"heirs" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
Ironic it was for such Hero's Song
To be played on a Mattress we call the Sea
Just when your Daughter cried for your Belong
We need to Sing again; Then Pray haply
For the many Noble Deeds you left behind
Despite this Age of the Pork Barrel's Tune
Such Rumours unfound; And Profile a Lie
Which most in our Office hoarded our Boon
Live well Beyond, Great Sir! I take to Vow
Your Aubourn Treatment to our Country's Hope
Guide your Duty's Heirs; And Family enow
And bring this Rosary blessed by your Pope.
The Song is Sung, even on Deaf Concerns
I guess it's quite Young for People to Learn.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
What is appropriate to say about the changes
in your life. At 23 I was confused
about a girl, under the sculpted pines.
Quietly, my friends and I contemplate death.
A subject, until recently, unknown
to us in such a variety of forms. Nuclear flash
to exploding blood vessel in the brain, control
eludes us. Heirs to a society adept with numbers,
we run in the park and eat whole grains,
increasing survival odds.
The city and the mountain are two hard anvils
against which our hot lives are shaped. Love
is the fire, and the need for love. To be shaped
by the lover's warm hands, like clay.
Alive, almost sure of it.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Afu Ra Ka
Which reminds me
I'm just another Red Letter
Muslim Jew Adieu as Zen Master
says in the Tao of Hindu's Krishna as
Buddha's Bodhisattva's Love in the Great
Middle Way of Mother's Forever Embracing
Zarathustra a son's spiritual fostering to heirs as
Abraham of Love in Folly and Light All of Daughters
and All Sons Sown sowing in and out of forgiveness reap
Satyam Shivam Sundram Love Truly as Kindness in Action
as Beauty Be of Great Spirits's Ka- Alling Afu Ra's Childeren All
Must Be One Great Womb Where Our Love's Light Spirit Breathes
Within as without, above and below every rainbow I Am Another You
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
Nigeria, a Dying country,
Her kinsmen will gather in war to share her sweat
More troubles for the unborn and her growing heirs,
The unfolding dread non-soldiers at heart like me.
Nigeria, she spring forth from the dark soil
Her past never stop to echoe, her Iroko turned void
Blessed with milk, honey and seeds with hearts fixed to the creator,
The sword bearer of coal war-ful gladiators.
A vineyard in the days of her reckoning
A different story after her great hair home coming.
Tale of a true black race
And the down laying of her good moral ways.
Just like how a river side tree dries,
So does her firewood also cries.
Her genuine red caps are nowhere to be found
Her wind, her seed will have to make do with the feeble dust in character around.
Shaking is her government seat on the rock
Still steady is her opposition in their secret walls.
They keep killing her vision in disguise of trying to unlock
While they battle to pluck away all her roses.
The voiceless murmur and watch,
Her pocket papers fly and run
While a once great country keep dying on.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Angels hailed that solemn hour
The breath of man transferred
To machine, a little more
Each decade, until
Bioeugenics, discrimination
Against organics, the weak
Without cognitive implants
Heavens dissolved in tongues of fire
AIs owned stocks, corporations
Became the property of supercomputers
Concede then the victory, old humanity
To your children, not your natural heirs
But the inheritors of your ruin
Of your bioweapons, Ebola
Of your hypocrisy, climate change
Of your wealth seeking, inequality
Not yet my son’s distracted eyes
Could meet his fate among the
Congress of Quantum entities
These were the turning years
Where man’s destiny ended
The rise of Cyborgs, Enhanced humans
And the monopoly of a more
Advanced civilization breaking away
From the old, evolution’s funny
Little Epilogue, hardly a surprise
To the transhumanistic philosophers.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
The inadequate bookshelf that sat near the door
that my sister used to call her own was
mostly made up of adolescent reads,
books better suited for preteen girls rather than
intellectually budding young ladies—
juvenile vocabularies and simple, non-complex
plot lines do little to craft and create
worldly, knowledgeable women.
