"homily" poems
kumikinang ang mamahaling parol na nakadambana sa bintana ng mansion na nasa loob ng isang malaking subdivision. nagniningning ang patay sindi nitong kulay na umaaliw sa balana. salamat sa malaking pakinabang na kanyang kinita nang walang anomang pakundangan sa dugo at pawis ng mga abang manggagawa.
nasa kanyang sala naman ang mataas na Christmas Tree habang sa paanan nito nakahandusay ang kahon-kahon na magagarbong mga regalo. malayong-malayo ito sa barung-barung ng mga nagtitiis sa siphayo ng dusa at karalitaan.
ang mahabang lamesa na nasa kanyang komedor ay talagang pinagpala sapagkat nakapatong dito ang hiniwang hamon, keso de bola, spaghetti, carbonara, lasagna, ubas at ang lahat ng masasarap na pangarap ng isang batang kalye na kumakalam ang sikmura habang tinitiis ang ginaw ng Disyembre.
matapos ang kanyang masaganang Noche Buena ay mauupo sya sa kanyang malambot na sofa na di halos mabilang ang libong halaga. dun n'ya iinumin nang buong pagmamalaki ang mamahaling brandy o di kaya naman ay whiskey.
katabi ang kanyang pamilya sabay-sabay silang manonood ng misa habang nakatuon sa higanteng flat screen na telebisyon. ang homily ng ingleserong pari ay patungkol sa pag-ibig sa kapwa at pagbibigayan.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 4:32 AM UTC
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~
your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise
nonsense
so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:
on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late
ok;
just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission
around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play
so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:
insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing
each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed
this particular one for you,
~
my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored
each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more
“of me, of mine do sing”
so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers*
maybe
—-
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
Charity starts at home don't we say?
Be kind to your kith and kin come what may.
A family's not only your safe haven
Tis pals your very own roots
Water these shoots with love devoid of hate
So they bear you sweeter fruits.
Maybe you'd say that's not so easy
but perhaps that's coz you just too busy
Or your clock just don't chime
for quality family time?
For if you can't make time for a letter or a hug
Then let my poem give your conscience a gentle tug.
And if this may sound like a very preachy homily
Deserves much more mention and affection the family
If you can make time for so many other things
some of them not even worthwhile
Try discover the happiness family brings
Just a tad modify that routine lifestyle.
My words in crystal clear clarity
sing compassion is likewise a charity
Charity need not be for strangers only
Find out who needs help in kindred and family
Ties of kinship severe not
Value the relations you've got
Your siblings, cousins from your family tree
and all else that you call family.
What supports and buttresses your family tree are your very own roots
And what keeps the tree living on are your beloved offshoots
Love and regard is quintessential to reaping sweeter fruits
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Matuto kang magmove-on
Matuto kang mag-let go
Matuto kang bumitaw
Dahil minsan, kapag ginawa mo 'yan,
May biyaya palang naghihintay sayo..
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Sitting in traditional wooden pews
back in the mid-2000s,
a guest priest from the heart of the Congo
delivered a homily in broken English
about how his country had been torn to shreds
by warlords who control that region's
vast and valuable mineral deposits.
As the priest spoke in gentle passion,
a sea of sympathetic white faces listened
to him describe the rapes and murders,
the poverty and oppression.
One middle-aged woman in a yellow dress near the front
quietly sobbed at the reminder of true suffering,
a torture greater than mere death.
Out of a sense of courtesy
or possible humble generosity,
the priest did not disclose the minerals
that had brought on such gluttonous violence
were the very elements that make our electronics
flash and glow as perpetual escapes.
Instead, the priest requested
we pray with him
for future mystical solutions
to immediate physical problems.
As we filed out of the church
the older woman who'd wept
discussed driving to the local mall.
Apparently, there'd been a sale on mobile phones.
The crisp spring breeze had dried our tears,
and the power of the almighty dollar
wiped away our curiosity
and our short-term memories.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.
Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.
