"godlike" poems
I went from a lover to a liar in a heartbeat;
the flip of a switch as soon as I heard I could get what I'd been craving.
The jolt of electricity through your bloodstream, the feeling of being alive with your senses on fire, the ability to seem untouchable: superhero like even...
Almost nothing compares in that moment, but in the afterglow, when your cape begins to lose its wind and your heart starts to slow, nothing feels worse than pondering it's destined finale.
Discovering your conscience, all the while knowing that no matter how much you love someone, the poison always comes first.
It's a terrible reality, the ability to choose.
And I always choose wrong, down the path of the chemical adventure, knowing that at the end, I always inevitably fall off the cliff.
But it's an obsession: being on top of the world, and no matter how much time passes, or how far I think I've come, she always wins.
It's the slow onset, the clarity, the peaks where everything seems far better than it actually is, but now the dream is over.
I need to let it go or it will consume me; living in a false reality, locked in to my need for perfection.
She used to calm me and make me godlike, but now I've fallen from my pedestal and upon looking up, I see she turns me into the monster I've never wanted to be...
Hiding, in shame, from the soul I love the most. I wish I could tell her, divulge all of my secrets, but the fear of the disappointment on her face is too much for me to bare.
Because I know she could help me,
if I would just tell her the truth.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right
A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay
He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown
Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound
A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives
He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes
He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw
He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
~**My portrait was painted by Jackson *******
<|>
“***there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and perception is only your truth.
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum,
but signed by me as first passenger***”
<|>
when did I write these words?
can’t recall, though undated,
they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t,
I should have…
for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude,
a resident in my file of
“someday writs, awaiting,”
when the itch demands you will
essay
**the admixture of words and swords
that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me,
an unbound bind that ties and frees us
from and by our shared senses…**
today, an inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a
fulsome scratching
<|>
the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips,
each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common
uncommonality,
which is as it should be,
**for if we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities,
each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,**
human
<|>
the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders,
a single word drops,
of plaint, paint, blood,
a seconds blush blurred
that is the building blocks of imagery
I state is mine,
but now realizations swiftly fertilize,
**the portrait is not of me,
but of me blended into thee,
and this poem,
is our composition**
that hangs in each of our primary
museum,
newly re-titled,
A Passenger, Realized
Sep 14, 2023
Sep 14, 2023 at 7:10 AM UTC
When the gardener has gone this garden
Looks wistful and seems waiting an event.
It is so spruce, a metaphor of Eden
And even more so since the gardener went,
Quietly godlike, but of course, he had
Not made me promise anything and I
Had no one tempting me to make the bad
Choice. Yet I still felt lost and wonder why.
Even the beech tree from next door which shares
Its shadow with me, seemed a kind of threat.
Everything was too neat, and someone cares
In the wrong way. I need not have stood long
Mocked by the smell of a mown lawn, and yet
I did. Sickness for Eden was so strong.
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You hit me like a wave. I drifted away, coming into the shore, and lied there with nothing but my naked eyes; the sun covered my cold, barren body. Radiating sunshine and weakness as the sea called over me, you traipsed and towered over my sight, blinding me with your ivory skin lit as the match fired the sky.
The waves in the sea squished me in like a soft linen blanket, wrapping me all over like the comfort of a mother. My hands were trembling as you stood there unmoving, and the melodies and blasphemous beats almost dug me out of my ears; I couldn’t even do anything. You were there like an angel lost in his epiphany. It was as if a goddess were in front of you; your eyes spoke as you became a slave to your own wrath, worshipping what was in front of you. You laid your eyes on me like I was some kind of song you could not decipher.
You stood there, solving the creeps and mysteries and finishing the last verse of a poem you will never read again. You hit me like a wave, and I drifted away, hoarding memories left astray. You were there, godlike and lost, and even the sun loathed your fire. You burn like a match, your skin a stain of crimson—of sunshine and weakness. You called me, but I did not answer.
It was cold, and I loathed it. Perhaps it was the month of October where the enigmas of night lay open, and achingly, my flesh was found in humiliation. I continued to bleed, on and on.
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 9:44 AM UTC
Divine Minds Transcend
(First experience with N,N-Dimethyltryptamine also known as DMT)
Breathe in..Breathe out
Suddenly a rushing river of colorful static bounced off my chest
instantly a wounded soul I gasped vigorously
A count down so unfamiliar
I panicked and thrashed unwillingly
but there was nothing to hold on to
I feared it was to late
to deny this life full of fear
to accept I was afraid
Little did I understand
today I was about to see things clear
A violent pulsating thunder clapped loud
on my left the guides voice rang
"It's time to let go now"
on my right a gentle voice sang
"It's alright, breathe slow"
Peace fell on me for I was not alone
so I finally let go
and opened my minds eye
then vanished into the rabbit hole
The room fluttered, pulsated then streaked past me
A billion nuclear bombs inside my right eye
a warm embrace from death in my left
My mind and soul began to stretch
I was staring into a shattered void
A blazing spectacle terrorized with fear
stuttering shivers of a twinkling vortex
Wrapped in a celestial glow
the heavens reflected my thoughts like a mirror
I lost all sense of time
as new energy began to flow
Two alien beings sitting by my side
A vast ocean glow bright with radiant illumination
all thoughts transfigured
Godlike creatures basking in creation
Melting clusters of a constructed lie
mesmerized by the universe light
then life like a new born star
flickers in the imagination and dies
Looking inward, turning inside out
a darkened soul stands in place
The illuminated seed is planted now
but I will never be the same
I land gently inside my body
time to close the circle and pray
Grinning and smiling at my companions
I wave goodbye to the rabbit hole
and see the world with clarity
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
My new-cut ashlar takes the light
Where crimson-blank the windows flare;
By my own work, before the night,
Great Overseer, I make my prayer.
If there be good in that I wrought,
Thy hand compell’d it, Master, Thine;
Where I have fail’d to meet Thy thought
I know, through Thee, the blame if mine.
One instant’s toil to Thee denied
Stands all Eternity’s offence;
Of that I did with Thee to guide
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.
Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,
Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,
Godlike to muse o’er his own trade
And manlike stand with God again.
The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.
One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread Temple of Thy worth—
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.
Take not that vision from my ken;
O, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,
Help me to need no aid from men,
That I may help such men as need!
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I've never had luck with blondes.
Well,
I've had lots of luck
falling ever so
deeply
in love with them.
With their eyes
of bright hues in
blue, green, and greys.
Going head over heels
for their charming smiles
that make your eyes linger a little longer
that what's permitted.
Dying
to feel their
godlike
comforting
powerful
touch.
That was easy.
Horribly easy.
But what surprised me,
kicked the backs of my knees
and made me crumble to the pavement
were that those handsome
heavenly faced blondes,
have no soul.
And I am sure of it,
because every
single
******* time,
they leave me...
Alone in the dark,
confused,
disoriented,
with not a single word.
Which leaves my thoughts
to echo in the emptiness,
rummage around inside my skull,
looking in the hollow cabinets
searching for clues
and slowly growing
frustrated
and angry,
angrier,
angriest.
But not at the blonde boys.
At myself.
As of what I did wrong?
Why did they go?
How could I let this happen again?
And every time,
I can never find the reason.
Those blonde boys
just appear in the rays of the summertime
with their golden locks of hair
and leave with their icy dark souls
in the cold breeze of the fall.
And I know,
they will be back next year.
With the sun,
and happiness
and my stupidity.
Until then though
I'm stuck with the abusive markings and stabbing aches.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
The sinful painter drapes his goddess warm,
Because she still is naked, being drest;
The godlike sculptor will not so deform
Beauty, which bones and flesh enough invest.
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spread-eagle at the summit
facing endless gusts of sandy billows,
mountain-backed vitruvian man,
i flail frustration at the outer
drips against, again in toes
forget the boots the pack
the bearbag full of snacks
the nylon thunder night-fret
flash of demon forking
shamefaced fear in throat
of shaken chest or weakness
soaking downy thermarest--
underfed it seemed so clear!
with only distant puffs within the blue
so here i lay despite the warnings hitherto--
the stakes have ripped electric
by the sky or sudden wind
as corners rock and threaten
rolling off into the gale--i sweat to add
a static vision sailing back alone,
a teardrop tent against the lightning caverns of the clouds
a skeleton of light suspended in the strike,
a sierra sign designedly godlike,
zapped nocturnal whisk i am
in awe now fearful grateful
mythos-understood of human
imagination's pawn still prone
with whining seams the poles still hold
within the whipping whites so loud
to tug my heels against the flying fabric
portal damp enstormed insomniac
to will the stony sand there once again
to sleep perhaps another dozen in
before the morning knuckles
pound the staff from off this mountaintop
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
here is something that
mother told me
about god complexes:
“everyone believes themselves
to be gods among men:
even that hideous monster from your
half-remembered Hellenistic dreams
will retreat back to
his craggy hideaway and continue
with his hedonistic ways.
the poor creature:
he will don a halo,
iconize himself in caricatures
pretending that if for a moment
his veins flow ichorous that
Icarus may have envied when his wings
beat in tandem with the footfalls of
the sun chariots’ horses.