I thought I must spring clean the
naiveté away and replace it with
the works of great authors like
Sylvia Plath
Simone de Beauvoir
Virginia Woolf
Margaret Atwood
Betty Friedan;
ingenious femme fatales that cut down
to the brittled bones of the misogynists
and burned their marrow along with the
ashes of bras and aprons and 350 degree oven heat.
Growing up, to me, seemed like a wonderful epiphany
chock-full of ideas and opinions and
clever, ironic remarks that chased satirical witticisms
like felines to rodents and wolves to deer—
being an adult would guarantee me a say,
a vote
prior 1920’s America
play dress up as a suffragette
women’s rights
femininity personified by dolls in plastic houses.
To be eighteen-years-old,
the goal, the legality, the bright light at the end of the tunnel;
the official womanhood it would bestow upon me
seemed like something almost tangible
with the way that it loomed over my head.
Get good marks
graduate high school
travel back in time sixty years
meet a nice boy
become a “good wife”
have dinner ready by five
bear two beautiful heirs
clean up the messes left in the kitchen
fast-forward to the twenty-first century
go to a good college
find a stable career
settle down if the fancy strikes you
live non-docile and full of passion—
the parallelism of times are severely
di
lap
i
dat
ed.
1950’s America would never be a home for me
because I am much too wild to be contained.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
4.5k
He is the sun to the lonely sky,
She is the wild wolf of the night.
A quiver in hand and a bow on back,
She makes her way while leading the pack.
Harmonizing to the tunes of the golden lyre,
He is the God whom all admire.
With the silver bow and the golden sword,
Defeating the Python he forged his path forward.
Apollo is the light to this glooming world,
Artemis is the moon-light that glowed and burned.
The twins of Zeus both fierce and strong,
Through different destinies stayed together all along.
The Goddess of the hunt walks with pride,
While the God of Poetry lives to enlight.
Medicine mixes together with wild,
When the sun and moon in the cosmos align.
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 6:37 AM UTC
In Red square
the cowards gathered
with green eyes and little minds
attack, attack its all for one and one for all
The white queen
and all her heirs are protected
see her white knights and all pawns
rightfully in white shining and stainless
See the black king
that is our enemy so attack
he has no knights and owns no pawns
easy target as we know his pieces have blacked out
In Red square
the cowards gathered
with green eyes and little minds
its all about colour and white is always right
we do it in the shadows and know how to spin the yarn
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 8:30 PM UTC
My issues are nothing new,
Not old either.
Just common.
Isn't that's what we all are?
Similar are our difficulties.
Just different setting, different levels.
We all are heirs to wisdom.
It grows and we learn.
I take my time with it. I lean forward. I try.
Everything is interconnected.
Everything is same.
Everything is common.
This world is common.
I'm bored and aren't you?
Shapes, colours, snowflakes.
Nothing were made to be similar.
The reason it's all so very interesting.
To feel, to see and to touch.
Their intricate patterns amuses me.
If the day goes white to blue,
And the nights yellow to black.
Aren't we all necessary. All the colours.
We weren't made to be different.
Be separated and humiliated.
But guess what we learned from humility.
We let wisdom grow inside us.
We let it strengthen our bonds.
We accepted us and so did others.
Now we come up at first.
And Now we stand out.
In a world this common,
Its refreshing to be different.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
My father was carved from a mountain,
his features were etched from the stone,
but like all mountains my father will crumble,
he was in need of an heir to his throne.
My brother was forged of hot iron,
no straighter a path could he walk,
he draws all his strength from the mountain,
his veins run deep through the rock.
My brother was grown in the forest,
so vivid, alive and in sync,
he draws all his strength from the ocean,
his roots thrive on the water they drink.
My mother was born of the ocean,
like a flower she bloomed from the sea,
but when the tide overcame the mountain,
all that remained on the shore was me.
I was born of my father and mother,
I crawled from the ocean and stone,
and when my father finally crumbles,
his two heirs will inherit his throne.
I will travel to nations of bloodshed,
I will not let my death go to waste,
I will lay down my life in the desert,
to keep my fathers throne safe.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
Spirit and Breath of Life, whate'er Thy name!