I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my **** my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
*this day was no different than any other,
as we went through the tunnel onto the highway,
I think back to this mornings homily,
how the deacon spoke of this city's cross on the mountain,
I hung onto the rosary beads around my neck,
as if I was still looking for some answers,
and as ignored the smell of exhaust fumes,
as they mixed with the scent of chain smokers,
like a disastrous duo,
and focused my body outside the car window,
clenching my rosary beads I saw the cross on the mountain,
Holding them up the the window,
my cross covered the one on the mountain like it was its lost child.
for five minutes I felt like I had nothing to ask anyone,
I felt like my life was okay,
we drove into another tunnel,
and took a right on the exit ramp,
I never felt more peace in my life,
then I did as we drove home
that night,*
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
I will love you with no regards as to who you've loved before me. No matter who has tasted your oh so precious lips before they met mine.
I will love you no matter who hates you or who loves you, or who loves hating you. I will love you no matter who you love or who you hate, or who you hate loving.
I will love you no matter what a certain group of people say about us, even if this certain group of people are your friends, my friends, or our parents.
I will love you as a novel loves being read and as the reader loves reading a certain quote that he found on the internet that convinced him to buy the novel and how that certain quote loves being revised online as to fool someone's followers on Twitter that it was his own.
I will love you no matter how many typos you have when drunk texting me, or drunk texting someone else who, I hope to God, isn't your ex.
I will love you no matter what songs you sing in the shower, no matter how wrong the lyrics are or if you're out of tune, or even if you don't take showers at all.
I will love you as a graphic artist loves drawing his favorite stroke, even if his professor says it's not the right way it should be done.
I will love you as a certain DJ loves playing his favorite remix, even if the crowd hates The 1975 remixes because they're too biased to appreciate it.
I will love you no matter what bands break up next year and no matter what bands get back together and pull out another Fall Out Boy.
I will love you even if the clowns stop laughing at their own jokes, even if the priests start questioning their own homily sermons, or even when the masses stop laughing at the priest's jokes at homily.
I will love you even if you stop correcting my works even when you grow tired of my mistakes, not only my grammatical ones but the ones I make literally.
I will love you no matter what color your hair is or if you wear contacts to sleep or not. I will love you even if you stop tracing my lips as I fall asleep beside you, even if you steal the blankets at the coldest of nights.
I will love you even if you regret meeting me and that you allowed me to woo you with my saccharine tongue.
That is how I will love you, so please just don't regret loving me.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
I spit bars
like a pharmacy,
Got a ***** preachin,
like a homily
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
I've seen Him through the lips of those tired preachers in the middle of his homily.
I've seen Him in the eyes of the homeless as the kids cut classes in school.
I've seen Him as alcoholics sweat as they swallow before priests bless the wine.
I've seen Him answer the prayers of a daughter who was violated by her father.
I've seen Him come out of the wallets of those whose names we see on billboards.
I've seen God.
I see Him everywhere, everyday.
I believe He exists. Do you?
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Mind and body were weary...it was the
Third night of nine anticipated dawn masses...
Most people were yawning,
Fighting the urge to nod and start snoring...
Trying to finish what they started,
To have their petitions granted.
The Reverend read the gospel,
Emphatic, spotlight was on him as he preached
About greetings, prayers and good wishes.
He didn't want to see more sagging heads
Among his audience,
So the Reverend spoke louder,
In high tones, but with a smile,
Aiming for his sermon to reach every ear.
Surprisingly,
The sleepy atmosphere became lively...
Every face turned to a smiley,
Laughing, murmuring about the funny stories
The good Reverend was sharing
During his homily.
Recessional hymn started...
We all rose from the pews.
On my way out,
I bumped into somebody
I had avoided meeting for sometime now...
But there she was, in front of me...
We both stopped, at a loss for words,
With no ****** reactions.
It so happened that
The good Reverend passed us by...
He looked, absorbing emotions...
He bowed his head,
Then turned to me, and smiled...
I sensed the air, the hint.
Without much fuss,
I smiled at the unavoidable someone,
The one with the unwelcome face,
Who brought some unpleasant news
With her usual audacity.
No more turning back,
I was already there, in that part of the evening's drama...
So I held her hand,
And as she hugged me,
I heard myself utter, "Shalom!"
The way the Reverend said it in his sermon.
Why was it not so difficult that moment,
When I used to be so unwilling before?
