"homages" poems
Naked and fierce,
Burning with anger,
Stands the Goddess,
Great is her hunger.
Machete in her hands,
Slashing at her will,
She knows no bounds,
And runs around to ****
She can't recognise,
Sinner or saint,
In her mission to **** the evils,
She has lost her restraint.
And then she steps on something,
What is it? She looks below,
To her horror she finds her Lord,
Supine, lying beneath her toe.
Great is her shame at what she sees,
In her great fury she had spared none,
It needed Lord Shiva to stop her rage,
She bites her tongue at what she has done.
And thus we know the great Maa Kali,
Ashamed, repentant for being blindly furious
She stands for the two sides in ourselves,
With the good trying to rule the evil in us.
So every year we worship her,
Each year we pay her our homages,
And this is how "Kali Puja",
Goes on and on for ages.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
The Real Poets Here
are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find
their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port
they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West
opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages
when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided
fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass
of them
I
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me
*Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly
dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...
all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,
wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or urgently comfort us when none else can,
these are my friends,
the real poets here*
god keep you well
my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
you were never an artist;
I'm sorry but it is true.
once, you sketched me
(sharpie on loose leaf, 2013)
and while I was touched by the gesture
[labor of love that it was]
it really looked more like your older brother.
now, your art is shared for mere
moments
(stylus on snapchat, 2014)
but you are still no artist.
you are an auteur, a lover, a curator,
finessing your homages to your youth
[pokemon, zelda, batman]
you may not be an artist
but I love you all the same.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
~~~
*bathed by breezes of southern gentility,
sun soaped by eye-prickling,
star twinkling glints,
shampooed in delicious waves
of white sno caps,
my crazy wild hair,
conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles
dappled waters transformed into a
Van Gogh glow of
The Sower
sprinkling golden seed
upon fields of summer wheat glorious
my little yellow rubber duckies,
are now blue white snow geese alive,
down from Nova Scotia,
where August is already
emboldened colden,
so they non-stop honk
tho mere passerbys,
everybody is seeking a place in history,
the surety,
that this poem,
by their inclusion herein,
promises posterity
the grass blades wave with
endless swaying applause,
at yet another attempt of poetic tribute,
for once more,
spell bound
by the bounty of the moment,
enslaved happily to the idea
there is no satiation possible
from the earthly satisfaction of this place,
this sheltered isle
the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers,
unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans,
they offer me untold numbers of
likes and reads,
and other candied goodies,
promises endless to root for my winter dream teams,
if their presence is here
prominently included,
until they too
fall silent, grounded,
shed by their rightful owners
every time I think the well is dry,
swept under by a rip tide
of drowning overwhelming gratitude,
for here I come to a place.
a station for repair,
where poems are bandied about,
summer fruits ripe for plucking
sunroom lace, summer curtains,
will hide out here in my absence,
the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline,
by icy waters and gusts,
that will be both
untrodden and unadmired
for when the poet is clad in the
damask drapes of winter's inevitability,
will close his eyes and
will hide out here,
right here,
in this one of his never ending
prior~poem~prayers homages,
until next year's
can't-come- too-early spring arrives,
sparked by tendrils of meeting markers,
noting that
new poems have been fallow fallen,
winter seeded,
awaiting your
watering and writing,
of the appreciation
of the
simple majesty
of this small corner of the earth*
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
Deep. The day wears the crown of untruthfulness
Up above the weather bears the trademark of deceit
shallow mind of a betrayal and they said
Run away run fast
don’t look back
short paths cannot be taken
narrow paths changed the plan of this traveller
No funds to pay for chariots
Run away run slowly but run fast
Words of My lover in the letter
Memories of affections
waves of distractions across the sea
debts of homages not paid
The old neighbours laughed last night of
Old jokes from the old man saying
Run away Run fast as you can because the fairy tales only comes when the full moon is out
If the moon won’t come in full tonight I will wait till the morning when i will see the sunrise
I am not running from My destiny
I am not staying with my doubts
All i want to do is feed on the power of positivity .
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
i'm eighty pounds down and my skin is loose. shales of empty casing hanging from my pelvis, upper arms.
what will i do with it now?
it is still excess, still too much, still my same old problem.
hangs, folorn, from my frame, not sure how to be.
that summer i shop in stores that have never been mine to walk in to.
it is entering a portal to a world i've only ever circumnavigated,
skimming round flesh-toned mannequins posed for the beach, the city.
wondering if pretty prints and flattering cuts can exist beyond a size 8.
bikinis on the rail threaten the illusion that i am slim and toned.
their gaping homages to the idea that showing a little,
just a little
flesh, is the sexiest way a woman can exist, bring about a conundrum.
they will see.
they will see that i am still not it.
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 2:42 PM UTC
Bob Said These Words...
So... " OVER - Stand "... !!!
"You can't tell the woman, from the man ?"
And NOW These Words Are RARELY Heard...
Because The TRUTH Is Now IN VIEW...
Transgender Education...
For The Next Generation... !!!
While Peoples' Confusion...
Is Now... POLLUTING...
The World We're Using... !!!
So MANY ABUSING In Institutions...
Where It's CLEAR They Are CONFUSING...
Their Actions of... COLLUSION...
With Those of... AMUSEMENT... !?!
... " Midnight Types "...
Work In The... SPOTLIGHT... !!!
Cos' They Like To Moonlight...
AWAY From....................... "sight".....
