"girds" poems
*rocks don't care
all stubble and stones
a difficult geometry
so if they don't fit
they are hammered
and
crushed to rubble
jammed together to make virile walls
and if stabbed with swords
care not about
torn bellies and broken necks
soaking them crimson rust
or drowned nautilus
beneath the sea
humans
have futility in common with rocks
except that everything
girds and gnaws
at their belligerent sensitivity
all clouded soft towers
bi-pedal mortal spires
with tender flesh
beaten into place
lacerated
truncated amputees
to fit the outer life
of status and statues
a scandal to the inner coves of self
I'm envious of rocks
except for moments of
shifting watery kisses
clamorous for love
we remain
disfigured terrains
hunters of souls balmy unguents
while
fluctious immolating moons
unravel
in a hidden grieving
oh countenance of apathy
only to be more like you
a wilderness of stumps
and
dead rock gods
and our aspiration
indifference
our exit
the path of the renunciate
a penitence
feasting only on futility
and the vagaries of spirit*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
5.9k
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
She bolts awake from nightmare’s fear
Her mind fumbles for the mask
Its visage calm, gaze cool and clear
Once in place no one will ask
Exhausted from her restless night
Escape routes all slammed shut
The knots already pulling tight
Deep down inside her gut
The enemy stand at their station
They circle round her bed
Anticipating her annihilation
The demons in her head
Her feet are not yet on the floor
But the battle has begun
Another endless day of war
She must fight, she cannot run
She glances quickly in the glass
Haunted eyes she cannot meet
The enemy charge takes the pass
Her soul in forced retreat
The mask will serve her well today
Its rigid smile conceals
The terror barely held at bay
The torment that she feels
She plants her banner on the mound
Though hopelessness holds sway
She grits her teeth and holds her ground
But the ******** make her pay
All day the battle rages on
But the mask remains in place
Though at her feet hell’s chasms yawn
The world sees not a trace
The conflict ebbs, her shoulders slump
No victory is claimed
She turns for home, trailing blood
Count her among the maimed
Return to camp yields no respite
Command’s duties have no end
Cares for her troops into the night
Strength's last measure she will spend
All her charges now in bed
Mask in hidden place she keeps
In resignation bows her head
And midst the dark, in silence weeps
Now when the camp lies silent
In night’s hush no pennant streams
She braces for coming violence
And girds for bloodshed in her dreams
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Call me a chump
But I’m with Trump
When it comes to Carson
He can’t be accused of parsing
When he says pathological
He’s being pedagogical
Using the man’s own words
Which completely under girds
What the man said
About the thoughts in his head
And it’s no more than logical
He said he’s pathological
We must wonder hard
If he’d still go that extra yard
To practice his absurdity
I know the thought’s occurred to me
Cuz if you take a look
Inside his true confession book
You’re gonna be amazed
As he recounts the different ways
He showed off his temper
With his mother front and center
Then a friend or relative
Who he tried his best to shive
It may sound like a joke
But thank God the blade broke
Then there’s the guy that he rocked
With a solid steel padlock
But no one can recall
Because the tales he tells are tall
Though he insists they’re true
But those who know him asked, "Who knew?"
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
The animal spirit she possesses,
An agile anima stalking a dark spark within,
Looms as predator and protector.
This hunter-rogue guide
Glides through her Soulscape,
Revealed as moon illumined mountain forest,
A place of winter-refracted
Ethereality and lurking danger.
In this dusky, deceptive ambiance,
She has access to a primordial instinct –
Archetypal symbols, ancient signs –
At once savage and wise.
Finding herself in this
Wilderness of vulnerability,
She girds for battle.
Staring squarely into the dark,
Duplicitous and cruel face
Of her adversary, she prepares.
She finds the strength to see
What are lies and
What are the truths --
Both are found there
In that pitched, lacerated visage.
Like all warriors across
Time immemorial,
She embraces her pain,
Exercising control over it.
Absorbing the jagged,
Razor’d contours,
She sees
In its elements
The space where the
“Other” ends
And where she begins;
How she was made
A flint against which
He sharpened his cutlass
And where she
Has made of herself
The door through which he entered.
From this core radiance
Comes a rapier will to survive,
The strength to guard her kin,
The keen intelligence
To unleash her primal howl,
And the blood-fire to rule her demons.
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Some days seem to be strangely ominous
and I’m reluctant to leave my comfy bed;
therefore, I clothe myself with Truth,
since I have nothing to fear or dread.
The inspirational courage of Your Word,
girds the frailty of my spiritual essence.
Wherever, I willfully determine to go,
I’m comforted by Your nearby Presence.
Despite the many, evil distortions,
created by human desire and wickedness,
I’m not motivated by fear, circumstance
or doubts, as I’m striving for holiness
that only You, provide with assurance.
I overcome all obstacles set before me-
knowingly sated, with the fact that
my saved soul is… never in jeopardy!
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Deu 6:6-7; Job 13:13-15; Psa 119:105-112
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
1.
The rain is falling on the neighbourhood,
Our garden takes its share, and my good hat;
Out of the border shelter of its brood
A snail creeps in the wet across the path
Leaving the soaking flowerbed for the grass
Seeking continuation of its good,
Slow through the time a timeless quest for food
Elaborates the beating of its heart.
The creep is me, a wierdo what I am.
What am I doing here? I don’t belong here,
Enchained upon the dirt, constrained responder
Bellyfoot, headfoot mollusc, unmoving clam
I try to stir from where I first began,
Make in the gulf’s depths one thing new appear.
2.
A drought within my throat, an aching head,
Stoically for this world’s shock wave I brace.
The life which thus far has my spirit fed
Despairs, yet faithfully girds itself to face
The waste and rapine of this nightmare place
Where theft under coercion’s always bred
Mass victims all unjustly ***** and fled,
Violated to their utmost inner space.
What is the soul to do with this its life?
Awakened from the nothing of a sleep
One time? To local manners keep?
Or for some travel, hard to purpose drive
By that for longer to at least survive?
It’s wet again. The snails are on the creep.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
A single blade of grass pushes out of craggy block of stone next to my sandaled right foot one seed of defiance from a dusty crag....suckled on midnight mist. Blood in the ragged stone from dying warriors holding. Holding ground from the battlements girds the will of the solitary sprig...by my sandaled foot sprung from the ragged stone.
Suckled on the erie somber midnight fog bolstered by dying blood the warriors blood runs down the ragged walls of the battlements high.
High on the walls, I scan north to south from aloft from the fateful walls of the Keep.
Dying.
Is
The
Order of the day....the single sprig will witness all from the craggy wall and men will fall by the score from grace. From breath and senses. From the cursed battlements to perdition.
Souls submissions to bloodlust and material gain.
Will soak the stolid stone and wash to earth to mingle spirit and blood with mother earth. And the grass will grow unfettered from ground. As the killing season
Moves on.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
The night was cool
the moon was full.
There was no hint
of what was to come.
A nearby asteroid
was perturbed
from its journey
around the Sun.
It hurtled down
toward the Earth.
A billion souls
it put at risk
none but the moon
stood in its path
It struck the moon
a silent blast
because in Space there
is no sound.
Luna shook
but gave no
ground.
A slice of moon was
sharded off
Fragments blasted
here and there
The tides went mad
The seas rose up
The waves raised
in a desperate prayer.
In time the dust would coalesce
into a ring
about our orb
Poets would write
about the ring
which girds our earth,
our Eden home.
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
To a bric brow
sternz to *****
girds for war
battle to battle
move in 1st
real hard
parry duck dive
breath *** breath
exhale exalt
used u used dem
supit silly awkward GO
FORGET remember
what battle next
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Self Feeding System Digesting Gestating
Regurgitated Lies Insider Trading
Atmospheric Tension BI-Polar Shift
Entrenched IN THE Mire Builds Pressure TO Lift
Engorging NO Purging THE Feeling IS Urging
This Active Revolting Deep Sickness IS Surging
Organic Inbreeding
HER **** ARE Bleeding
This Sickness IS Seeding
Little Boys' Notion OF Self Possession
Setting IN Motion HIS OWN Regression
A Lack OF Self Assurity
Convinced OF HIS OWN Purity
Isolation
Alienation
A Nature OF Self Anihilation
Muscular Overcompensation
Dissociation
AND
NOW
AN
EGO
IN
Flames
WAR OF THE Words Each Symbol Provoking
AN Incantation That Summons Invokes
Minds Conform TO Cradle AND Cradle AS ONE
This Little BOY THE NEW Born SON
'I' Speak NOW Louder Than Words
YOU'VE Paid THE Price TO Shepard THE Herds
Mankinds Hubris MY Metal Skin Girds
ALL Souls Strewn FOR Scavvenger Birds
Souls Laid TO Rest FOR Scavenger Birds
They Deify Knees Pressed TO THE Ground
THE ******* OF Bale ' OF ******* Abound
OF Deafening Lies Speaks A Deafening Sound
Worship THE Power OF Little Boys Crown
Worship THE Power OF Litle Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
ALL Souls TO Rest Little Boys Come Around
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Heart OF THE SUN IN Little Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
Souls Laid TO Rest Little Boys Come Around
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Heart OF THE SUN IN Little Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
Souls Laid TO Rest Little Boys Come Around
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Heart OF THE SUN IN Little Boys Crown
I Beat MY Chest I Beat YOU Down
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
THE Finger OF GOD Never Touches THE Ground
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 11:07 PM UTC
the bird pecks the acorn,
fighting through the casing's steel,
the bird breaks his beak and falls to the floor,
the rainbow of his wings failing in spiel.
the floor becomes a deep red,
the acorn waggles and girds in its success,
not realising that his compatriot he had spent all the moons with was long dead,
and it falls with the passing winds of distress.
It hit's the floor in the same place,
bouncing off the stone statue corpse,
the acorn stares to the bird's face,
knowing that it won’t peck anymore marks in its force.
the acorns rolls next to the bird in solemn shifting agreement,
knowing that it's barrier and breakdown is imminent for its bereavement.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC
Your King and Country need you, men.
Kitchener, glaring in full kit.
Khaki is the color of the day
and everyone must do their bit.
A mighty Empire girds for war
yet unprepared to bleed and die.
Then bands still played patriotic airs;
We cheered them as they marched away.
Belle France’s fields were soon entrenched;
protected with barbed wire fence.
A generation sent to war
will lie forever beneath those fields.
This was the cost too few foresaw
of this war to end all wars.
A cost paid many times since then;
paid in young lives by bad old men.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
Where have you gone, words?
She vanished like vapour;
No longer lingers like a whisper from my perception, but she girds
Them. She used to pour out endlessly,
flowing like a babbling brook.
Now, dry, like the earth before conception.
Parched, she sits desolately,
Crying out Spirit fill anew!
Jan 18, 2025
Jan 18, 2025 at 6:14 PM UTC
A poet suffers for his art
For they well know their darkest part
With Ink as black, as pain is red
The pages soak, as they have bled.
How deep the chasm of anguished words
So chosen with the thought it girds
A place where one relives the day -
And moments, most do stay away.
They pen for readers whom; have known
The worsened side the heart has shown
That he, or she need not regress
To where the glow of souls is less.
This marriage of a poet's dreams -
To page can be the hearted screams
Thus poets dwell; exhuming scars
For art, for words, least not; the stars.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC