"holier" poems
The downward momentum is clear to me now.
The engine has built up a full head of steam.
I’d try to stop it, if I knew how.
The fires of industry must burn on somehow;
they tend to burn brightest when fuel is extreme.
The downward momentum is clear to me now.
When currents are surging, we shouldn’t allow
the jingoist fringe to swim in the mainstream.
I’d try to stop them, if I knew how.
Civility means more than I can avow,
but poems can only allude to a theme:
The downward momentum is clear to me now.
Each click of a mouse that shouts holier than thou
is a cog in a treacherous clockmaker’s scheme.
I’d try to stop him, if I knew how.
We worshipped the circuit and forsook the plow
in search of a false technological dream.
Our downward momentum is clear to me now.
I’d try to stop us, if I knew how.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
Totally useless
Infinite universe
Exploding before us
I am one
I am holy
I am yours
The one and only
Forever and glowing
So steady in stirring
The moving of your heart
Melting your spirit
Confusing what is real
Abusing all you feel
Lie to their faces
Sigh no more
Sink the places
That you have since forgotten
This is a place that I
Will not forget
The holy sighs and cries
During your pitiful lies
All because you set aside
The energy at rest
Hello there
Welcome back
Get this drink
Of A’s exile elixir
Go off to a distant land
Find a distant face
Nothing can be said
I did you wrong
You ****** me over
This is goodbye
......|……|XXXXXXX
Undress
Unleash the emptiness
I’m so glad that I brought this
This beautiful red safe
The keeper of
My ****** up mental state
About my mental state…
Don’t ask me about my holy stake
That I pierced into the heart
Of a special white vampire
One of those holier than thou types
One **** up
And then
Onto the next line
The next word that you speak
Might be a mistake
What do you think?
About me…
Do you think that you could
Stand on your own two feet?
With me,
Without me.
Alone like we are
I’ll crash the car
To flip our worlds around
Venture away today
Go away
Come as you were
Another day
But not today
You might be okay
I’m not okay…
Holy one
Grant me a kiss of happiness
You know I need it
I need her
Whoever she is
Wherever I am
Someway, somehow
I’ll find the day
To rewind the times
That I forgot about
Last night, this morning
Last year, good mourning
Thank you that this is over with. . .
Oh, sweet angel
Lie to me
Allow my words
To feed the hungry minds
of those that don’t listen
and only want my body.
What about what’s left of my spirit
Dragging down below
Sing to those that need
Lie to those that see nothing
Around no quarter
The moon found you
I found you
The numbers did add up
Just a little too soon
All too soon
I found you
I lost you
I’ll find you again
Forget about the end.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Eid
That's what we need
Now More than ever
To show
That we are together
Enough of "holier than thou"
And clamour over the cow
We couldn't have fought
Had we put a thought
That all our customs and faith
Are to gather and celebrate
And embrace all
So More than ever it's now
Necessary to take a vow
That together we grow
And let them know
Who toss us into fire
Of instigated ire
We all had a choice
And we all have a choice
This time
Let's savor the kheer
And a hug a little tighter
Let the crescent moon glow
On us all a little brighter
Eid Mubarak
Let's be better.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare
to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years
yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls
she kneads the big ***** pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another
then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see
she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter
the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them
now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang
Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name
nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun
Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven
it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve
holy, holy, holy...
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
**ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S FAMOUS CIVIL WAR CONDOLENCE LETTER TO YOUNG ***** MCCULLOUGH ABOUT DEATH, LOSS AND MEMORY**
Executive Mansion,
Washington, December 23, 1862.
Dear *****
It is with deep grief that I learn of the death of your kind and brave Father; and, especially, that it is affecting your young heart beyond what is common in such cases. In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it. I am anxious to afford some alleviation of your present distress. Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You can not now realize that you will ever feel better. Is not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will make you some less miserable now. I have had experience enough to know what I say; and you need only to believe it, to feel better at once. The memory of your dear Father, instead of an agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer, and holier sort than you have known before.
Please present my kind regards to your afflicted mother.
Your sincere friend
A. LINCOLN.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
I'll be here for infinity x infinity
A penchant for curves like cursives
I say it in my verses
Vocab too wide for curses
Don't like likes
Fingers to whoever dislike
Like a vlogger: share, comment, and like
Oh yeah, subscribe
Fun, I prescribe
Right on time
Better late than never
Man of the hour
Original with the flavour
Chocolate and Vanilla
Black and grey
If you're too slow to comprehend
No résumé
No references
DIY my title says
Fickle fools play 'Simon Says'
Press remotes don't change but
Batteries can be replaced all the same
God - like
Holier - than - thou; Pope's attitude, beg for mercy
Self - driven, self - motivated
Ministering like Osteen
Light and dark
Yin & Yang
Angel or demon I can be
High off life
Limitless, no pills
I'm probably ill
Well it's my will
To count millions in $100 bills
Like ice, I chill
That's me, trill
And that's that
Suh bill
LanceSkiies
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
writing songs sans artifice,
that grow better different,
different better,
the lyrics of a man growing older,
insides out, featuring his slips, all showing,
eyes squinting from hard lifestyle experience,
taking on wearied shades of beige yellowing,
a tanned blackness, time edits them, so now,
they sound the same but holier,
from the hazing of hazards
one builds for and by himself,
drilling & extracting the spit-shine of
all that all is fine,
but liquor & cat's paw black shoe polish
just can't quite cover 'em up (2),
the stabbing itch each of the every time
one quests and questions
his ego,
always another test…
why would I ever want that?
his fingers create tinkling at rapido pace,
tinkling an arrhythmia of rhymes
previously perviously (1) unseen,
self exploration, that we all realize
is an unforgiving, never ending,
source of melodic crying out loud;
and when the sensual, arrayed pleasures,
begin to bore
holes of no important consequence,
the querys~to~self get even harder
to explicate what they intimate,
who they implicate,
which parts of you,
failed to answer satisfactorily…
why would I want want that
forever?
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
For certain he hath seen all perfectness
Who among other ladies hath seen mine:
They that go with her humbly should combine
To thank their God for such peculiar grace.
So perfect is the beauty of her face
That is begets in no wise any sigh
Of envy, but draws round her a clear line
Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.
Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:
Not she herself alone is holier
Than all; but hers, through her, are raised above.
From all her acts such lovely graces flow
That truly one may never think of her
Without a passion of exceeding love.
5.5k
There's a sister who floats with hungry collarbones and a razor-edged smile. She smokes sadness when she isn't ready to exhale.
She is beauty in fine art and wrath the colour of thunderstorms; the rain comes when she smiles.
Holier than thou and quick to judge, with antiseptic perception known to bring out the things you were not aware existed.
Addictive, those imprints from her feet will stamp all over you; nimble fingers puppeteering those who fall out of her thoughts.
She is selfish and always leaves, leaves, leaves. She ran away at the first tremor; she did not stay to watch the concrete crumble.
But she picked me up when the concrete friction broke my knees, lashed tyrants with her tongue and prowled behind the boyfriends that came and always went.
This sister whom I project; the image of her I mirror. She is love and laughter and moods that taper and flare.
She is a cluster of persons, a bomb liable to a detonate on a short fuse. She is trouble ailing in the best possible way; her flames light up the shade.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
The Broken Ties of happier days,
How often do they seem
To come before our mental gaze.
Like a remembered dream;
Around us each dissevered chain,
I n sparkling ruin lies.
And earthly hand can ne'er again
Unite those Broken Ties.
The parents of our infant home,
The kindred that we loved,
Far from our arms perchance may roam.
To distant scenes removed,
Or we have watched their parting breath,
And closed their weary eyes,
And sighed to think how sadly death
Can sever human ties.
The friends, the loved ones of our youth,
They too are gone or changed,
Or worse than all, their love and truth
Are darkened and estranged;
They meet us in the glittering throng
With cold averted eyes,
And wonder that we weep our wrong,
And mourn our Broken Ties.
Oh ! who in such a world as this,
Could bear their lot of pain,
Did not one radiant hope bliss
Unclouded yet remain?
That hope the Sovereign Lord has given,
Who reigns beyond the skies;
That hope unites our souls to Heaven,
By Faith's enduring ties.
Each care, each ill of mortal birth,
Is sent in pitying love,
To lift the lingering heart from earth,
And speed its flight above;
And every pang that rends the breast,
And every joy that dies,
Tell us to seek a safer rest,
And trust to holier ties.
4.4k
Bang.
let them do the job
as they do we need to simply look the other way
The Islamophobia is suffocating
the saturation is enough.
There are children there
but we don't see that.
Children without fathers.
Children without mothers.
The Christian fanatics
are not so different.
You have your flag,
You have your gun.
So do they,
but they're the evil one?
Take a mirror and as you do,
you will see, they look like you.
Your religion is no better,
no holier or worthy,
we are all human
all equal.
But some are more equal than others.
Aren't they?
N. Hedges
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed—
For man never slept
In a different bed;
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
4.4k
We wore torn blue jeans,
the holier the better,
pearl-buttoned shirts
& pointed Justin's
rounded out
our tough-guy
wardrobe.
We guzzled whiskey
& Crown
& told most folks
to kiss our *****
even the coppers.
The pretty lasses loved us
& some had bigger ***** than us,
they tried to capture our hearts
& make real men out of us.
Sometimes
they succeeded
& sadly,
sometimes not,
our common sense
clouded
by alcohol-laced
testosterone.
I lost a lot of precious time
trying to be cool.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
I feel surrounded by countless fears
The world for me has nothing but hate
It's getting harder and harder to hold back the tears
For I have an infamous tendency to be late
And that's just how they would phrase it too
So holier-than-thou with their watches
In this world swiftly turned to zoo
Time is king and we are just the notches
My teacher felt the urge to inform me today
That I am late in every way
Late in my work, late in my location
Late in choosing my perfect vocation
And even if you try your hardest
Treat your task as a craft
If you were there the latest
Everyone will view you as daft
Well from now on I will try hard to be on time
I'll cut the corners and muddle through the grime
This problem brings me so much shame
And my peers always choose my head to blame
But never assume that I don't care
Do not believe I enjoy this flaw
For like all the great singers and witty writers rare
My punctuality will someday leave the world in awe
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
GLEAMING through the silent church-yard,
Winter sunlight seemed to shed
Golden shadows like soft blessings
O'er a quiet little bed,
Where a pale face lay unheeding
Tender tears that o'er it fell;
No sorrow now could touch the heart
Of gentle little Nell.
Ah, with what silent patient strength
The frail form lying there
Had borne its heavy load of grief,
Of loneliness and care.
Now, earthly burdens were laid down,
And on the meek young face
There shone a holier loveliness
Than childhood's simple grace.
Beset with sorrow, pain and fear,
Tempted by want and sin,
With none to guide or counsel her
But the brave child-heart within.
Strong in her fearless, faithful love,
Devoted to the last,
Unfaltering through gloom and gleam
The little wanderer passed.
Hand in hand they journeyed on
Through pathways strange and wild,
The gray-haired, feeble, sin-bowed man
Led by the noble child.
So through the world's dark ways she passed,
Till o'er the church-yard sod,
To the quiet spot where they found rest,
Those little feet had trod.
To that last resting-place on earth
Kind voices bid her come,
There her long wanderings found an end,
And weary Nell a home.
A home whose light and joy she was,
Though on her spirit lay
A solemn sense of coming change,
That deepened day by day.
There in the church-yard, tenderly,
Through quiet summer hours,
Above the poor neglected graves
She planted fragrant flowers.
The dim aisles of the ruined church
Echoed the child's light tread,
And flickering sunbeams thro' the leaves
Shone on her as she read.
And here where a holy silence dwelt,
And golden shadows fell,
When Death's mild face had looked on her,
They laid dear happy Nell.
Long had she wandered o'er the earth,
One hand to the old man given,
By the other angels led her on
Up a sunlit path to Heaven.
Oh! 'patient, loving, noble Nell,'
Like light from sunset skies,
The beauty of thy sinless life
Upon the dark world lies.
On thy sad story, gentle child,
Dim eyes will often dwell,
And loving hearts will cherish long
The memory of Nell.
2.2k
A baby takes steps
such deliverance and liberty,
and each one taken, a sculptor's dreams,
raw clay to break life's mold.
A painter and a skeptic,
each stroke of the brush
questioned.
Why? Why? Why?
A festoon adorns his hall,
forever and ever
seemingly falling,
gently riding the curve
ever-expanding.
Pin down the treacherous worm,
defiled in soul
and callous has it become,
shun shun shun
holier than thou I have become,
a revolutionary I have become,
an angel in your eyes I have become,
and an apple beheld by Eve's eyes I have become,
true neutral,
true blue,
on and on I live.
Flew through the window,
was a crow,
it weaved and spun
a marigold story,
till it near melted
down through the drain.