You Have To Wonder...
What's In Their Minds...
As They Put ASUNDER...
What's Wrong From Right...
Marley Used MUSIC...
Like These People Use FUSES...
To... IGNITE Midnight...
With Light Personified...
As Confusion In The Heads...
of The... " Midnight Types "...
The FREAKS Who COME OUT...
In The... Middle of The Night... !!!
Because of Who They Be...
When They Look INTO The Light... !!!
The LIGHT That Resides...
In CONFUSED POLLUTED Minds... !!!!
The... " Midnight Types "...
Who Ride Like Knights...
Who Have NO SIGHT...
And Have NO TIME...
To ENERGISE... And FREE Themselves...
of The Passengers They FIGHT... !!!!!
The PASSENGERS They CANNOT Quell...
When DARKNESS Meets Their Light...
Within These Simple Messages...
Are HOMAGES In Rhymes...
To One of Our GREAT Messengers...
... " Bob Marley "...
" Truth and Rights "... !!!
These Words Are Simply...
....... " Vestiges ".......
of What He Saw In Life...
The... " Midnight Ravers "...
Doing Things...
That CLEARLY BLEW HIS MIND... !!!!!!
So Now I'm On... " The Ride "...
THIS One That We Call... " LIFE "...
These Days I Don't Feel Strong...
But Just Like Bob Said In His Song...
I Say...
"People RIDE ON...
That's Right People, RIDE ON...."
Because My Words May Not Be Heard...
But THIS I MUST... Pass On...............
Marley Was A LEGEND...
As Were Bunny And Tosh... !!!
Ravers With Those Flavours...
That Made People... " RIDE ON "...
So As I End This Piece of Verse...
THINK of The Wailers Song... !!!
And REMEMBER My Poetic Vibes...
That Now Speak On These......
... " Midnight Types "...
So YES People RIDE ON...
YES YES People RIDE ON...................
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 10:25 PM UTC
flaming torches in scattered line held high
crowd shouted back behind a safety line
celebrants, ministers officiate in stripes
dressed darkly to intimidate memories of war
red suited stranger rides along devil's tails
splitting ****** for laffs and noise spitting
arc light ahead of spent charred bullet case
screams evoked. stifles laughter as the smoke
evokes the War in mud so here : sticks are rifles.
over amplified comes over as cod eulogy flashes
the ears while sincerity plays out the church gate
we stand flickering eyed
"Feed the World ..."
murders silence
saviours hurry
"Turn it off, Harry"
Peace after a slowed to halt drum
Torches squared parafin trickle
air with smokey wax and uncertain
light that makes black to meet
the dark
poppies burn by the church gate
plans broken into an atrocious
conflict of split fuses sputtering
orange stars into painted skulls
burning splints takes cordite's place
making the air like thick magasines
filled with dum-dum bullets. homages
to horror waiting for the drum .
march.
the parade moves starkly on
cowboys
then
pearls
and
Devils tail.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
Rock-still by the eroding river,
reed-still in the dance of the tide,
who eyes this world in mercy?
Shameful deeds now holy for
warriors of God. Outcast of ages
from steads by night, trek through
land where shadows upturned,
curses fain down from skies
in return for the homages in fire.
Emotion of the void that sighted
the exploding stars of hoary ages,
rock-still, reed-eyed friend of man
is there such a one indeed as this?
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
The day he walked in that door
was the day he was destined to die.
He lay his foot inside the door
and the other one concurrently came out.
He transposed his clothes
but they ceased to cover his body.
The scarlet coat was left hanging
in the closet with his soul.
Indicted with crimes
that he must not have been penalized for.
And bashed by society
with their spiteful words like arrows.
Met his lover
but was parted by the injudicious laws.
Left skint and lacerated
with the epithet of an outcast.
Alien tears fill for him
and outcasts pay their homages.
No statue of air was this man
yet hard labor was all he was given to build it out of stone.
His teacher later delineated him as a blot on their tutorship.
For he was but a tutor.
De Profundis
spoke of his anguished journey.
Victorian times
disagreed with his originality and frolic.
He told
platonic love was all he was guilty of.
Yet,
he was charged with crimes.
Drowned in cries of shame;
and incarcerated to rip him off his passion.
Something was dead in him,
and what was dead was hope.
Hope died first
and then gradually died the passion.
In exile,
his love for writing too deceased.
The daemon inside him
ceased to inspire.
God sent the lord of death
The lord of death
didn’t move around pompously like him.
But came announced,
for it had been accepted.
The wallpaper moaned
upon his untimely death.
For it desired to die
instead of the then mincing man.
He left the earthly plains
for the good have fewer days.
The good die young
as did the revered outcast.
Herodotus the father of history
unerringly expressed the good ones’ misery.
He repudiated to deny his soul
and lived nonchalantly.
He desired all the fruits of the world
so he lived.
Exile ruined him
and rent his ardor.
His meetings with his lover
were interdicted by his family.
He was pardoned
but a century too late.
Along with the outcasts
that lived in throbbing pain.
The outcast deceased when young
but lived indefinitely.
Infinite existence is promised
for the ***** was silver-tongued.
He died young
and roams the immortal planes.
Just like Alan Turing,
Bhagat Singh, JFK, and countless more.
God wanted them
for they wanted to augment their heavens.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 11:38 AM UTC
Pay homages to the ones who open
the door for you to climb and
succeed.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 6:03 AM UTC