"genuflects" poems
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
only the children of the vandal.
iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
to our locomotives.
iv.
the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v.
somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
yet i am
not coming home.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
Morning’s graceful
In a serene attire
Solitary soul
Genuflects in reverence
We are travelers
Seeking refuge here
This beauty is eternal
Morning Prayer
Rings true
Reverberations heard afar
An ardent plea from the Soul
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
KICKING THE BUCKET
The moon has fallen
asleep in a bucket
can't get back out despite
trying to slide over the rim.
It trembles as a train
thunders past midnight.
A child tries to catch it
its tiny hand plunging
through another dimension
through to its nothingness.
The moon takes its chance and
escapes to the sky with a splash.
It's all gone now
( the barn of course )
but the house...the child...that moon
are no longer to be found.
Strange to think
a house can die.
A tree enters through
the kitchen window
lays
its head upon a table.
The bedroom
is without its roof.
A door still stands
without its walls.
It bangs in the breeze
a surreal morse code.
The living room is home
to a family of nettles.
A sofa moulders
a new line in zombie furniture.
A hare stands upon a chair
barely able to hold itself together.
One of the chair's legs
genuflects to a sunset.
The hare hops upon
the rotting table top
enters the tree's head
and leaves upon its branches.
Somehow the bucket
survives.
Still standing outside
the outhouse.
It is full of storm
right to the brim.
It holds within itself
the moon of now.
Trains no longer
thunder by.
I, that child
now - this man
let the moon
splash through my man
before throwing it
into the night's sky.
Always wanted to do that
before I kicked the bucket.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
Curve of tangent brims on rune of cosmic quantum,
as sparkling rays reel through dew drops at dawn,
for green to enlighten creation by bounty of joy,
meadow grass seems to tumble drinking solace,
resonance of love sprees like beauty of blossom.
speckles of white crystal repose in home of blue,
eyes bespeaks of ethereal exist to seek beyond,
sun awakens earth to uplift from sheath of night,
as if hale of eternity expands to abound beyond ,
petal draws portrait of spark to inflame fragrance.
silence quells grief of soul to emblazon by the journey,
for each drop of tear to absolve guilt of own delusion,
light of love wakes heart to disown from quailing grace,
cry of call genuflects at foothill of warmth to yield unity,
synergy of art evolves to form by sanity of confluence.
Innocence blushes like cadence of hope to run a muck
quest still falters to know very principle of uncertainty
mystery baffles truth of reason to reason out belief
as tendered mellow soft weaves to gather web of love
yet don't we need to learn theory of quantum solace?.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
Praying on still more
of the man-made nectar,
it's a hooded monk on the wing
and it kneels at the bright
blood-red throne
swaying just shy of heaven,
genuflects several times
while vocalizing its disdain,
sips hurriedly of my offering
and then scuds away without
so much as a blessing save
for the assurance of its
repeated appearances.
--
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.
Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.
It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.
No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.
No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.
Agreed.
Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.
The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat. Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.
Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.
Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.
11/5/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed **** who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
What is it hereby that I seeith?
Unardent archetypes,
Renege cards to swipe for fast food,
Archaic since long ago!!!!!
Aristrocratics art thou?
Greedied dollared frenzies,
A meal plus ten for thine own family?
What about thy neighbor?
The one on thine street,
Doused in fluids, puke and safekeeps,
Not enough for him?
Thou furtive frugal!!!!!!!
Yea!!!
Tuck thine own pocket back in,
Dont let him seeith all you have to giveth!!!
Unlargess you!!!!!
As this old sphere genuflects in circlet motion,
To thine loved ones all time and and thy devotion thou giveth not to thine own family,
But to slot machines?
Thou maverick!!!!
Thine phene!!!!!
Fast food havens hath become brothels of aspirin taking needed,
Once a day,
For all unclotting!!!!
Protracting thy fateful health oh invertebrate?
Trying to live to one hundred?
Afraid for thy soul to pass?
What's wrong? No god? No faith at last?
Provident to failure!!!!!
Virulent art thou,
For thine work thou has made a surplus!!!!
Skipping thy wife's needs?
For forty hours of volition and lust??????!!!!!!!!
Visionary of demonous audacity!!!!!!
Thine own path is manifest and lamenting!!!!
For art thouest not repenting of thy fast lived paradox?
I'm a cynic to thine own trust!!!!!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
Martha Maguire sits
in the back pew of the church
cigarette between fingers,
smoke drifting slowly
to the high beams and tiled roof,
her blue eyes focusing on the Crucified
His arms stretched wide
His head lowered
His eyes shut
the skimpy cloth
about His midriff
nails in hands and feet
and wound in the side
a slit of red paint revealed,
she takes a drag on the cigarette,
inhales deeply holds the cigarette
just away from her lips and
with no effort releases
the smoke in a steady stream
over the pew in front,
the Crucified's skin
has a yellowy sheen to it,
the crown of thorns have
acquired cobwebs and dust,
only her in the church
silence except for distant traffic,
Magdalene had talked
of the priest and one
of the nuns and some
kind of thing going on,
Martha muses
watching the smoke rise,
the young priest not the old codger,
which nun was it?
not St Agnes that's for sure
she'd only *** out of
her thingamajig,
as would most of the sisters
no doubt,
Sister Lucy was it?
maybe can't recall the gossip,
she inhales deeply again
scratches an itch
on her thigh,
Mary Moran and her ways
with the boys
and she only fourteen too
as am I,
she smiles recalling
what Mary said of Brian Brady
and what he tried to do
put your hand in some other
girl's private place not mine
she said she said,
the Crucified hangs in silence
not a word
not a judgement,
some days she's sure His head
lifts and He gazes at her
with an awkward smile,
His eyes half open
the **** thorns pushing
His hair over His eyes,
the door at the far end opens
and the young priest enters
in his black garb
like a young rook
on the prowl,
he genuflects
and makes the sign of the cross,
then peers down towards Martha
who hides her cigarette
out of sight,
the smoke drifting less so
but under the lower pews,
he looks away
goes to the altar
fiddles with things
goes to the tabernacle
and opens the door
and fiddles inside,
she looks at her cigarette,
lowers her head
and takes a swift inhalation,
then sits back up
gazes at the priest
**** arsing about,
the cigarette between fingers
out of sight,
and she thinking
if it was the priest and Sister Luke
and the carrying ons
and what and where if so,
anyway she muses
letting the smoke drift
from her lips
what do they know?
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
Sister Elizabeth looks
out of window. No mirror.
Self unseen. Image only
Imagined. Pushes window
Outward, breathes air,
morning fresh, birdsong
From mulberry tree, old
still there. The cloister
Below, the red brick, arches,
Walls, no nun in sight.
At Matins eyes hard to
keep open, stifled yawns,
Chanted from memory, Latin
Words on page a dull blur.
Wonder how father is?
Aged now, pains most days.
She sniffs the air, breathes
in, tastes fresh air on tongue.
She places a hand behind
the pane of glass of window.
Her refection seen there.
Sin of sin. Vanity of vanities.
She looks at her refection.
Seen. Takes her hand away.
Makes sign of the cross.
Bell tolls. Bell tower across
the way. Who rings? Which
Sister? Lauds soon. Chants
And prayers. She fingers her
cowl, brushes nose, eyelids.
She looks away from window.
Cell tidy. Books put in shelves.
Crucifix on wall above bed.
Wooden and aged. Plaster
Christ, pinned by small nails
through hands. Mother bought
Her her first rosary. White, small,
silver cross and Christ. Mother
taught to say rosary. Word for
Word. Mother cancer eaten.
Prayers offered. She moves to
the door, goes out. Passageway
Clear. None is there. She closes
her cell door. Puts hands away
In her black habit. Walks, muses,
Silent prayers. Down the stairs,
as taught, slow but careful, not
to rush, no running. Into the
Cloister, morning sunlight touches
cloister wall and floor. Flowers
in flower bed by cloister wall,
Well tended, watered. Fingers
Rosary, thumb over the body
of Christ, rubs, smooth with
Rubbing. Goes by the refectory
door, smells of coffee, warm
Bread. On by the stairs to upper
Landings. Sister Francis by cloister
wall eyes closed, lips moving,
hands together. passes by, notes
White hands, fingers touching.
Smell of incense from church,
enters, fingers stoup, holy water,
Touches forehead, makes sign
Of Christ, moves into church,
genuflects, enters choir stalls,
Takes place. Stands till closes
Eyes, sees the image of herself
In window mirror reflected face.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
Love’s supremacy
Never at stake
Unscathed it remains
Numero uno
It’s essence in every beat
Intricately woven
With the soul
Love is true
One who realizes
Genuflects in honor
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
by s.mckeown
Above her soars the limestone web,
spun by Mason's sweat and blood.
the lattice weave, the hem of God,
a sacred knit of glass and lead.
Across the floor, the bin wheels squeak,
She genuflects with brush in hand.
Her callous knees in service bent,
she scrubs across the hallowed span.
Below her brush the nobles lay,
Asleep beneath the sword and mail.
They’re whispered query “What’s thy name?”
Her answer: “Your lady with a mop and pail”.
They feel her hands across their names,
Her brush across their titled crest.
Again the martyrs side by side,
are soothed again to calm and rest.
God might judge their bloodied past,
Or wake them to the wrath to come.
Until that time she’ll tend their sleep
Beneath the Abbey’s sky of stone.
Mar 25, 2024
Mar 25, 2024 at 6:56 PM UTC
ROAD
Where choices begin;
Some are quick to find its end.
Wise keep journeying.
CARPOOLING
The heavy traffic
An ocean's slow ebbing tide
Our patience drowns in.
METEOR SHOWER
Friday night space-lights
As we caress the hours
Streaks across the sky.
STAINED GLASS
Broken pieces shapes
The Cathedral of one's soul.
Stained light still shines true.
TAI CHI
Dawn's ceremony
Wet grass tickling bare feet.
Wave away the night.
FRACKING
Jonesy punctures black
Points in caves, Great Mother weeps
Wells of poison rain.
NIJINSKY
So divine his grace
Words not made to embody
Ballet when God speaks.
MY WINTER GIFT
Skin so Downey white,
Like a cold glass of fresh milk.
Unwrapping Christmas.
FRENCH KISS
Such buttery lips
Silken creams, wrapping our tongues.
Sweet patisserie.
VATTO
Gang signs, ink, and blood.
****** in a low Beamer.
Cool kissing his gun.
ROSARIES
Madre genuflects
In brown countries of her hands
Old beads, sweat, and faith.
DRIVE THRU WEDDING
Romance thru sunroofs
Hallelujah honeymoons
Marriage number two.
HOT TIN ROOFS
A light Summer breeze
Cools cacophonous bodies
like hot stars at night.
NOSTRADAMUS
Doomsday Soothsayer.
His visions doth entertain
Medieval profits.
CHINA
Man's golden lotus.
A wealth of divine knowledge.
Heavenly on Earth.
FIREWORKS
Our toast to Heaven.
Chrysanthemums igniting
The night's colbalt sky.
ORIGAMI
The creases of us
Tales of dragons and white ships.
Neatly folded sheets.
BON VOYAGE
Like wide sails that cup
The high winds of this marriage,
I'm at love's mercy...
OSMOSIS
Blossoms in spring time.
Bursts of Japanese kisses.
How to love haiku.
HOMONCULUS
Ultrasound preform
Whose quickened heart is my own:
A mandragora.
12 STEPS
Most Alcoholics
Who drown in their own thirst know
How deep "empty" hurts.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
So cold, so wet
so weak, so hungry
The weight of the darkness genuflects my soul.
So huddled I shake and I wait
Wait wait for me!
Come back, do return soon!
I can't see. Thunder flattens my hair onto my scalp but the lightning does no thing to illuminate the path that must, that must be before my blind eyes.
How can I step without light, you call this rescue?
But the greater darkness is deeper. Deeper than the shine-less drops of dew speckling my skin.
The greatest darkness is within and it stands before a great light. I am a shuttered lantern of the night.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 11:03 PM UTC
I try so hard to be loving
But there are a folks
That I just don’t like.
I mean it, no jokes.
They’re mean and nasty
And loudly unkind.
To like such people means
I would need to be blind
And deaf and mute and
Completely out of my head.
So, I think I’ll just go on
Disliking them instead.
I mean, what the heck?
I’m not all that spiritual.
It’s not like I am a very
Overtly saintly individual.
On a scale of one to ten
I’m probably an eight
And most of my neighbors
Aren’t even that great.
And it’s not really a contest
From the very beginning
So what sense is there
In working hard at winning?
Some believe in heaven
And others believe in hell.
Well, I know both of those
Two places very well.
I used to live in the Midwest;
****** was a polite word.
Just about the nicest version
Ot that epithet I ever heard.
Where gays and Jews
Might just as well go die
Because all good Midwesterners
Would sneer as they went by.
Oh, and if you were a Christian
You had better be the right sect.
Don’t try to pass as godly
If you religion ever genuflects.
And don’t be a Democrat there
Because that is plainly wrong.
And marrying between races
Bubba beats your head like a gong.
I think it might be better
For me to just be who I am.
Trying to act like a Republican
Just gets me into a big jam.
I don’t want to go to heaven
If hypocrites get to go there.
I’d get thrown right out
I’d knock them off the stair.
Of course, if they get in
That means something is awry.
So, maybe Saint Peter
Had better just pass me by.
Anyway, I sort of found heaven
In a chocolate cheesecake.
Just leave me alone with one.
That’s about all it takes.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Long days. Night slithers through
the door and I reach for you.
I believe in the wisp of
twilight, the smell of dope
and your arm around my
shoulder. The cross we bear.
The map of night is written
and I must go. Never, the
tears. I stare at your mouth.
We kiss the chalice of each
others love. The mass of
yesterday sanctified a long
litany of love unanswered.
I hate the sound of the bells.
I am brought to my knees. An old woman genuflects, A tear falls.
I confess my sins but never
you.
You, you belong to the
dusking dreams.
Caroline Shank
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 3:16 PM UTC
"M'APPARI TUTT' AMOR..."
Here in the church
of my father's carpentry
the incense is
of pine
sunlight genuflects
through the window
wood curls
in religious ecstasy
a blue bottle
preaches an iridescent sermon
a choir of dust motes
make this a heaven
as my father hums
"M'appari tutt' amor.."
this my epiphany
of the ordinary
this the everyday
prayer
I bow my head to
the saw as it sings
"....bella si che il mio cor ..."
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 5:42 AM UTC
.
Lost day
The girl
Genuflects
To her illusions
<~>
the boy is real
•
The ole freight train done come and gone
,.,
Only a memory
Like a lost girl wandering
Thru the lost day
Looking for me but she can't quite
Remember how
•
The slow rain
;:;
If she 's lucky she shall hear
All the children laughing at her
And she might just go join them
And become free
••
I would really love for that to happen
.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
Madre genuflects.
In brown countries of her hands
old beads sweating faith.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 11:26 AM UTC