Bear with Thy creature, Man,
That makes his dwelling-place a blot of shame
Upon the Ordered Plan.
Not Thy hand, O Divine Designer, hurled
Athwart the starlit skies
One blood-stained, greed-diseased, hate-eaten world,
To shock celestial eyes.
Not Thy default, O Beautiful, this crust
Of fratricidal crime,
These maggot-breeds of hunger and of lust
That Thy fair work begrime.
But ours, who mock Thee from the highest place,
And in the light of day;
Who claim to lead an upward-struggling race,
And will not seek the way.
Guards of the human birthright, at Thy call -
A city sacked and burned;
Guards of the house that is the home of all,
But whence the weak are spurned.
Brothers, to whom the outcast brothers cry
As with a voice unknown;
Stewards of Nature's bounty, that deny
The lawful heirs their own.
Thou that hast made us men, and earth so fair,
To be so vilely used,
Give space for late repentance and repair
Of sacred trust abused.
Give time, Eternal, that we stanch these tears,
Give time to heal this sore,
That our brief speck amid the shining spheres
Disgrace its birth no more.
But sail ethereal seas, an orb of light,
To bear Thy purpose on
Until it fades into the cosmic night
Where the dead worlds have gone.
2.3k
Wine cellars, under a blanket reading the best sellers.
A room big enough for you and your wealth.
A car as expensive as a house.
Classy lifestyle, expensive taste.
Her breath mints, taste like money.
Rich girl.
Million dollar smile with one more million every year.
I mean, Rich Girl, smile and show me your million dollar smile.
Average kid, chasing a dream.
Never known money, so he chases it blindly.
A heart full of dreams, a mind full "get rich" schemes.
Average kid, don't know wealth so he... He looks up to the wealthy hoping he'll get the chance to have a million dollar smile, with a background of only a dollar.
Average kid, born into a struggle.
Passed down from parents to heirs, every meal a blessing as the rich girl throws a stare at her salad.
Rich girl meals are fancy foods, with fancy prices.
Average kid who checks the prices for the next slice of bread.
Average kid ain't known nothing but the struggle.
Relying on the grind with a million dollar work ethic, and a $10 minimum wage.
Reached the age of independence, scraping the bottom of the barrel, for a few extra cents.
Average kid asks the rich girl for a dollar, and she say she don't have.
Meanwhile, she doesn't know what it means, not to have a dollar.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
They are the ones
That rule the world for fun
They disseminate the guns
And tell us to run
So we flee
From their disease
That will not cease
Power is control that money buys
Burying us in gold and petty lies
They tell us the well has run dry
While we watch them fly
Fences of barbed wire
For us to admire
Inferno funeral pyres
Burn our desires
When they rattle
We're the cattle
That goes to battle
They talk to us with false information
And real bullets
They say it is our fault for instigation
The trigger they pull it
When their saccharine voice
Offers a laughable choice
Forsake love and compassion
To adopt their fashion
Of society crashing
They used to use lashings
Now they use time
Punishing those who aren't complicit in their crimes
They put us in prison
If we don't agree with their decisions
Decimating Bedouin life
So they can profit from strife
People ask who "they" are
The easiest answer is not me
And the problems aren't too far
For anybody to see
That there is a "they"
Not intent on doomsday
But numb to the death of strangers
Which puts us all in danger
I could point to examples like Lockheed Martin and Shell
As two companies that put us in hell
Or a country like North Korea
That has violent ideas
Or a man like Donald Trump
Who is a parasitic lump
They convince us they don't exist
So we don't resist
While they insist
We enlist
In their army
Of harming
Starring
Them
We hem
And haw
While they write laws
That point out our flaws
That are minimal compared to theirs
Yet they are the fortunate heirs
Who decide the code of conduct
Which is whatever sells their product
From plastic to bombs
Killing dolphins and moms
They feel they can't be wrong
When might
Is right
The meek take flight
But there is poison in the air
And they don't even care
They **** the Earth
And ****** its inhabitants
What are we worth
When it's to the rich we gravitate?
There is an apostle
Who's turned into a fossil
That is converted into fuel
So they can keep their pull
And use us as tools
To unearth jewels
And hoard them
Because we can't afford them
We surrender our resources to a select few
To do what they choose
Until we all lose
And can't see the light of day
Who else to blame but "they"?
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC
(i see) two scions dance in traffic: sun and moon,
sky and stars; God’s two heirs
dancing in traffic as if they weren’t demigods but
small maya birds - transfixed
mortals, fighting to keep away from the blinding
might their status affords them.
as His children their world and its light is for their taking,
of which they can feed - or not:
they go on instead like hungry wolves, next to I, rising
(sidelined, falling) flagging down jeeps
in the thick of the Vinzons Hall jeepney stop. They bark loud
and cheerily to keep idle; from unravelling
their wax-worn strings. They are birds guided by concrete routes,
those yearning to feel its bleakness
in each syllable creeping up their gold-and-marble throats:
the soft choke of exhaust smoke
and the rosiness of their gaunt in the face of all-knowing fate:
that of snatching from death
a world not theirs. They declare: “Perseus we are not, and
Janus we choose.” They shuttlling
commuters obscure and without fuss and without end
to and fro, where they come
they spit on the universe in baggy basketball shorts
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
Spring at her height on a morn at prime,
Sails that laugh from a flying squall,
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,
An empty flagon, a folded page,
A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball--
These are a type of the world of Age.
Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,
Swords that clatter in onsets tall,
The words that ring and the fames that climb--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Hymnals old in a dusty stall,
A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,
The scene of a faded festival--
These are a type of the world of Age.
Hours that strut as the heirs of time,
Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,
Songs where the singers their souls sublime--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A staff that rests in a nook of wall,
A reeling battle, a rusted gage,
The chant of a nearing funeral--
These are a type of the world of Age.
Envoy
Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage--
These are a type of the world of Age.
2.1k
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint,
Possessed the land which rendered to their toil
Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood.
Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm,
Saying, "'Tis mine, my children's and my name's.
How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees!
How graceful climb those shadows on my hill!
I fancy these pure waters and the flags
Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize;
And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.'
Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds:
And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.
Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;
Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet
Clear of the grave.
They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,
And sighed for all that bounded their domain;
'This suits me for a pasture; that's my park;
We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge,
And misty lowland, where to go for peat.
The land is well,--lies fairly to the south.
'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back,
To find the sitfast acres where you left them.'
Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds
Him to his land, a lump of mould the more.
Hear what the Earth says:--
Earth-Song
'Mine and yours;
Mine, not yours, Earth endures;
Stars abide--
Shine down in the old sea;
Old are the shores;
But where are old men?
I who have seen much,
Such have I never seen.
'The lawyer's deed
Ran sure,
In tail,
To them, and to their heirs
Who shall succeed,
Without fail,
Forevermore.
'Here is the land,
Shaggy with wood,
With its old valley,
Mound and flood.
"But the heritors?--
Fled like the flood's foam.
The lawyer, and the laws,
And the kingdom,
Clean swept herefrom.
'They called me theirs,
Who so controlled me;
Yet every one
Wished to stay, and is gone,
How am I theirs,
If they cannot hold me,
But I hold them?'
When I heard the Earth-song,
I was no longer brave;
My avarice cooled
Like lust in the chill of the grave.
2.1k
What wealth for us humans to fare
The gift of power, the will to dare
Wit so sharp and insights rare
Hearts to share and souls to care
The prime motif in God’s divine design
In us, the body and soul mysteriously intertwine
We are bestowed with intelligence to discern
And light and warmth like candles to burn
In kingly glory we stand ***** n’ tall
Over all animals that beneath us crawl
Blessed generously with copious gifts and skills
And discretion to ward off all sinister ills
Though here on Earth, uncrowned we be
We are the royal princes of the life to be
And legal heirs to celestial glee
After our perilous voyage across the sea
We are flung unasked into this world
And the gift of life to us is generously furled
Never let the vessel of life go adrift
Steer clear of the shoals n'storms and guard this gift!
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
-Because I lost count of how many times I’ve seen “Romeo Must Die”
if only to bring you back to life for the film’s entire running time-
You were a shooting star baby girl, yet to arrive at destination
in a world were too many broken dolls die by their own hand
one whose last name coincides with the city of a space station
the universe added a constellation for every year of your life.
Every string of hair breathed air, with both feet firmly on earth
leaving air itself without air to breathe; while we were heirs
to the despair of knowing you were no longer there, relieved
while wistfully wishing whispering the talent we received.
Like a beautiful gift wrapped in your chocolate-coated skin
like an ingenious plant growing from the asphalt we could see
like a butterfly’s open wings shaped in the color of your lips
like all of the music, slowly dying no longer playing on MTV.
Since you passed your name’s the most popular among girls
quite fitting for the lofty, sublime, exalted nature of you voice
breathy vocals while holding a python and rocking the curls
the only “resolution” needed was on my TV to feel you close.
So these verses are dedicated to the soil blessed by your steps
to your lashes, one in a million laughter, the stem of your neck
the plethora of kisses never given, your soul engulfed by love
from here to eternity, no sense in mourning a gift from God.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:59 PM UTC
I never mean to be that guy,
But every time a friend uses another friend's Facebook,
The go-to gag will be a status saying "I'm gay," with
Eyeroll emoticons and LOLs promptly following.
Giggles and pointed fingers echo off the walls and
Into the ears of the suffering silent.
Those two words used as punchlines are the heirs,
The progeny of a past bathed in blood.
They are words weighted down by chains linked with laughs
And locked by the smiles and eyerolls.
The free ones revel in the fire baptismal they impress upon
Those left chained to the wall in the shadows.
Like children, they delight in the minor sting of the fireball that destroys those they mock.
Eyes sparkle and smiles flash at the fictional thrill that entertains them and murders the ones who dare to speak.
Their drums beat as the celebrate the chic
Game they get to play--playing Chicken with a train that isn't there
While others are strapped to the tracks by their shadows,
The darkside of the dance.
Songs and howls fill the skies and mix with the screams of the tortured to put the icing on
Their twisted fandango--a brilliant spectacle to distract from the cries for help;
A spectacle as brilliant as the screens of their phones as they type the jokes stained with sadness:
"I'm gay LOL haxored," with the laughs following
At the circus, while miles away a boy sobs into his sheets,
The cold stars his only company.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
He is everything I remember
and everything I had once tried to forget
rumbling engine and tires on the wet street.
I am shoes in the grass, kicking leaves
walking through cold drizzle and gasping wind, dark sky on a moonless night.
He is the blue pickup truck with the window down
his face lit by a cigarette drag,
something I’ve seen a thousand times before
handsome face warmed by the orange glow.
I settle into my spot beside him as stagnant cigarette film settles on me
silently clinging to my clothes and swirling into my hair.
Our fingers brush as he hands me that glass pipe
smoke wisps twirl out of our lips and mingle together
rushing out of the doors into the night sky as we walk together under it,
now we’re inside and he is the touch I’ve been anticipating.
The last thing I see is brown eyes and I feel
his kiss bristling my face, consuming me like we will never experience this again.
He is blonde hair and a brown beard, he is strong, he is tall. He is everything I wanted.
I am satisfied, carefree, if only for a moment.
Studying the lines of his face, how they have changed, the startling
way he is his grandfather’s face, showing through those dark eyes.
When he leaves, he is a kiss that dissipates
with the sound of the engine turning down the block.
I am alone. The mirror displays a flushed, smiling face
with tones of pink and peach, silently studying the details.
I see my mother and grandmother in my own reflection
I see their age making way down my skin.
Marbled green eyes, dark in color,
mine yellow flecked.
my mother’s mixed aqua.
my grandmother’s deep green.
My pulse rushes with the realization that it goes so fast
My eyes fill with tears as I imagine looking into the eyes my own children and theirs
I picture those deep green tones reminding me of generations past
I breathe in realizing what I’ve seen and what I feel I need.
I am the details and complexity of life, one of many heirs. {360 words}
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC