"glorying" poems
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.
I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
"second ***
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you "second"
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my *******
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.
You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second ***
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.
2.2k
I, (Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself)
*how I would, honor this with ecstasy joy effervescent,
the simplest of methodologies, if only I,
reasoned how one safely permits
to love myself, if only I,
knew how to love an
I
to self love well,
not a university course,
no simple answers like thirst, yet how I thirst,
hunger, burst, curse for this peculiar wisdom, please,
instinct me to navigate murderous shoals of take but give
I
who teaches this to the children?
I, parents, teachers, not ****** or pastors or
TV the great substitute for all of the above,
myself is not a selfie, no glorying got in I,
I, burdensome, never comprehended,
love thy neighbor better, love actually, no mere pretense,
if well executed, perhaps is when the trapeze line is at last
cleanly indistinguishable,
your I, my I,
both wicks will be joined, brighter lit for it,
one flame, one godlike burning, fusing,
with neither consumed, wax fusing,
but teaching easy loving
to explode the
I,*
~
9:24am EST
6/2/17
airborne over the Western US of A
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
What other woman could be loved like you,
Or how of you should love possess his fill?
After the fulness of all rapture, still,—
As at the end of some deep avenue
A tender glamour of day,—there comes to view
Far in your eyes a yet more hungering thrill,—
Such fire as Love’s soul-winnowing hands distil
Even from his inmost arc of light and dew.
And as the traveller triumphs with the sun,
Glorying in heat’s mid-height, yet startide brings
Wonder new-born, and still fresh transport springs
From limpid lambent hours of day begun;—
Even so, through eyes and voice, your soul doth move
My soul with changeful light of infinite love.
1.7k
Even as a child, of sorrow that we give
The dead, but little in his heart can find,
Since without need of thought to his clear mind
Their turn it is to die and his to live:
Even so the winged New Love smiles to receive
Along his eddying plumes the auroral wind,
Nor, forward glorying, casts one look behind
Where night-rack shrouds the Old Love fugitive.
There is a change in every hour’s recall,
And the last cowslip in the fields we see
On the same day with the first corn-poppy.
Alas for hourly change! Alas for all
The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall,
Even as the beads of a told rosary!
1.6k
Sloshing round the bay road
through the foot-deep potholes,
glorying in the rain-lashed dark
as the wind made the phone-lines sing
I saw him. Brown, dishevelled, shivering -
a leveret, bamboozled by torchlight
diminished in his dripping fur,
wild eyes wide and startled.
Trying to leap aside, he caught the fence,
rebounded, tried again,
landing this time in a muddy sheuch,
a wired brown ball of panic.
"You'll not last long in this, wee man,"
I muttered, scooping him up,
dropping him into the deep dark pocket
of my raincoat.
Home we went, where two boys waited.
I quickened my pace, eager
to be the father bearing surprises,
to widen the cast-list of this adventure.
We dried him off, the boys enchanted.
He unfolded. He raised his head.
He bounded round the kitchen
on impossible elastic legs.
"Let's call him Charlie!" cried Robin,
and we did.
Charlie the Hare.
Alien, crazy, impatient.
When the rain eased
and Charlie was dry,
I put him back in my pocket
for the journey round the bay.
The last I saw of him
he was bounding out of sight
indifferent to the interlude
engaged in other things.
Those wild eyes that looked beyond
had no place in a cosy kitchen
this was no pet, no human companion
there was no understanding
But every time we see a hare,
the boys say, "I wonder if that's Charlie!"
and it glows against the backdrop
of nature's unfathomable canvas.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Lady, I thank thee for thy loveliness,
Because my lady is more lovely still.
Glorying I gaze, and yield with glad goodwill
To thee thy tribute; by whose sweet-spun dress
Of delicate life Love labours to assess
My Lady’s absolute queendom; saying, ‘Lo!
How high this beauty is, which yet doth show
But as that beauty’s sovereign votaress.’
Lady, I saw thee with her, side by side;
And as, when night’s fair fires their queen surround,
An emulous star too near the moon will ride,—
Even so thy rays within her luminous bound
Were traced no more; and by the light so drown’d,
Lady, not thou but she was glorified.
1.3k
_Surely, this life is but an aberration. For have I not been oblivious to the heraldry of the firmament for far longer than I have craved to acquaint myself with its mystery; of the moon and stars to know their secrets.
Gazing in awe at the doorway to infinity whence I have so recently arrived, it seems unimaginable that I should recollect nothing of the stepping through, the horror vacui of my incarnation, the shuffling forward in the queue.