“the sun shines upon
hallowed ground, though Polyphemus
will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze.
he herds sheep––his only acolytes––
an unabashed king in his realm,
like a god plays war, or as a child
would play house,
humming hallelujah,
veins running gold-blooded.
when moon rises,
he will hang his weary
shadow at his door and retreat
to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be
the closest he will be to the gods,
basking in the heat of Hestia’s
humble hearth.
“in the end,” mother said,
“Nobody will end up deified.
Icarus may have rained down wax and
feathers in godlike fury
before tilting his head to Helios once more;
Polyphemus waded into the sea,
eyes clouded in godlike fury
before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
My spirit is too weak; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an indescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time—with a billowy main,
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
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andrew.
i fall to my knees at his feet with a heavy breath.
i almost feel unworthy.
this person, this man-
he's perfection in flesh and blood.
i feel blessed.
this angel, a saint with flaws, perfect flaws.
i nearly worship him.
godlike, i search his face for signs of light, anything celestial or close to it.
i find them faintly, small, unnoticeable to anyone who's wronged him.
he is perfect, and somehow, he is mine.
Jul 7, 2020
Jul 7, 2020 at 6:05 PM UTC
The Chef
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
In the year 3131
They come to devour our suns
Terrible, godlike, interstellar giants
Inconceivable beyond all reason and science.
Humanity and all her colonies,
Divided amongst the galaxies,
Finally united once and for all
For our race dare not fall!
To eliminate the threat of annihilation
We constructed planet-sized stations
That house massive and powerful guns
To protect and defend our vulnerable suns.
As our fears vanished behind us
Those in control sought to rebind us
For systems of authority never change,
Not even with pervasive freedom in range.
With the powerful distracted by their lust,
For control over every speck of dust,
There emerged a demented cult
That believes our race is at fault,
And beings that come from above
Do so out of divine, parental love.
These naive and delusional zealots,
Inspired by avarice long embellished,
By a ruthless society lacking empathy,
Have developed an ever enduring apathy.
Seeking to destroy our only defenses,
They mount violent and ****** offensives,
Their rugged, disorderly fleets crucify
As humanity is unable to reunify.
However, there is another cooperative effort,
A last stand, self-organized endeavor,
This vigilante group battles cultist detestables
They call themselves The Solar Sentinels.
Bound by a principled, passionate collaboration,
The Solar Sentinels defend all people and nations,
Engineers and military minds come together
To ensure our survival and prosper, whatsoever.
Now, one existential question remains:
Will humanity break free of its chains,
Awaken, realize that we are all one,
Disregard old orders and save our suns?
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
"Like a prayer in church to God
you are to me precious love: " "knowing you is loving you thus, Knowing me is loving me."
~~
How sweet lies sound near or far
how bitter truth tasted as
memories arrived so awkward
It's bitterness lessened with understanding true love
maturing sweetening and
cruel Mr Ttime relentless I'm
In silence and in time
God allowed me to see
where i erred and failed
.I ask God to show me to lead me
as head not as chopped up tail.
God showed me what I couldn't see
showed those I injured unintendedly
parroting unkind words in ignorance
what you want us all to see.
Please notice my lonely waves
Predictable unchanging.
Drop your pebbles in my sand pond
that everything in me may be altered in your grace Lord
Bless a peace my every loved one.
Remove all enemies from our paths.
Bring my loved ones back to my caring selfless Godlike realms
anchored in your mercy God..
~~~~
Karijinbba.
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 7:27 AM UTC
He said its
complicated.
Uncomplicate it,
I told him.
Is it really
possible to get
beyond this complex
and difficult confusion.
It's all like
an amateur playing
the Cubic game.
As easy as it
seems to dance and
not forget the steps,
even so it is
to have a face
and still not well known.
The Excellence of the
Soul is Understanding,
for the Man
who Understands is
Conscious, devoted,
and already godlike.
Understanding the
complicated is not
that simple.
You need the mind
of a poet who
understands and interpret
what the mind sees
in the unconscious.