But...it was over, done.
We went our separate ways...
I could not believe I told her
"Hello! Goodbye! Peace!"
Walking home, a thought kept nagging me...
I dwelt on it, for it had happened twice already.
In the church, strange things do happen,
Strange occurrences that lead to
Happy endings.
I recalled the good Reverend...
He didn't usually pass my way...
Why that strange but encouraging, soothing smile
As he passed us...WHY?
Also, I could never forget his homily...
His funny, lively stories
About a greeting, a prayer...
A word that brought good wishes...
A single word that said a lot---
" S H A L O M ! "
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. bayan
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
I do not celebrate this pagan feast,
But others do, I know,
And some may call it Chanukah,
Or worship Christmas snow.
But call it whatsoe’er you will;
Light candles, deck your tree,
Or merely give your heartfelt thanks,
Please read this homily.
You do not need a good excuse
To celebrate a feast
You only need to have your fun
Before you are deceased.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
The Bishop said, "You celebrate
the mass an awful lot.
I've heard the other priests of late
suggest that it's a plot.
You have to write the homily;
you have to heat the hall
three times a day; it seems to me
the congregation's small:
there's four, or even fewer folk.
It's almost microscopic."
The Priest replied, "The Lord once spoke
upon that very topic."
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
The comet of a season, and I saw
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
With not the less of sorrow and of awe
On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
With name no clearer than the names unknown,
Which lay unread around it; and asked
The Gardener of that ground, why it might be
That for this plant strangers his memory tasked
Through the thick deaths of half a century;
And thus he answered—”Well, I do not know
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
He died before my day of sextonship,
And I had not the digging of this grave.”
And is this all? I thought,—and do we rip
The veil of Immortality? and crave
I know not what of honour and of light
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight?
So soon, and so successless? As I said,
The Architect of all on which we tread,
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay,
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton’s thought,
Were it not that all life must end in one,
Of which we are but dreamers;—as he caught
As ’twere the twilight of a former Sun,
Thus spoke he,—”I believe the man of whom
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Was a most famous writer in his day,
And therefore travellers step from out their way
To pay him honour,—and myself whate’er
Your honour pleases,”—then most pleased I shook
From out my pocket’s avaricious nook
Some certain coins of silver, which as ’twere
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare
So much but inconveniently:—Ye smile,
I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not I—for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a softened eye,
On that Old Sexton’s natural homily,
In which there was Obscurity and Fame,—
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.
1.2k
My inner tongue trips
over her yesterday
morning’s extemporaneous
homily and its retelling
rains down on me
temporal anomalies
through which I’ll slip the bleached
monotony chasing me.
Turn key,
return me
to the upturned
glee of a midnight macadam.
Unmanned, it’s where
the manholes open up to me
their traps of sunken yet
stacked wire-mesh baskets.
They’ve been left
to catch a refused few
turquoise-beaded strings
mixed with ash
feather-dusted by the lime,
tangerine and grape
wing beats of exotic birds
too meek to fly upward.
There the tensile tip of a sweet
and fecund smell grips me
and it squeezes out
visions of too-soon
dying in that bed
where a stripped truth lies
tenderly with the on-putting
of my put-off lies.
A low hiss heralds happy heat
and radiating pings rap me
down the shrinking-shadow hall
away from Hedone’s keep.
In the singular
pleasure of this rhythmic pluralism
my nouns and verbs find
their final agreement:
*All we’ve known
is what a wanting wind’s foretold,
but its chilly, willful voice
can no longer hold us.*
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
Consider, If you will,
I pray,
The certainty
On Christmas Day,
If Infinite Wisdom
Should decree,
Christmas Day
To be snow free.
Pray to avoid
Inside woes,
Happy homes
Need Christmas snow.
Get kids on skates, sleighs and skis,
Bundled well so they don't freeze.
History dictates outside toys
Combine real fine with outside clothes.
Skates match well
With socks and toques,
Sleighs are steered
When warm in boots.
Snow awakens sleepy heads,
Riding sleds instead of beds.
Toboggans hurling down the slopes,
Big brothers begged to man sled ropes.
For smiling cherubs
On Christmas morn,
Hope and pray
For snowy lawns.
There in safety
Kids can mold,
A fortress
Or a snowman bold.
HA! Now listen to my homily,
Snow's not for kids only.
What would we do
On Christmas Day,
Ready kids,
No snow for play.
Imagine kids,
Your very own,
Being inside
All day long.
Your son,
So eager with his horn,
Playing Gabriel
In early morn.
Then recall
Your rush for games,
The lines, the crowds,
It's so insane.
And they won't play
Outside at all,
They're pushing us
Against the wall.
Yes,
Screams of laughter, resounding;
Peels of joy, echoing;
Happy shrieking, pounding,
On
Silent Christmas morn.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
You’re swimming, okay,
And the Bible suddenly opens up.
Not many people are faced with this,
Except you: you’re an exception.
How do you take it?
Barely, would the sublime horror of communion pass on your lips
Once the ocean take its Leviathan form, and it opens its mouth to speak.
Its oratory becomes very clear in the maelstroms of countless gallons
Rushing blue cannibalizes itself before you; you have no time to think of death
When the salt’s burning your eyes and you’ve finally figured
How useful a gyroscope can be.
Too soon, three darknesses will emerge from the desolate homily
Taught not to discriminate in thought or action: the backs of your eyes
Straining against the buoyancy, the restfulness of not seeing a bottom,
And the path Jonah’s bones took, the disbeliever.
Mostly, you’ll want to congratulate yourself like a legend,
You wonderful piece of **** when you come in crashing on the waves.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
I didn't even ask him
what kind of music he digs,
for his voice alone
is my new favorite record.
I didn't bother finding out
his kind of taste in music,
for my newfound orchestra
comes from his lips.
I didn't even ask him
what kind of films he watch,
for even reality feels like a movie
when he came from the side door,
that's a film I've never seen before.
The ****** is when I was falling
and he was there, ever ready,
waiting and willing to catch me.
I didn't even find out
what kind of books he reads,
for his way with words
is already a novel of poetry.
I didn't even dare ask him
what he thinks of the bible,
for his articles and greetings
alone are my homily.
I didn't even find out
if our taste in music, cinema and literature matches and if I should go otherwise.
You only do that in shallow,
short-lived connections.
I didn't even bother finding out
if our taste in things aligns,
for he already spiced up my
underseasoned life.
Jun 4, 2022
Jun 4, 2022 at 6:27 AM UTC
You’re 17.
Sunday mass at Church.
Eyes bright. Heart open.
Sign of peace.
A meeting of warm hands across the pew.
Heart aflutter, eyes lowered.
You think, God brought us together.
Sundays are quickly
becoming your favourite day of the week.
Eyes meeting, cheeks blushing
In between the homily.
Weekly meetings turn into bi-weekly dates into marriage.
You’re 24.
You say, God I can’t do this anymore.
Eyes bitter. Hearts closed.
Night-shifts. Poker weekends. Empty houses.
Wordless, soulless, meaningless co-existence.
You think, God brought us together?
No amount of hail marys
Can save us.
That Saturday
Night shift at the Hospital.
Hand sneaking under scrubs.
A breakdown of marriage
Vows.
Heart pounding. Eyes open.
Your saviour.
God’s answer?
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
my subscription to America has just expired
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
Oh lucky day in the shadows of this pall
this war of regrets is truly uninspired
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
I’m fearful of this symmetry and the mirror on the wall
slept in stolen moments without even being tired
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
I no longer need a lover I bought myself a doll
Hi-def latex silicon chip wired
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
Ring tone homily I don’t want to take this call
practicing excuses and the will of being fired
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
TV dreams for me and I swear that that is all
folks at home getting idols of the mired
I’ve quit the meaning and let the end fall
and the soundtrack of furniture echoes down the hall
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
Imagine
if you can I say,
the certainty on Christmas Day
If Infinite Wisdom should decree, Christmas
Day to be snow free. Happy children need Christmas snows,
(Ask your parent, they already know);
To use their skates, sleighs and skis, And mitts and coats
so they don't freeze. History dictates outside toys
Combine quite well with outside clothes.
Skates match well with socks and toques, Sleighs slide faster
warm in boots. Snow awakens sleepyheads, gets kids outside riding sleds. They'll ride their sleds down downy slopes, begging
brothers to man sled ropes. For smiling Cherubs on Christmas morn, hope and pray for snowy lawns. There in safety they can mold
a fortress or a snowman bold. HA! Now listen to my homily, snow's not for kids only. What would we do on Christmas Day, with ready kids, no snow for play. Imagine kids - your very own - doing
everything at home. Your son, too eager with his horn,
playing Gabriel in the early morn. Recall the rush for toys and games, the push of crowds gone insane. "Why won't she play outside at all?"
Instead she cartwheels down the hall. SCREAMS OF LAUGHTER - RESOUNDING; PEELS OF JOY
ECHOING; HAPPY SHRIEKS
RESOUNDING
on silent
Christmas
morn.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
After the preaching’s
Done-finished
Picking at the scabs
Of our guilt,
At week's end / day of rest;
Just when we almost had it
Bygone / Forgotten
From our minds...
It's a kinder kin to amnesia
A softer fog of fugue,
A healing art of our brain farts,
Not soaking in shame's
Diminishment
Or stewing in self-helps.
"Deliver us!" (bow down genuflect)
But then again
Here we are together to gather
Uncomplainingly
Complacently listening
Absorbing every lash
Of the metaphorical whip,
To be guided back to good
Such sermons for the flawed
humans that we know
We are -- unworthy...
But willingly we suffer
The word.
Oh how to be just like
The lamb...
So now, afterwards, when we have been
Emotionally & verbally punctured
Full of hollow
We are holes unworthy
Of being
Made whole...
Or so, we've been told
"It is written."
Now then let us meet for
homily
After King James harangues us
His version of fellowship,
Let us have verbal
*********** with the word.
(Begotten?)
Perhaps over supping
Or during beer & NFL
Or some blood
Sport
Non-emasculating,
Reminding us how
Weekends roar
And Life is
Worth more
Than the inner wars
We are ourselves
Fighting.
After the sermon,
Let's have true verbal
***********
(Without be getting a shred
Of guilt)
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:43 AM UTC
she's the homily accolade by which i liveth,
Idyllic radiance tis she doth giveth.
I am servile to her every needs and wants.
I Shalt tout her,
an implement daily her mine shakespearian vows. . . . . .
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
"A child may not be
considered a piece of property-
only the child possesses genuine rights
the Right to be respected as a person
from the moment of his conception"
He was born in the year 1964
A world on the brink of splitting open,
On the edge of revolution, progress, protest
The stained glass windows speckled from the rain
Incense and old wood covered in fingernail imprints
Matching those on the sides of his arms
A small choir singing hymns of Salvation and Praise
His mother nudges him "stand up straight, eyes forward"
A mind wandering from the homily on Sacrifice
To the images of bombings in Hamburg
Adorned with black and white collars
Gripping an unlabeled wine bottle
The children sprinted through the wooded trails
Mud spattering across their legs and dress shoes
The others spun in circles, as if trapped in jewelry boxes
Their ankles dressed in pink ribbons
This was no place for innocence and imagination
But one of penance and prayer
He kept his toy cars and trains in a green metal box under his bed
It wasn't much, but they were his
Through them locking him in the closet for hours
And being told to not speak unless spoken to
The times of self expression, of emotion, feeling
Shamed and forced suppression - turned to repression
These cars and trains, they were his
Mental illness is a myth
Suicide is a mortal sin
We decide who you are
You cannot feel
Kneel down
Be quiet
Say your prayers
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
my sister called
"they shot that ******* in the face.
finally justice served!"
she yelled
from a squalid pit
an angel rose
to kiss
my cheek
she was someone
I once knew
she told me
she loved me
her kiss
warm and delicious
as I remembered it
her lips as soft
as my now
opened soul
once felt them
through tears
she implored me
to let her go
she could
see my heart
was still beholden
to her kiss
her tears
an earnest
homily
of absolution
she long ago
forgot she was crying
yet I could taste her tears
her sorrows finally
released me
from my
primordial
grief
jbm
Oakland
5/4/11
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 9:15 PM UTC