My existence a blink of an eye; my non-existence the remainder of time.
Is it any wonder - glorying at the night sky - that I am confused as to whether I am on the inside looking out...or the outside looking in?_
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 11:32 PM UTC
Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Landscape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the "Works and Days,"
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;
Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;
Poet of the happy Tityrus
piping underneath his beechen bowers;
Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers;
Chanter of the Pollio, glorying
in the blissful years again to be,
Summers of the snakeless meadow,
unlaborious earth and oarless sea;
Thou that seest Universal
Nature moved by Universal Mind;
Thou majestic in thy sadness
at the doubtful doom of human kind;
Light among the vanish'd ages;
star that gildest yet this phantom shore;
Golden branch amid the shadows,
kings and realms that pass to rise no more;
Now thy Forum roars no longer,
fallen every purple Caesar's dome--
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm
sound forever of Imperial Rome--
Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd,
and the Rome of freemen holds her place,
I, from out the Northern Island
sunder'd once from all the human race,
I salute thee, Mantovano,
I that loved thee since my day began,
Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man.
1.2k
Money wants to be spent.
It sits in your pocket and bellows at you,
it tugs you into shops and boutiques
and weighs so heavy on your mind
that you gasp with relief
to be rid of it.
I don't like this, but I get it:
I accept the hypnosis
and resist when I can,
and perhaps it oils the system
which keeps me comfortable.
But I am fearful that our feel for time
is going the same way.
Hours are things to dispose of:
days, once spent, are lost and gone:
all our energies ****** us on
to the next thing, and the next.
There is no sense
of accumulation,
no glorying in the growth
of knowledge, experience, wisdom.
No respect for things which have been
and thus we shuttle, rudderless and dumb,
Barren, and infinitely poor.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
I snatched at her soul,
grabbed it and held it to my chest,
a beatific grin upon my untruthful face
glorying in her spasmodic transmutation-
her monotone vision
beset with confusion
her gender breaking in my grip.
Loping footsteps over taut, troubled seas
spawned secretions ejected
like flame-
her sighs, a storm
her cries subsumed in sanctified fire
without worship.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
Prophets of doom,
dishing out sorrow and gloom,
glorying in their knowledge,
tying weights to burdened souls,
receivers of blackened light and soiled truth,
if they only knew,
there are many others just as they,
spewing lies in God's name,
leading sheep
to a fiery hell.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
Stay down soldier.
Don't wake up again
Stay here inside your mind again.
Your heart's under attack again.
Sleep.
It's safer in your dreams my friend
Don't dream of you and her my friend
Don't dream about the bitter end
Just dream of something else right now and lend.
Your thoughts
To work that you've still to do
To family, friends, your puppy too
Don't think about your love true
The color of your hearts not blue
It's RED.
This Love's not dead
She's in your head
Just lead
There by by yourself instead
Leaving you with the chilling dread
Be Strong.
In this you can't be wrong
To sing the song
Of love gone wrong
Of love that lasted 4 years long
You lost the place that you belong
Move on
Go forth and don't look back
Accept the past and let it last
But stay on this old track
Don't let the demons stack
The odds against your soul under attack
They seize your soul, a snack
Rest.
This is a simple test
No answer is the best
Inside this meaningless quest
Beat upon you breast
In vain your heart distressed
It's pieces a mess
Unless
You dress
Your heart upon it's nest
Without it's buggered pest
Pestering perishing
That's the thing
That horrid ring
Preventing you
Who claims to sing
The song itself is glorying
The brutal heart's devouring
By devils with their pointed sting
By day you rule with smiles so bright
By night night you cry till mornings light
And yet your heart and mind still fight
Believing that their path is right
Right.
Who writes your story
By what right
This maddening confusion now tearing apart your rhythm with out care for all the efforts you have given to keep within the lines tearing out all of the logic all the structure all the spines and yet within the chaos you betray us to the dark. I am you and I am me.
Now let's keep this between us three. The trinity completes the form that makes us whole even with the hole between. Our shiny chrome battered as we encircle the hole. Where once our love once used to be.
Where was I again? I've lost my track.
