpulled the wool .
Had to scratch my head a lot
in those formative years.
The Vatican?
First world power.
Inquisitor's tower.
O.K. burn me at the stake.
Heretic.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely.?
No. Divinity has a window.
but small.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
Our Holiday Season's fast upon us,
Ribbons and bows are holding sway,
But I recall all the fuss
With Christmas just two weeks away.
Yes, it's been a year already
Since being swept-up in the frenzy;
Singing Silent Night and Silver Bells,
And awake until the last Noel.
But Yules ago, when just a boy,
Not toying in childish play,
Yet wanting more than I could say.
With Christmas still two weeks away.
You'd think that on the twentieth,
I'd get a better sense of it,
Christmas felt two weeks away.
Come December twenty-first,
I felt I was Christmas cursed;
For it didn't matter what who'd say,
Christmas still felt weeks away.
At dawn on the twenty-second,
The smell of pine seduced and beckoned;
Beneath the needles I spied presents;
The outline of a gift-wrapped sleigh.
I cursed, “Is Christmas still two weeks away?”
The day before the twenty-fourth,
I couldn't see the wooden floor,
Gifts sprawled to the front door.
I crossed my fingers,
Wished and prayed,
But Christmas felt two weeks away.
The twenty-fourth languished long and slow...
The light would fade,
The night would glow,
Off to Midnight Mass we'd go.
We'd press palms and pray for snow,
Then genuflect and run for home.
Although it feels two weeks away,
I've much to do
That cannot wait.
Thank God tomorrow's not Christmas Day.
Or is IT just two hours away?
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 9:11 AM UTC