He will with ease
bring to the
conscious world all
the complicated complexities
for others to understand.
A poet dreams while awake,
and still awakens
within the dream to
uncomplicate the complicated.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
When first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-minstrel led.
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
’Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet’s eyes:
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its stedfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source;
The rapt One, of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth:
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
“Who next will drop and disappear?”
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,
Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth-looking,
I gazed from Hampstead’s breezy heath.
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too art gone before; but why,
O’er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh?
Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep;
For Her who, ere her summer faded,
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.
No more of old romantic sorrows,
For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid!
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.
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Yellow surrounded with beautiful blue
Like gold trapped inside shining pearls
Do you mind me sitting next to you?
You have godlike eyes unlike other girls
Please tell an endless story
And silence all other noice
Never will i get enough
Of that sweet angel's voice
Meet me at the train
When we shall meet again
But this time the rails
Won't have an end
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
(A Pharaoh Speaks.)
I said, "Why should a pyramid
Stand always dully on its base?
I'll change it! Let the top be hid,
The bottom take the apex-place!"
And as I bade they did.
The people flocked in, scores on scores,
To see it balance on its tip.
They praised me with the praise that bores,
My godlike mind on every lip.
-- Until it fell, of course.
And then they took my body out
From my crushed palace, mad with rage,
-- Well, half the town WAS wrecked, no doubt --
Their crazy anger to assuage
By dragging it about.
The end? Foul birds defile my skull.
The new king's praises fill the land.
He clings to precept, simple, dull;
HIS pyramids on bases stand.
But -- Lord, how usual!
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like fools, we dove into the shallow end.
head first. blind to the danger.
the jump itself was bliss.
fingers interlocked, laughter pouring from our mouths,
eyes bewitched and sparkling naively.
we were childlike. godlike. untouchable.
however our euphoria ended abruptly
at the reality of the encroaching cement bottom -
awaiting our skulls
but by the time we realized what was happening
it was too late.
you cannot stop gravity.
the smiles faded from our mouths.
and we went down,
down, down.
no hope for air.
no flailing limbs.
no final breath.
not a chance at revival.
we were dead on impact.
we never got to swim.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
There is a type of admiration
Which transcends love
My friend's dad
A man with a mustashe
And an honesty
To tell the truth
In stories of the past
And laugh wholeheartedly
At comical remarks
A confidence.
It is a love which is different
It is a respect
A desire to understand
And peer into
Rather than touch
The edge of his garment
A patriarchel dominance
Both strict and calm
Which portrays a godlike figure
Like a wise old man from the east
Except he's from Namibia
And he's been divorced
But I admire him
Like a soldier admires his superior
It is a love which is not love
It is admiration
Of a character
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
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
this verbal wishing well, appreciated,
a nut of good intentions but drives me
deeper into de-spare-ing downing detentions,
for it is only the article's genuine genius,
that elevates the human spiritus, to godlike status
no ditty this, but a wail, shriek, for
human touch is gift so greatest,
that any day passing without
either, neither but both, 'tis one
truly wasted,
a deduction on our
calculus of inited^ human intuitions,
a failure of our greatest inventions
a subtraction of our
gainful living, a purposed ecstasy
our one and only inexact
measure of measurement
that defies pedantic notions of
things of weight or volume,
but extends our own existence
sans
the armies of embrace,
the electric elected syncing,
of the shocking sharing of
closing the borders of divided spaces,
a soft contusion, a realized illusion
a de minimus of our days,
a lessening of our lessons,
a loss of earning livingness,
a nail in our coffined basket,
and here to cease without surcease,
the elemental incalculable numbered
members of our total human races,
that so tragic in a twenty four expiry,
that the bonding of affection goes
unexpressed...
offer you my armory of arms,
cleanse us both with showered kisses,
inform you thus of our emboldened connection,
voiding these lowlife separators of lineage divisors,
what matter color, gender, chosen god nomenclature,
any of this nonsensical human inventions for distancing
divested human beings from each other
tho eyes closed, and all our senses flaring,
when we confirm what we were born knowing,
there is nothing greater than the human touch
PostScript
my first and best poem of the day,
how it came to me goes unbeknownst,
but will practice what is preached
with any and all willing encountered souls,
and perhaps, come-end of day, will write,
once more, one more, re heaven on earth
7:02am
Tue Sep Thirty
Two Thousand and Twenty Five. nml
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
Others taught me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths—and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.
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