These words will lead themselves again
With disregard for foe or friend
Even with knees at prayers bend
Begging for mercy
Heaven send
This poem will end just like many stories
It ends incomplete
Missing something
No glory
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Surrounded by darkness
Shadows after shadow
All in stealthy movements
Looking to devour the unknowing,
Cataracts of murky waters unfolding
To cultivate an abysmal knowledge of possession
Laying in wait
Surrounded by shadows
The unknowing gullible prey
Gallivanting in the coolness of the shadows
Traveling on unpaved roads
In company of the unseemly
Glorying in a flowery mask of gloomy interactions
A facade capturing the mind of a dunce
Sounds of laughter in triumph
Emanating from the shadows
A perfectly planned possession
With full-on persuasion
Fastidious dressing on a palatable decision
Congratulatory claps and smacks
At a job well done
Oblivious of an impending failure
Coated in a ray of light
The sun rays stands at attention
Catapulting its existence
Into the murky waters
Shooting its rays through a pinhole
With boundless powers
Seeking a limitless entrance
With the unknowing gullible prey at the door
Holding a key, in a game of indecision
Salivating over the promises in the shadows
And the fulfillment of lascivious desires
The sun awaits your attention
Banging at the door gently
With healthy promises
The high heavens can checker
With words spoken larger than life
Saturating every nook and cranny
With light, life and love
And a thundering presence
Annihilating every shadows is its path.
Doors open
A pinhole becoming a tearing limitless ****
The sun rays stretching forth
Inciting a dance with its panther like gait
Over-powering the sniveling shadows
Punctured deceptive walls left behind
Emptying shadows filled up with light
On its face a triumphant grin.
In the shadows
I opened the door to the light of the sun
I was the unknowing gullible prey,
Now, I AM THE SUN.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 6:26 AM UTC
Time and Wind raced the wallowing skies,
speeding past spiraling leaves,
glorying triumphal in veiled in lies,
an interminable pursuance of meandering
through mystical myths of life
lopsided and rustical in guise,
hung up on the horizon gates;
"I'm no confluence for commingling
for opposites merged with binds"
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
A Meditation on Roman's Chapter 3-5
Standing
Before the Judge
Justified by faith.
Standing
Before the altar
Sactified in peace.
Standing
Before the cross
Redeemed and set free.
Standing
Before the tomb
Glorying in the resurrection.
Standing
Before the mercy seat
Covered by the blood of the Lamb.
Standing
Within the sanctuary of His Grace,
Facing the hope of His glory.
©1994 Michael S. Davis
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
Incense
& music
candle light
& stained glass
these
my religion
the church
of the senses
my only existence
lost
in the sweet jangle
of the swinging brazier
prayer
forming in the air
real & tangible
as a ghost
coiling &
uncoiling
like a snake
made of smoke
wrapping itself
around the choir's
sweet voices
love to see
the words
clothed
in smelly smoke
ascend
the perfumed air
building a stairway
of music
made suddenly
visible
reaching for a Heaven
even then
I knew
did not
exist
glorying only
in the make believe
the theatre
of the self.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
THE BACKWARD LOOK
( for D.B. )
The blackbird
leaves me a note
pinned
to the sky
that blue
beyond blue
the tide
of the moment
turning turning.
Time like apple blossom
falling through my mind
the little boy
unable to believe
that this day
is not
made of forever
and only now
I walk back
through my self
to unpin the note
the blackbird wrote
with his voice
still pinned
to that
self same sky.
The blue so still
beyond even its self.
I, at last, able
to read the birds words
its language a secret
no longer to me
"I sing..." it says "...I sing!"
"Because all this
must die!"
"I sing the moment's tide
its turning always turning!"
It's throat
full of song
glorying in being
alive
for this
one eternal
moment.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
UNTIL HER SOUL LIES NAKED BEFORE ME
I celebrate
my lover's birthday
glorying in her
body
ravishing her senses
(she relishing my ravishing)
until her soul
lies naked before me
I making her anew
shaping her molecule by molecule
touch upon touch
creating her
kiss by kiss
until she exists
clothed in my love
dressed in her joy
this day of her
birth.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
THE BACKWARD LOOK
( for D.B. )
the blackbird
leaves me a note
pinned to the sky
that blue
beyond
blue
the tide
of the moment
turning turning
Time
like apple blossom
falling through my mind
the little boy
unable to believe
that this day is not
made of forever
and only
now
I walk back
through my self
to unpin the note
the blackbird wrote
with his voice
still pinned
to that
self same
sky
the blue so still
beyond
even its self
I, at last, able to read
the birds words
its language a secret
no longer to me
"I sing..." it says "...I sing
because all this must die!"
"I sing the moment's tide
its turning
always turning!"
It's throat
full of song
glorying in being
alive for this
one eternal
moment
***
I was reading Frank O'Connor's series of lectures on early Irish poetry ( THE BACKWARD LOOK )and listening to both Bowie's newest and an old favourite of mine LODGER. I was at the start of FANTASTIC VOYAGE when the seemingly impossible news of his death trickled through and I went to BBC to confirm that...it was not so. It was so.
A moment ago he had been singing( as he had been singing for me all these years ):
"In the event
that this fantastic voyage
Should turn to erosion
and we never get old
Remember it's true, dignity is valuable
But our lives are valuable too"
I was also reading this 4 line fragment from the 9th century :
"There is one
I would wish to see again,
And give the golden world to win -
All, all, though all were vain."
"Fil duine
Frismbad buide lemm díuterc
Ara tabrainn in mbith mbuide
Uile, uile, cid díupert."
And so I wrote him this little poem....THE BACKWARD LOOK.
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 3:38 PM UTC
She takes off
all her clothes
just for
the fun of it
every now & then I
catch a glimpse
of naked ***
as it runs not here
or there but helter-skelter.
She who only
mastered the art of walking
not so long ago
now glorying
in her limbs.
'Hey Cherub! '
I call out to her
& she turns
& comes
not because she's
understood
but understands the love
dripping form the words
an honeycomb
of language.
She tries to clothe
the nakedness of her
experiences
in a dress
of words.
She is surprised
to find
that her
anabooboo
doesn't stick
to the cat
and the cat
wanders aimlessly off
discarding with disdain
her attempt
at naming him.
Soon the cat
will become its sound
(me! how?)
then finally
making it to being
C A T
(just like that) .
It's a long journey
into knowing.
I almost prefer
her almost Martian naming
her alien
way of seeing.
I curtly call the cat that
and even name the next cat that
an ANABOOBOO
and still can drive her
mad
years later
in a future far from here
calling my teenage
daughter
to say her date
is here.
'Hey Anabooboo! '
& see a blushing
Princess
descending the stairs
lithe of limb
and(thankfully)
fully clothed!
***
I draw/spell her
C/A/T
she copycats my cat
***
Teaching Tilly her letters in the long long ago...it's funny the little scraps that survive the years. I tore a bit off an old copy book and scribbled this C/A/T into being to her great delight...and here he is still prowling about in his own peculiar C/A/T way.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
*“think on it, to be called child once more, how glorious this unknown!”^
<for Terry C.>
I dreamt on it, awoke refreshing my perspective,
as if the chance, the wish, was already granted,
rose from the bed, fully rested, a musical tutorial
of loving delighting lifting me up and once again I,
believed, no, more, re-conceived, reconciled, mind,
body, slated-clean, by my parents was I embraced,
forever protected, and the joy of simplicity of a future
unspent lay ahead, glorying in the beauteous unknown*
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 9:15 AM UTC
Fluttering fingers flicking
the wisps,
Scattered particles helplessly
staring like zombie.
Denizen of dispersal !
Scattering without gathering ?
Littering innocent sleeping shore
with specks, refuse and
wastages,
Preventing the marine beings
from feasting on unsolicited
booties,
While reigning over the aquatics
casia.
Fishes glorying beneath your
stool,
Celebrating in their splendid
splendor,
Cherishing your inordinate
habitat encroachment,
Relishing the cool bustling
breeze,
Stuttering intermittently over
natural abuse while your
fingers beating the tombola
drum of indifference.
Legion of blue blunting busied
parading over the army of
the waterbeds,
Savouring the delights of your
majesty.
But why scattering the wisp
on the river bank?
Devouring the hearts of the clean
axis of the river bank.
Fresh air oozing from the gallery
of neighbouring vegetation
aromatized your bustling
breeze, refreshing hearts,
Clear away your stink.
Evacuate your nuisance.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 2:36 AM UTC
THE BACKWARD LOOK
( for D.B. )
The blackbird
leaves me a note
pinned
to the sky
that blue
beyond blue
the tide
of the moment
turning turning.
Time like apple blossom
falling through my mind
the little boy
unable to believe
that this day
is not
made of forever
but only this " now."
I walk back
through my self
to unpin the note
the blackbird wrote
with his voice
still pinned
to that
self same sky.
The blue so still
beyond even its self.
I, at last, able
to read the bird's words
its language a secret
no longer to me
"I sing..." it says "...I sing!"
"Because all this
must die!"
"I sing the moment's tide
its turning always turning!"
It's throat
full of song
glorying in being
alive
for this
one eternal
moment.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC