"gloriously" poems
As beautiful as the famed city of Atlantis
Gloriously flourishing in her perfection
There is a place where my soul and heart is
A perfect place without grief or deception
Where my heart is always merry
And peace blossoms like the cherry
The sun smiles at me gently caressing
My body as the birds sing melodies-
So beautiful they keep me guessing-
The beauty of future melodic memories
Like the Cedars of Lebanon
Beautifying the palaces of Ethiopia
Purity, love and perfection adorn her every season.
This place is within me; this place is Utopia
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
You are a beautiful star.
Like Sirius on a starry night,
You gloriously shine so bright
And can be seen from afar
You are brave, you are strong
You are wise, though sometimes wrong
You are different, uniquely you
For there is no other quite like you
Your mind, your eyes, your stride;
Even your flaws, are beautiful too
I hope you see what I see in you
For it means nothing if you cannot see it too
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
New
Like the dawn
The glorious sunrise
Pinkish hues awash with silent beiges
And the sun
Is a fiery orb
Coloring life into every living thing
I feel the new
With my breath
In and out
And I think of the ocean
The powerful ocean
I can feel it within my heart,
The waves rumbling through my veins
I can see the new
In not so distant visions
Of a future full of growth
I’ve healed so much
And yet there’s more
More of the new
I open my doors
Let it all in
All the gloriously soothing beauty
Of life’s simplest pleasures
Healing me
There’s been a crack made in my lifelong illusions
I’m beginning to feel clarity, and not confusion
Saying yes yes yes
To more beauty.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 8:54 PM UTC
#*The Arabian Sea
A sprightly sight to behold
The cascading Sunbeams veil the sea in a platinum shimmer
The gusty wind blows
Sparkling diamonds roll up on the ocean waves
The golden Sun unravels the beauty of the bejewelled Sea
The picturesque Mumbai Skyline
Gloriously, rises up in the evening Sky
The mellowed Sun ,beauteous as an orange Rose
Leisurely dips down at the horizon
The Sky cools down to Prussian blue
The stars glimmer across the sky in the dim lights
It's showtime
Bedazzled
I quietly sit and watch the magical scenes unfold*#
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC
the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac
it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin
indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
*how could the switch
be set so wrong?*
it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
*couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?*
the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:45 PM UTC
The topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide.
From low to high it's all washed clean
Footprints, castles and trails alike
Unetched slate of flat leveled sand
Grains aligned by blessed wave strike.
From high to low it's all exposed
Fragments, jetsam, seaweed entwined
Littered, scattered on shore amuck
The sting of empty shells combined.
Yes, the topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide
From low to high and high to low
A gloriously exhausting ride.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
As dark clouds thunder on a grey day,
Resounding across the arid plains,
I hear the loud cries of a bird,
It cuts across the rhythmic drumming of the clouds,
He's quiet for a moment, then I hear him again.
Through the trees I see him,
Royal, an electrifying metallic blue,
A peacock, stunning, strutting,
Fanning his train of feathers,
Eyespots of majesty, stroked with mossy hues.
He dances in a flamboyant display,
In spot light, as lightening flames the sky above,
Nonchalant, a blue crested head turns with pride,
His ornate train, shimmering, beckoning, to and fro,
His moves, a courtship ritual of love.
His iridescent trail woos in style,
A life of its own in its opaline shades
Golden, blue, brown and green,
Colors of the earth, gloriously resplendent,
A gathered spectacle in his plumage.
As drops of rain touch the earth,
He is still high on the wings of romance,
His feet in motion,
His feathers spread for his mate,
Quivering, glimmering a love dance.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
"The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall." --Che Guevara
Shake the tree as hard as need be,
To make the apple fall,
Be it green, or red or yellow,
Be it ripe or still too green,
Succulent or rotten to the core,
Shake the tree and make it fall.
If shaking the tree does not suffice,
Plant a worm most carefully,
Let it eat the apple's heart,
Break its spirit as it feeds,
Sap its strength most thoroughly,
then just wait until it falls.
But if that tactic also fails, don't lose heart,
Rip out the tree's protective bark,
Salt its roots,
Strike it with chains,
Until no beauty remains,
And await the apple's fall.
And should the ****** tree still stand,
And the apple cling to life,
Take an axe,
Sharpen it well,
Chop at the tree, bring it down,
Force the apple to the ground.
And should the apple still cling,
To a branch devoid of life,
Douse the shattered, useless tree
With gasoline, light a match,
And burn apple, branch and tree,
All to gloriously fine ash.
Do this always in my name,
For "If you tremble with indignation at every injustice,
Then you are a comrade of mine."
Wear my face with pride over your heart,
Shake raised fists in indignation, scatter the ashes to the wind,
What does it matter that ashes can't be eaten, so long as we win!
If interested, you can hear my reading of this poem at https://open.spotify.com/episode/6MlOmVvH3n8QehG1dzH4Za?si=MWl_rE0YQLy3bQvS8dbtOA
Author's Note: No political philosophy has wreaked as much misery as Marxism in every country it has touched in the 20th and 21st centuries. Fascism and Marxism are two sides of the same totalitarian coin, and while we rightfully condemn fascists, somehow too many folks in the media, academia, and entertainment worlds continue to have a soft spot for Marxism and Marxists/Communists old and new. Here, I've taken two quotes attributed to Che Guevara whose life has been romanticized in books and movies, including the popular Motorcycle Diaries, that focus on the young revolutionary in a positive light as a freedom fighter. The real revolutionary was quite different--a hardened, cold-blooded murderer who executed countless people without mercy, due process, or regret, including fellow Marxist revolutionaries who disagreed with him. The end justified the means for him and for all Marxists--and their equally deranged polar opposites, fascists.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 6:02 PM UTC
i am gloriously indulgent
when left to my own devices
lashings of stylish fulfillment
in a mix of virtues and vices
i have my sense of order
though i am craven to desire
drunk with a sense of beauty
to torch blandness in a fire
poor dear mediocrity
your time is not with me
you are my sworn enemy
find others for company
i burn for what is art
and those, who do it for love
they are my choice of company
together, we'll rise above
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Now, the truth
Luke & Leia is this love
Thank God not the wrong kind
Siblings apart since birth
Together till the end of time
Darth vader concious
Dark, evil, twisted
Luring Luke innocent
No Luke! Don't do it!
Doesn't matter he's your Dad
Doesn't matter how sad
He doesn't give a hoot
Who on earth he shoots
Stormtrooper beware
Puppet of your master
You will be beaten big time
By a gorgeous little Ewok
Chewy & Han
You are the man
Milenium shoots them all
You saved the day
Kept Darth vader at bay
You saved our heros
Wicked
Poor Han solid
In some ungodly squalor
Not the nicest end
Certainly not Han Solo's plan
Geez George ... really ...
Tin & metal
R2, See threepio
Nitter natter chatter
Lots of friendly banter
Cuter than buttons
You just wanna hug em
Jedi Knight Yoda
Played his part of course
Strong in force
He helped the cause
Although he has passed over
Goodness wins in the end
Good force takes the flag
Mighty, Epic, Timeless
And gloriously mad
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
In a fit of pique truths were written.
In a moment of reflection all was deleted.
Platitudes were written back instead.
Who am I to speak of the dead?
A wife was ungrateful with truth.
Did a pen pal want
what the sacred vows of marriage
Make unacceptable realities?
For whom would I have written? Who would it have pleased?
Staring at a fresh e-mail in humbled wonderment
that someone would give decent pretense to care
I -safely back from war- now ask: what do you want to know?
Do you really want to know?
Is it my place to tell
of seeing a man's insides
on the outside
of a vehicle who's occupants he unwittingly saved
by stepping on the landmine instead?
The mine splattered the survivors' vehicle in red.
Is it my place to tell
Of listening to the medic's confession?
Hearing him speak of tasting the blood in the air
like pennies on his tongue.
There's a tale I haven't heard sung!
I met my Shadow
I embraced him so deeply that I
As I had existed before
Ceased to be.
The naive child thinking it was Light
The Predatory Survivor others (cowards!) may judge as Dark
Were forged together
Stronger perhaps
Time will tell
As the alloy of two selves is unified by a personal hell
Cheering at outgoing steel rain
Laughing after the whizzing of bullets is a memory
Running, racing to donate more blood
Mourning the fallen while bathed in the dim red glow of chem lights
Watching honored corpses loaded in near darkness for their last helicopter flights
Is this what you wanted to hear?
Perhaps you knew.
Perhaps you imagined you knew.
Regardless
For your consideration
Thank you
For your innocent
Well-intentioned
Beautifully petty
Gloriously naive
And honest letters
Thank you.
Truly
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
Gloriously green in spring and summer, these leaves
turned to bright shades of flame, lit up the fall,
and autumn's winds tumbled them to earth.
Decaying, their remnants now enrich the earth,
and winter buds fatten for next year's leaves,
which in their turn, we know, will wither and fall,
an endless cycle of growth, decline and fall.
We too decline, return at last to earth,
and memory is all our existence leaves
until we rise in new leaves, and fall again to earth.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
'Good evening, residents of Joker Asylum! Some of our...crazier guests have crashed the party early, and when I say crazy, I mean REAL ****** Word of warning, if anyone sees a dribbling fool barking at the moon or maybe just purring like a kitten, do your civic duty. Walk up to them, put your arm around them, show them that you care...before you wring their necks!"
"Plans, plans, plans. They always have their plans. But the problem with their plan... is that when you take an insane person to the asylum, you're just taking him home - the very place he knows best."
"Welcome to the madhouse, Batman! I set a trap and you sprang it gloriously! Now let's get this party started."
~batman arkham asylum
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
I am often told that love will leave me breathless,
But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest,
For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved
And my lungs unable to draw in breath,
Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards
With vice-like, snotty grips.
My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically
Drawing air inward,
******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs
Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs.
My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins.
The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival,
No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary.
Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin
As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors
Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me.
The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells,
And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing,
Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest.
The mark of my vitality was absent,
And yet,
I was very much alive.
I remember what it was to be truly breathless,
The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death.
It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs.
I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting,
A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising.
Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege.
It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence.
But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd—
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
For none can call againe the passèd time.
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Valiant are you who fought and fell gloriously;
fearless of those who were everywhere victorious.
Blameless, even if Diaeos and Critolaos were at fault.
When the Greeks want to boast,
"Our nation turns out such men" they will say
of you. And thus marvellous will be your praise. --
Written in Alexandria by an Achaean;
in the seventh year of Ptolemy Lathyrus.
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Every cell in my body
trembles with anticipation
as the curandero croons
ayy ooo wah hee….
….time to come and see me…
as my stomach settles from the purge
of the exlixir of the vine of the soul
I have dared myself to drink
as my limbs begin to vibrate
as I am seized by the hair
lifted right up off the ground
in the arms of great angels
who look like alien jaguar dancers
with huge luminescent eyes
and funny hats
who live in the emerald jungle
where the concoction I took
grows entwined
with my desperate hope
that this isn’t a scam
that there really is another world
or maybe galaxies too
but then I realize
I’m so far away from home
I know I’ll never get back
because I see him up ahead
it’s God with his hair gloriously ablaze
sitting on a grand throne
at the end of a great stone road
like the Roman’s Appian Way
suspended in pulsing interstellar space
and there is a line of people
stretching for light years
all hoping for a sustainable miracle
all holding tickets to see him
and each one walks up to him
heads bowed
and he caresses their hair
and he says I love you
but really, I just work here.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
day after day ticks by as i sit on the shelf
head held high with pride
cheeks pink
lips rosy
hair gloriously golden.
i am the epitome of grace
i am beautiful
i am perfectly proportioned
i am everything you want to be
and more.
*i can be a goddess
and you will no longer be godless*
let me sit upon your mantelpiece
your table
your bookshelf
so you can tire of me in a year
(perhaps two)
and I will lie on the ******* heap with candlewax and rotting vegetable peels
staring blue-eyed into nothingness.
(you are nothing without me)
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
When great aunt Maggie passed away years ago, the one thing I really missed was her angelic voice.
The swaggering, sing-song lilt of the mid-Derry accent was as sweet as the confections she used to pass out to us as kids:
The inflection, the intonation, and the slight lisp she brought to it was so gloriously unique but was never heard again.
I often wish I could go back with a tape recorder to capture it in all its glory and relive how wonderful she was.
Now all I have is a untranslatable memory that can't be brought back to even vaguely approximate what it meant to me.
And now here I am again with the same obstacle.
The same tones, the same inflections albeit through a different light have just been extinguished before me.
This time there was no digital device rushing in to capture our time before it ran out.
No instinct for preservation was forthcoming - we were too busy having fun & 'being here now'.
No, once again I am bereft:
All I I have is here (in my heart) and and here (in my head)
The loved sounds I miss will always resound there albeit without backup
Voices lost but not forgotten.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
Nothing good ever comes up with something so beautiful.
I heard they found a fossil on Mars,
impossible things are beginning to happen.
Soon enough, we will gloriously collapse and crumble
and the ashes will turn into gold,
and the only thing I'll remember
is the sound of your heartbeat
and the flashing pair of cinnamon eyes,
over the bar's blinking lights.
You are the epitome of every single thing I'm afraid of.
You break things because you don't know how to take care of them.
And I said I've been broken for too long,
I won't be the window anymore,
I will be the stone.
But you we're smiling when you kissed me.
We break each other until we're happy
we hurt each other and call it love.
Our love smolders and it was _so beautiful._
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 6:56 AM UTC
***** and forgotten,
Abandoned and afraid,
time goes on,
Listless and lifeless,
Crippled and silenced,
time goes on,
Steady and patient
Hopeful, with faith,
time goes on,
Gloriously elated,
Majestic and grand,
time goes on,
Loved and accepted,
Joyous and free,
time goes on,
Quiet and contemplative,
Peaceful and still,
time goes on,
time goes on,
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Kingsville, Texas, 1955
A loaf of bread from the Piggly Wiggly
A quart of milk because MawMaw forgot
A Coke and a Mickey Mouse funnybook
A water pistol and Eskimo Pies
A pack of PawPaw’s brand of cigarettes
So he can watch his Yankees this afternoon
On the Sylvania with the rabbit ears
In gloriously static-y black-and-white
Plays called by Dizzy Dean and PeeWee Reese
In our childhood world, forever at peace
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Working at the amusement park is a grand old time.
There’s nothing like having to hide
In the ticket booth when you wanna smoke a joint
So your boss doesn’t find out and fire you.
Every ride has bright, multicolored lights
And this is how I waste my time away.
The closest bathroom is half a mile away,
Those Porta-Johns are full all the time
And always smell like Marlboro Lights
It’s where those teen brats like to hide.
A kid always asks for another toy gun from you
And immediately bends it all out of joint.
Jocks, barbies and snotty kids mill around this joint,
Throwing all their money away
Buying more and more tickets from you
Screaming, complaining, cheating all the time
And there’s no good place to hide
With all these obnoxious lights.
They’re poor substitute for big city lights,
They only illuminate this cheesy joint,
Don’t even let ***** gutters hide—
I’m surprised they don’t want to look away.
Cotton candy disappears in your mouth every time,
But you think it’s worth it, don’t you?
The only boy who ever liked you
Works across the park, beyond the lights,
But you miss him waving at you every time
Because some skeez is yelling, “Let’s blow this joint!”
And a mom drags her eight kids away
Screaming, “One more word and I’ll tan your hide!”
Why do the five-year-olds always play hide
And seek in the Fun House? “Hey, you!”
Where the hell are your parents? Go away!”
Finally Anna, who manages mini golf, lights
A gloriously white-papered little joint
And we smoke until closing time.
This is where I hide, and yet these lights
Are poor substitutes you know, for home, the joint
You tried to get away from, before you wasted your time.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
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