"gestate" poems
Not even kidding.
I have been in the throes
of a sort of mid-life crisis,
because I can't have
any more babies.
I ******* LOVE BABIES
My best friend is pregnant
right now. Soooo pregnant.
It's ******* adorable.
And I, I am unable to have
ANY MORE BABIES.
BUT I LOVE BABIES.
No **** you guys,
I really like to have babies.
I am *******
GOOD AT HAVING AWESOME BABIES.
My ****** was like
baby ******* paradise.
And I just had
a miniature midlife crisis
over the fact that
I had to use the word
"was" right there.
If I still had that ******
I would be forced
to use multiple layers
of protection
to ward off fertilization, and
MORE BABIES.
I LOVE BABIES.
I can gestate like a ************
Oh wait, maybe
more like a ****** mother,
YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
******* BABIES!
And when I give birth,
I do it kamikaze style,
with only a couple minutes
notice for the attending physician.
BLINKED? OH NO, SORRY
DR. ************
YOU ******* MISSED IT!
Back when I had a ******
like last year,
I was fertile
like a thing that is incredibly fertile.
You had to put an army
between me and my ******
or some **** would go on
and I would be all,
oh! A new kid!
That's inconvenient!
But man,
you know,
you birth a child,
it's insanely difficult
on a level incomprehensible
to anyone who hasn't done it,
you work through it.
And then ******* hell,
you're the mother
of 3 teenagers
and your very productive
****** is all
**** YOU, SERIOUSLY?
And you put it out of
your misery, and then,
a few months later,
you think
it would be nice to have another baby.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
We know
and to know is to invent,
and to invent is to lie.
Poets deal in beautiful lies,
especially when convinced
we are telling the truth.
Not malicious lies,
not the ones meant
to wound or ****
Call them
improvements
on reality.
Our charm and power
gestate from our inventions.
We take nothing,
add our souls,
engender words
and only expect awe.
The kind of awe that sends
dresses, skirts or pants
tumbling toward the floor.
The kind of awe that
grows roses in their hearts.
We call that romance,
another invention
that becomes a dance.
Dance with me
and I will whisper
the sweetest lies
I can invent.
You deserve nothing less
than very my best.
Relax, sweet lover.
Don't be afraid.
The lies that
I invent for you
have always been,
and always will be,
true.
~mce
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
I've stayed up for you
In my mascara
Just in case.
Again.
As, more alcohol than man,
Your hands stumbling over the keys like your feet on the ground.
You tell me I'm beautiful, but it's obviously not enough.
Money is too tight to cross the water like I've done.
But there's just enough for the pub
With someone who's not dad or brother.
This pause is a hint for you to tell me it's not what I think it is.
Your head lolls.
Oblivious to mine whirring.
Eyes widening
I hold back x's
In the hope that you'll notice that
You've ****** up.
You were right all along
I deserve better, but don't want it.
I've sat here patiently
An era long enough to gestate
This hate as I fall for you
And ask you kindly what's going on.
Only to get a vague answer,
A drunken phonecall
And a hiccup.
Just tell me what to do here.
If you want me to,
I'll stay
And be yours.
But I can't hover at the bar
While you go up for another drink.
I need someone of my own, not to be owned by someone.
I've stayed up for you
In my mascara
That's running.
Again.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 5:46 PM UTC
Atop a clam, divinest pearl!
invites me to peer, enchanting girl
eyes fluttering and beckoning
casts sweetest spell, magic, enchanting
a magnificent array of colour
ripples through her enveloping aura
towards her my rapt mind swims
in her sight my spirit chimes
throughout the days and hours
Mermaid makes the heart gestate
Makes my spirit feel elate
I want my heart to waltz with hers
Out of its spiritual bars
Upon the shores we'd frolic, play
Soothing, quelling fear, dismay
With her I am engorged on bliss
Touched by the light of luck's kiss
All throughout the day
O Mermaid Queen, they doubt thy truth
A kind of beauty rare, forsooth
But rainbows shine in spite of faith
Suns blaze in spite of eyes embrace
The world is good (and good is true)
And more good for the life of you
You are a beacon of hope and joy
Could inspire the rise and fall of troy
With heaven's light imbued
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
The weight of life is reduced to a cloud
As raindrops of lysergic acid run free.
Their pitters and patters equally loud
As all of the colours that melt around me.
The womb of the universe beating its drum
And setting a pace for the flowers to bloom.
A force with such strength that all nature succumbs
As peacefulness floats in kaleidoscope flumes.
Empathy blossoms, arousing a smile,
That creeps from my lips to the end of the room,
Searing itself on a cosmic denial
That beauty like this shouldn’t gestate from gloom.
Floating, not unlike a dandelions seed,
Thoughts of anxiety flee to the Earth.
They carry but vapidness with the sweet breeze.
In nebulous nebulas they are dispersed.
Now what remains as a warm neon cloud
Is beauty profound and purpose pristine.
Unwanted, the ego is left disavowed
Dancing in memories of amphetamines.
Left in its place was the beauty and I.
Climbing like vines as it forces the walls.
Pushing them down with an ******** sigh,
Revealing a cosmos that rhythmically calls:
‘Freedom is such a deplorable word.
It offers ambitions too fruitful to take.
Though comfort or not,
As with fictitious plot,
It’s only as real as it’s fake.’
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Once more the battles of life by stealth,
Creep upon you with blades, half hid under devil's sheath,
Deceiving soul and self of their immortal worth,
Shrinking my heart the breadth of its girth,
My friend fights, struggles to slay their ghost,
I've wondered how such a soul can be haunted,
And for days I've prayed and chanted,
Because of the fear their spirit is lost.
I have walked, traversed prayer's line for miles,
To save them from a fate that appals the mind and riles,
Searching fathoms of my sadness stricken soul,
To find ways to make again theirs whole,
Imagining their sheer delight,
In future years bereft of chains,
Bereft of sad and melancholy refrains,
I see them free, take flight.
May God grant light and love and peace,
May their mental struggle cease,
For being borne aloft on wings,
That inspire mind to soar and sing,
Considering Love a sufficient goal,
An immortal truth adorned by light,
That maketh for an awesome sight,
At peace with the one and all.
My friend being stricken found life devious,
Instead of coy and mischevious,
While that great Knight, that rose out of Heaven's fires,
Inspires feelings suffice to be sung to lyres,
Yet feels themselves beneath the beams
Of destiny, that touch the Earth,
Warms it the breadth of its girth,
And whose luck's light kisses our dreams.
My friend wails for their wilting fate,
And in my Heart a sorrow gestate,
I want my Heart to waltz with theirs,
Out of it's spiritual bars,
On the shores of Heaven we'd frolic play,
With them I'd be engorged on bliss,
Touched by the light of luck's kiss,
All throughout the day.
In my devotion I have learned this,
That to be not devoted is remiss,
To deny truth of Love is the worst,
Be banished from its kingdom who accursed,
Her splendour, to which we ought to be,
In mesmerised and spellbound awe,
To love, and cherish, and adore,
Her gifts and generosity.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
~
March 2025
HP Poet: Mike Adam
Age: 66
Country: UK
Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Mike. Please tell us about your background?
Mike Adam: "Slum east London, dysfunctional violent childhood, playing on bombsites. School, dungeons and kidnappings, sad little boy. Love of dogs and plants and rocks. School: Beckett Shopenhauer, work, college, work university, 1st love lost, travel Asia beaches and mountains, monasteries, monks, Bhodidharma. Work, work, work, Lady J (published collection), retirement, happy at last."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Mike Adam: "Began writing 10 years old, HP about ten years."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Mike Adam: "Poems gestate and arrive unbidden, laid like turtle eggs, a little hole, sand flicked and forgotten."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Mike Adam: "From 1,000 posts perhaps start with the latest few. I call them "mercifully short," easy to read but, given time, you may unpack a great deal."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Mike Adam:
*"Ryokan:
Why ask who has Satori, who has not?
What need have I for that dust, fame and gain
Montale:
Life that seemed vast
Is briefer than your handkerchief"*
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Mike Adam: *"Amidst the first suicidal mass extinction in history I am grateful to read new poetry and garner hope from young poets still expressing themselves in beautiful combinations of words so thank you all for that...
Who am I?
I don't know"*
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much Mike, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”
Mike Adam: "With gratitude, Mike."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Mike a little bit better. We certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #26 in April!
~
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 4:45 PM UTC
you cannot equate my fate
with the likes of yours,
you cannot narrate
what i might endure,
you cannot gestate
the weight, nor labor,
because it predates
the state of our nature
but moving forward is
predicated on behavior
so i'll be a good neighbor
and do you the favor.
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
You are aggressively mediocre
And your thoughts belong to others
You occupy a space best reserved
For those bubbling with original thought
Your mass is simple weight
With no power plant to lift
It from the gravity of self
I crave the company of people
With sparks of wit and muse
Whose conversation is such
That they make me think and smile
And be on my own best mettle
So, upon you I will not settle
Your imagination stops
At your front door and ventures
No further for fear of getting lost
Instead I will be the co-pilot
Aboard a ship that skims the worlds
In a multi-verse made of chaos and string
And I will swim in pools of radiant plasma
And bask in light and warmth
From suns that gestate the DNA
I am not bound for compromise
That craft does not leave its dock
I will not agree to mediocrity
Despite your championing of that cause
I will take flight a thousand times
And soar where the lesser fear to tread
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 11:03 AM UTC
For Berlinski
<X>
it's so true, can't believe it though,
this fact so well known, my cells fibers denied it asylum,
mocking me with a berating ****** single-cell-syllable of
shut-up
my runted eyes never spake this confess out loud
but here it is,
a silent truth rutting onto the **** mirror paper-white screen
where the pixels do my screaming pleasing easy and the
goldie oldie ***** stains, asking "you again?"
silence reverberates, like a tree falling in the forest,
the screen where I live, holy matrimony 90% of everyday
for better or worse, still crazy, the years get longer and the
the poems stretch out, ******* sag, and pseudo-crazy making me
lazy tired
no shy guy me, but the word waste of pointless,
sends me silently screaming to the bedroom where under covers
I count threads. herding words, making pleasure gutter noises,
that can only be heard by the audio surgically implanted
in a human chest, and the dust mites
*but the blunt i smoke stimulates the nervous brain system and the gibberish comes furiously fast, trying not to burn the sheets
that just were laboriously added up to soft and silky when served with a side of naked girl and discovered that I talk hugely stupid when stupid and ****** oh so common, and
the s-words cut bluntly and satrap sharp where there and when the plain sentences become bread knife sharp and the poems gestate in 9 minutes because nothing is blurred and all use Exit 74 on
the interspatial, intracellular inter-pet
fully formed, in finery, winery celebrated, spilling wine on those sheets and now I am cursed cause words are the master,
leaving me just the mature, shy crazy boy, the muted tool;
oh god, dear god - Oh GAWD!!!
please let me be still crazy till long after my
bleached bones rumble,
"boy, it is time to be in that in that valley"*
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
when the poems don't come,
where do they go?
silly notion,
what's the commotion...
don't they just wait,
gestate,
till the time is right,
till one fires the starter's pistol,
they come when they come,
right?
no.
poems are journeymen,
cover bands,
looking for work steady,
airborne, breeze borne, atmospheric,
looking for a ready, willing & able
host and hostess
a recognizer of their properties,
willing to offer themselves up,
by adding the final touch
to a project that has
its deadline passed,
needy for a Caesar,
cut it out,
to come and get it
are you willing to add
your name to it,
cutting its chord,
let it pass from the airs of heaven
down the stairs
to an earthly audience?
are you willing to own it?
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
how came thy to thee? thou who art tantalizing(the champion of slender
******
art thou intricate and feared mostly of death?
fear not, thou who doth gestate sumptuously and fair in the dumb
fickle knot of my lazy arms. see serenity blood surely fierce of my tangled
morbid odor; claim its ardor with loathsome gross pleasant fingers and
comb the destitute morals therein which is panting a muzzle supremely
nuzzling my flaccid dearth of voltage.
i know thee sweetly my goddess of sweat
, pain
, and shearing passion and fear nothing
i am
splendidly stitched in your fabric
and we'll rot together.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
We almost stayed there the whole night, a debt we thought we’d owe
I spent that time talking to you
And said how we should go
Did we error in sharing everything, even our biting woe?
You helped me and I helped you too
But paid less than was owed
Winter came, and how we felt the coldness of the snow!
You told me I’m an okay *****
But now I ought to go
But in our house our love lingered, it’s putrid status quo
Heaped on our floor a pile accrued
Of debts we came to owe
We let our shame gestate in you, then cut it from below
We’re too young to know what to do
Too poor to pay the debts we owe
I guess that I should go
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Tress grow slower than we do, she says,
They gestate longer in the soil than we do in our mothers
True, we were both at one time seeds, she says,
But trees grew out, while we grew up
By the time we learned to walk
A tree will have only fastened its branches
It will have rooted its self in a home
That, like us, was not self-elected but while
We are constantly trying to walk from our home
A tree is rooting itself in theirs.
We grow up and walk around our parent’s house
Then our neighborhood, our city, our country, our world
Glimpsing only meager morsels of other beings homes
It’s difficult to pinpoint our own, to know it wholly
But a tree, she says, a tree never walks from its home
And through this it knows it so absolutely, so entirely.
A tree grows slowly, gazing at its environment for years
Far past when our timeline has expired
It watches as its atmosphere changes, even in the slightest
It still grows higher and higher at a pace that allows
It to view every intimate detail of the world it resides in
Never failing to notice every leaf, twig, branch
We don't know our homes like that and
It’s a shame, she says,
That we grow a lot faster than trees do,
Perhaps this is why we get home-sick.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 3:51 PM UTC
i want to draw some naked ladies for a living
i want to make wood melt and turn marble soft
i want to think for the scholars and question long thought ideas
i want the rich to hate me
i want to sneak out their bedroom windows
i want to pass out uninvited in their country estate
i want their daughters to eye me
and make true so easily
what their dreams can't gestate
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
In the ancient ages of our story,
Long lost on the storm-tossed sea of time,
Mystics, Shamen, Seers, Poets, and Prophets
Pointed to paths leading to survival,
Vital roads for our guides to find.
Lo, our progress came through
The purge of many perils.
In the grip of that troubled existence,
Our visionaries found the way forth
From a plague of deadly terrors.
Born out of the feverish tumult of the mystic Wild-man
Or the symbolic song of a Tribal Priestess,
Came words of hope and vision.
Their inner-light was a primordial premonition, stoking
The courage to make our daunting decisions.
Their mind’s eye pierced the veil, striking
Lightning catalysts into a forest of fascination,
To ignite the strength we must bring to fruition!
We clung to their words as we clung to each other,
And heard their call to mission.
We allowed the signs of their ecstasy to gestate
Within our souls; words woven into myths
To bear the fruit of immortal imagination!
Out of this flame came the hard-won wisdom of our people,
Our embryonic culture, and the seeds of our salvation.
We traveled on in the grip of a darkened world and
Survived together, confirmed by a shared oath.
The tree of humanity’s fragile hope must take root,
To fulfill its future growth.
We are an Ark-people, a covenant people,
A people of deep foundations.
We take that light, that fire, and
That power into our destiny,
Striking wild and true within!
May the ineffable Creator bless our steps,
Secure our path, inspire our faith,
And anoint our hearts for the road ahead,
Beyond…
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
He softly cries until he sleeps,
tempting appeals of angels and weep,
It hurts, the pain,
Obviously, naught to gain,
Which is what is felt whenever a loss,
Of the most woeful kind can endorse,
The severed arteries to heart, and blood
Will stop flowing to it, gently flood,
The rest with gaping holes of hope,
And hope is the depressed man's hang rope
That he ties 'round his neck and prays,
That he may again see beautiful days,
And in hopes when he jumps from kicked chair,
That maybe, just maybe, he'll see her there,
With agony flowing from his eyes,
He can not help but to despise
The dreaming mind and hopeful heart
Turned to bumbling folly, and all false start,
His heart is but a mosoleum,
His mind is but an old museum,
Filled with antiquity, memories of late,
The pain always finds way to gestate,
It's cancerous spread to even make
The muscles within to quiver and ache,
It is colder here, he once noticed,
Upon bereavement of his pretty lotus,
That without her warmth caressing him at night,
He wakes every hour sniffing the air in false plight,
In false hope to find her scent there lingering,
Only To be reminded of cold nights and shivering,
Again the tears find pillow and cover,
He could not remember of times being more fonder,
He imagined it had never been,
That though never helps herein,
Especially considering the terrible ache,
Of even a wretched thought his brain make.
He is truly happy that she is better.
An injured man, he will endeavor.
He decides his time again may come,
And sudden misery will be undone,
But even if that turns to be naught,
He even then won't be distraught,
For either way, happier she'll be,
And that's what he wants most for she.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Take an instant,
a snapshot
or sound byte
from your life;
attach an emotion
or a thought;
couch it in
the fewest best words;
let it gestate
until your head
goes into labor
and it will
be born
like a real child
that is yours,
but has a life
of its own
and leaves you
to inhabit a world
you can never know
- mce
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
Much Magic - strikes a Night time
In sky the cosmic fires brood
Mystic sounds reverb and chime
In stunning interlude
As thunder falls from Heaven
Its sparks adorn our ears
In sky gestate the colours heathen
That quell and smooth our stress and fears
Besides the sea - I wander
And peep in to the night
And set my mind asunder
To dwell in eternal delight
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
Soft and turning the thing beneath the
tortured skull shouting at itself from a four story
window into the cavernous place behind the bloodied
face.
Tricking yourself into doing nothing at all.
Fold the washed letter and place it into your appendix where it
can gestate into the form I meant it to take.
What's the use into downloading into words of a language a thing
that doesn't belong there?
Like waves into bricks and paint to pixels
it is trying.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Leave me behind in the darkest depths of thine mind,
The ashen vale at where I sing, was for thou too much, thine suffering,
I wished for a kiss goodbye, but my thoughts betrayed my sacrifice,
I trudge on into this barreling chasm, barely escaping your breaking fathom,
Relieve me of what has since gone and passed,
Thine most regret to see me at last,
And wherefore do I belie thy still?
Perhaps it is thine precious will,
I will not stand yet, I shall remain seated
In what my mind has yet secreted,
Of failure, of faith,
Of my longing and wraith,
And of my mind for thou, irate,
At where my mind may rest, gestate,
This peace is not peace,
Nor a piece of relief,
It is only remorse and the gloom of failed grief.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
You wanna heal,
Don’t you
But breaking the ingrained patterns of generations
Is hard
But you’ve grasped the idea
And now you just can’t let it go,
This notion that you could be stronger, healthier, more joyful— inviting all of life in through your senses
And just letting go
Of all the heavy burdens that have weighed you down for so long
You’ve spoken your burdens for years
But speaking never beget change
The change you ached for, the transformation you only theorized about
But what you didn’t know
Is that this idea of healing
Was a seed that was planted into your heart
And this kind of seed
Takes a long time to gestate
So even if you haven’t seen visible changes in yourself and in your life
Just know that the seed has cracked open
And is spreading deep roots,
Replacing the roots of your traumas
Your healing, when it is born and continues to grow in its visible manifestation
Will appear differently than how you imagined it
Yet you will be more overjoyed by its reality than by your limited fantasy of it
Your healing
Will be a revolution to yourself and to all those you have ties with
Some won’t understand your changes, neither will you at times
But just continue to listen to your heart, it’s simple, inviting song
And rest in all the beauty that is unfolding before you and within you.
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
I danced with worlds, mid clouds of dreams
When I was young and you were sage
Imagination weaved in streams
Painted paeans for freedom's age
Cross jungles, waterfalls of joy
We skipped with wanton, childish glee
Dreaming, rocking to a fro
Loving seismically
Till the man shot me
My mortal carapace decayed
Became nature again
Back in the soul's truest abade
Where minds are one and zen
And how did you go on and cope
Me dear, gone from your den
Offensive they rank rude intrude
Upon the Peace we found my friend
Because the man shot me
I can't explain well but in time
My energy gestate
Became presence celestial
All light and love, no weight
The center of my heart lived on
In a bonny babe anew
Born in 1991
When Berlin's freedom grew
No shots can stop me
She a lover drift in dream
A playmate of cherubs
Who drift in streams upon a beam
Aura arrests and grabs
Year to year she grew afraid
Doth yet perceive the cynic's trade
And will for Love insatiate
No shot stopped her living like me
She grew a heart comely and plump
Like the marrow Thoreau craved
As through the wilds of life she tramps
Not wont to behave
Bears Love aloft, cherubic lamp
Through her the passion rave
Hearts for heroes; guns for knaves
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
To pursue the Heart's true bliss, that is the purpose,
To which thou dost have immortal *******
Amidst the temptations of vicarious vice,
And the seductions of superfluous passion,
Made pale by deepest desire. To brood, to gestate -
like God's seed - by this impulse compelled,
To exquisite action. The devotees and loyalists of heart,
That to Paradise are heirs. ‘Tis reverential communion,
Rendered meaningful by Heart. To love, to give -
To love - and soar divine: that’s the knack.
For in Love’s dearth no immortal sheen,
Doth shroud the hankering human heart,
Hungry for passion. Alack the void that doth haunt,
And taunt the lovelorn. For who could deny,
The cataclysm of a cleft soul, bereft of another.
Who would not yearn to yield and syncopate with other hearts;
The perfect care of Love. Her benevolent palms beget,
Praised treasures worthy of psalms, rare and pure,
For her giving knows no church or nation, or ration,
That deprive a child or person from her warmth,
Which gives life, love, light, laughter, a truth,
For where is there protest? Who would laurels deny,
Blaspheme against her awesome beauty, take aim,
At her sublime stature that dost withstand,
A cynic’s trial, clinically executed, with cold, callow hand,
The Heart of God’s loyalists by shrewd scholar emaciated,
And enervated; Nay, no children of Paradise,
Imbued with glory commit offence against sweet lady Love.
Thus cynicism makes a ******* of anyone who doubts,
And thus twin hearts commit to paths that cross,
A truth that soars like albatross, to those who spy,
The things that are lesser seen, like Love,
Love is dove, she is peace and fire, on golden wings,
She aspires. Like one of nature’s dutiful bees,
Doing sacred work of Earth, committed to Life,
Be all her treasures honoured.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 9:18 PM UTC