Protuberant mound of earth,
bulging eyes pierce the sky,
enlightenment from the ground,
insects yearn a nihilistic life,
existed they never did,
and their ashes carried to the wind.
Farewell,
au revoir,
march in the perilous parade
hastily prepared for the world,
but please do bring your sandals.
The Sculptor and the Child
have crafted in their dreams,
the ideal world.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
“Woman does not emerge from man’s ribs. Not ever. It’s he who emerges from her womb.” Nizar Qabbani.
1. In the beginning
God asked himself a question and only made half the answer.
The Bible says
That when the Lord realised the world needed a woman
He searched through man, took a rib, and made her.
2. Eve, all apple and velvet.
I know you didn’t come kicking and screaming.
You, grafted onto man like a prize fruit
then cooked up like a red wine sauce all acid and hiss.
After the Bible took away the one thing it thought you were good for in the first place
it had you hold hands with the devil,
all flirtation and fashion,
made you sound like your body was empty of anything else.
Eve,
Mother of mothers.
Carved yourself from the rubble the same way David pulled himself from the stone.
Don’t tell me a woman is ever a safe place to rest.
Don’t think Eve ever let herself be an after thought.
3. On the third day
before the flood and the fire and the rubble,
God made himself a garden and called it Eden.
Or Eve.
Or something.
He stopped, closed his eyes and finally smiled because at last he had made something holier than himself.
He tried every fruit, spat the seeds like broken teeth.
Over the next few nights Eve kissed her life into Adam’s ribs,
told him it was
all good.
When The Lord finally moulded Adam from the clay of the garden, the wind whispered and knew.
4. People say that a great woman is just like a fine wine - full bodied and getting better with age.
Tell that to your mother.
Tell that to every woman who has ever fought for a cause.
A woman’s blood is worth so much more than communion but men just love a commodity.
5. I close my eyes and I am standing in a garden.
Her name is Eve:
her hands are ripe fruit;
head a forest fire;
body sinking under the weight of a great flood.
I say: “Eve how do I think myself into forest?
Will you show me how to become forest fire? All skin and bones and burning map.
You perfect absolute.”
6. So I turn back. Pull her name from my ribs like I was the first and I came from her.
And then my hands, gentle gravediggers.
And later I looked up and there was nothing except earth and light and earth and light and her
and it was over again.
So I sat down. Took a breath - the first real breath, hands shaking like the corners of pages.
7. I looked for the first time and I could see for miles.
I could see for miles.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 5:22 AM UTC
Passing judgment is subjective,
it’s in the eyes of the beholder.
You know it, don’t do it.
It goes something like you point a finger at someone
& they're four pointing back at you.
Like who makes anyone a judge & jury?
That’s right, arrogance.
It’s usually themselves,
spilling volumes about how righteous they are.
They’re what some label a smokescreen character,
a ******* flimflam artist,
holier than thou, you know the type.
They wouldn’t last ten seconds in a firefight.
Bottom line: trust no one, not even yourself.
I saw family members
give up their relatives
to make a buck.
That’s right, greenbacks.
A regular family-affair.
Imagine selling out blood for paper.
We called it a war on terror.
They called it Jihad.
It didn’t matter what anybody called it.
There was no God involved.
Just human nature & people pointing fingers.
The same old show,
the same old ****
dogs & ponies
one upping each other.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Steak dinner
perfectly cooked.
impeccable presentation.
one single bead of sweat
on her forehead.
boys, when done, get up
from the table
before her.
kiss her thank you
(make it a tradition).
clear the table.
pour her a glass and lead
her to the sofa.
leave the kitchen spotless
for her. every grain on the
cutting board;
one of her beads.
nothing is holier than one
that feeds another.
season gratitude with
effort.
it isn't rocket chivalry.
it should go
without
saying.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear
so I may hear
the rise of lilies
Marching down my throat
Naked ladies and daffodils
King proteas and petunias
Spinach, celery and rocket
For the venus fly-trap has lost her teeth
in semi-nation feasting --
My gut is a gaza-strip:
holier than seven maries
times eleven matzot, squared
Who would raise the dandelion and the khaki-bos,
Who would shield the cornflower and the joseph's coat
in semi-nation trepidation
My gut is a gaza-strip
My nerves: a dead sea . . .
But Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear again
so I can see
the significance of shattering
14 August, 2014
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Let me see beneath your perfection,
and look behind your Sunday best.
I want to see if you're super human
or if you're more like the rest of us.
I want to test your holier than thou,
your upfront semblance of flawless.
I want to check that you're all we see
or if there's less beneath the surface.
If you think you have no cracks or dents,
if you have no room for improvement,
I'd really like you to meet my friends -
as we need a new source of amusement.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC
You take a seat next to me, and I brush up against your smooth, porcelain skin.
My pupils dilate, the anticipation of your attention captivates my soul.
You say nothing, but your cerulean eyes scold me for my past sins.
Your holier-than-thou ego clashes with my happy-go-lucky mood,
My spirit whimpers and suffocates once again,
My newly repaired heart becomes unglued.
After being forsaken by your eyes, my gaze fixes on your chaste lips.
The daily struggle persists, I fight the urge to kiss the immaculate pink flesh.
For the only thing I shall ever receive from that part of your perfect body are relentless quips.
Like a hopeless, abandoned child, I follow your every move
Yearning to be your untainted doll, like a puppet on a string,
Falling all over myself, feigning euphoria, desperately hoping you approve.
You are the inclement wind, I am the decrepit, shredded leaf.
You shove me along, disregarding my waning will, placing me wherever you want.
You do this merrily, without thought, shame, or grief.
You concoct schemes, working tirelessly, reminding me that I am far too easy to replace
When you become weary of me, you toss me aside, allowing the demons in my head to besiege me.
I am isolated, petrified, and after the devil has his way, my emotions vanish without a trace.
Yet, I will linger, waiting for you, everyday, until I grow old and die.
My soul lusts for the times when you will love me once again.
I covet the days when your amorous words and merciful, cerulean eyes made me feel so high.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
I dreamed I fought Buddah
Again. The fat ******* was a
Slippery one, but not as
Heavy as you'd think.
He laughed with every punch
I landed. So disarming, it
Bordered on cheating.
When he finally tapped out,
I lost. I crossed swords with
Christ some nights ago.
A testament to surrender.
Flat slaps against a thousand
Cheeks, I guess crosses and books
Of poetry -alike- are made from
Wood. *I'm the son of a carpenter
Too,* I yelled. But it was Mary who
Had a little lamb. I formed a spear
With my hand and drank the
Water it revealed; thirsty as sand.
Like fighting a holy ghost. Air.
I punched at unbreakable mirrors.
I gave up faiths I never had.
Then Odin came up from behind.
Took out my left eye and prepared
To render Blood Eagle, dagger in
Hand, coil of Man; as mortal as any.
We whispered in unison: *Finally
A fight worth ending.*
Nothing is
Holier
Than
Flesh.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
There is a paper
in my room, it is
between the paints and the seforim,
folded neatly in two. It says
“This is
a manifesto.”
It says, “Here is
a safe place for people who are tired,
tired of words like
“religious”
For people who don’t care if your kippah is knit
or black velvet
or a crown made of fur.
Who know that the
color of your shirt
does not determine the extent of your belief, who
are tired of hearing “modern”
as an insult.
Who have worked hard to find truth,
who have done our best to be good,
who have been told how
good we are or
how not, even if
we had not asked.
We are not the kollel wives of Har Nof, the
kabbalists of Tzfat, the
pilgrims of Hevron.
We are
all of them collectively.
We have never thrown
a rock, or spit
on a child.
We are the talmidim and talmidot
of David HaMelech,
whose own family thought he was a ******* child,
who wrote poetry and
composed on a harp,
who sang and
danced on a mountain top
whose differences made him holier.
We know
today his daughters would not
get into the best Beis Yaakov.
Our differences make us holier, and we
are not
afraid anymore.
Of desire to be
accepted
suppressing
the ways we connect to
the Infinite.
We have been taken out of context.
We have seen yiras shmaim replaced by
yiras rabbeim.
We are
changing
the minchag hamakom.
We are
a generation ready for
the descendant of David HaMelech and
Avraham Avinu, two leaders whose
courage to be different shifted the
course of the world.
We think “alternative” has become
a four-letter word because
it is a synonym for
“choice”
We are asking questions,
we are using
our gifts. You are
welcome to join us
for a meal, or maybe
a revolution.”
There is a paper in my room, it is
between the paints and the seforim,
folded neatly in two,
with spaces
at the bottom
for 13.4 million signatures.
It says
“This is
a manifesto.”
There is a paper
in my room,
I am looking for a door
to hang it on.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC