"honorary" poems
As Stong as the An African Elephant
Yet were are supple and elegant.
We are persuasive talkers so our words are very Eloquent.
Crafted From man's rib and An earthly element is How God made the first Wombman in the old testiment.
During the worlds development
We somehow begun to be irrelevant
Forgetting that we were designed as a help mate who is heaven sent.
We shed Bloods for days sometimes a months without dying.
Raising our children to Be Ladies and gentlemen whom are edifying.
In our wombs a human life we are able carry.
We are informational like a human dictionary.
We store resoureful pieces of data like a library.
Created with brown sugar, warm honey, cocoa and Gold.
Out spirits are Radiently Bold.
Our bodies are temples that can't be bought or sold.
We have a Story that must be hear and told.
We are the beautiful flowers in the month of May That Springs up and blooms in middle of noons day.
We flourish just as the fluorescent blue jay, Whose mood is Joyful and gay.
Our Skin absorbs the sun's Incandescent. Ray.
Some may say, Our hair is ***** but Actually, Our hair just happens to defy gravity
So we wear it upon our head proudly like a Crown
because Living in socitey's prospective of what you should look like will weigh you down.
You will stay stuck on being lost when you already have been found.
Be about your fathers business and know you are Heaven bound.
We are run life's race with meaning and purpose in our pace
Even our walk is embedded with grace
Nature's beauty smiles upon our face
As We Wear God's love like a Pure Gold necklace that's trimmed with lace.
The Strength we've gain
Turned us into warriors from living the through the most Excruciating pain
Thats the Reason we humbly pray as we sing and dance in the middle of the storm's rain.
Our humility will continue to remain.
We are women of Virtue
I wrote this to encourage you
Never let no one break, hurt or discourage you know who you belong to.
And who deserves a Woman of your statue.
For Being black Is Exhilarating
And being a woman is Breathtaking but Being a Black Woman is an Honorary Identity that is Legendary.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
Your brittle calcium coated voice
slides down my throat like water,
little blue gods of poetry.
Nothing to do but **** and fight.
There’s a run on sentence in my veins
whole flowers framing my bruises.
My bone quiet bruises
wait five miles from your medical voice,
english coastline of veins
covering my anatomy like large bodies of water.
**** yesterday’s fist fight
you left your apologies in poetry.
My alcoholic poetry
a blood orange coated in bruises
a history of last night’s pillow fight
catching religion in your voice.
The swallows splash in water
quiet in my dessicate veins.
Fields of goldenrod veins
make my honorary poetry
a theory of cursive water.
Leave aching vegetarian bruises
on my calloused voice
from tearing open the sun to fight.
A polaroid water fight
rolls around in my open veins
a punctuation of your raspy voice,
hospitalized my skin in poetry.
A reckless consumption of bruises
with a mint leaf in a glass water.
Soft echoes burn across the water
silver scissors in a domestic fight
running away from bruises
and mountains of veins.
My second language is poetry
giving my fingertips a muffled voice.
Empty water pleads with your broken voice,
makes me fight against pleated poetry
and pomegranate bruises tighten in my veins.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Hazed by the dire rope of death
A subtle incandescence flickered
A white light glimmered like ****
Whilst hushed peaked a snicker
Her smile an adequate sedative
Terminating vivid estuaries
A moment equally competitive
In other eyes deemed honorary
Mi corazón happened upon felicity
Blessed be this origin of jubilee
Freeze we shall in fair amenity
Beneath this fine cherry tree
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
You managed to horribly fail every test
Yet you bore the honorary family crest
Until you abandoned me
As friendship isn't free
Leaving me incapacitated
In the infernal infirmary
You had only exacerbated
My own gory purgatory
But I want to see the end of the story
Though it's not going well
Carrier pigeons bring messages of your progress
By ******** on my head
I solve the problem
By staying in my bed
When all I see is red
From all the blood we bled
There was a deep connection
Crossed with a ****** infection
You were so fundamentally friendly
Was it just for the drugs we were blending?
Now I just have nightmares of your life ending
And ponder the value of the time we were spending
Your spirit animal is a coyote
Mine an exploding car
My fragile heart is imploding
From all the black tar
Coming from your lips like the needle
Rushing through my veins until I'm fetal
From your sedating voice
I heard an invading choice
Live alone or die alone
The dog gnawed the bone with it's clone
I just want to hear you're doing fine
So I can stop feeling so **** guilty
And I don't have to hear about you again
For my heart has been untamed
When I feel this constant pain
From a friendship down the drain
There is no peace to be attained
For the friendly fire in my brain
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling
Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait
High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination
I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak
I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting
The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus
Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness
I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery
The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
Gilded Light's iron visage--wormhole rider...
cosmic switch breaker.
Restoring Lacyrma Christi in fell swoop...
decorated to Seventh Sun, heart of Heart's
medallion.
Distilled justice, pure in action to all its
vitals...sword sharpened by thin air.
Resounding honorary--there, anywhere--
when dark tips the balance...off with what
head before eye may blink.
A wrathful entry, a peaceful exit...there is
no Art of War but through him.
Archangel Michael, giver and taker of fear...
stores Satan's eyes in his own...to
perpetually unnerve him.
Dragonslayer to the degree dragons appear
as lush foliage all the way to Heaven,
cut down...plummeting to an entrail
darkening with sleep.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
She’ll wander back to you again,
but drawn by the string
of ineffable instinct—kissing the sand
of your beaches still damp
by the routine of her departure.
Yet as she recedes,
you already ache her homecoming
as though longing for an estranged relative.
You count the years
by the bitterest point
of every winter, and
value your harvests
against the cruelty of the drought—
and even when she rearranges herself
nightly, by increments you’ve already calculated
by meticulous observation,
somehow good fortune owes you eternity,
even as it crumbles under the weight
of its own impermanence.
You’ve never dealt well with entropy;
all that came before you, which also happens
to survive you—an honorary god.
Stranded on earth,
you monitor your greying scalp as grimly
as you decry a darkening sky above you succumbing
to the certainty of winter, but
even she is ebbing, too.
You curse her departure like an abandoned child,
but she had never sinned against you—
that was your idea.
You mourn the day she repossesses
with mortal anguish,
yet you still find a way to forgive her
when she sends Dawn
to shine his light between the trees.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
The year following
Jimmy's death
(my first encounter,
and my little brother),
I smothered myself
In every read on
Parapsychology,
Astral beings,
OBE's, NDE's,
And plasma projections,
Reincarnation and all
Aberations.
I awarded myself
An Honorary Doctorate
In ******** (Ph. D.B.S.).
Then I met ****** Mary,
As the police called her.
Her keen abilities
Recovered bodies
And the snatchers.
She had a dead-on reputation.
She spoke German and gesticulated
Wildly while she oracled.
Her husband translated simultaneously.
Her sun-room shone,
There were plants on
Every table. No candles.
Perhaps I was mesmerized.
She had one message for me
From the other side:
Tell Francie to leave me alone.
Marlene
(my darling little sister,
And my next encounter),
Had a dream the very same
Day I saw my seer.
She dreamt Jimmy
Was alone,
Crying at home,
And through his tears
She clearly hears:
Tell Francie to leave me alone.
****** Mary was free,
That's right... no fee.
She said her gift
Was for sharing,
And she shared
Her gift with me.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
a black hand seller in mercato ballaro
with a fake-gold cross on his neck, proud on his face,
and grief on his back.
his proud is not because of his fake-gold cross
he takes for the Jesus ,swinging on his neck,
he landed from the sky
unlocks all the doors
a black hand seller in mercato ballaro
cannot forget some of 6200 black eyes
drowned
in the Mediterranean sea
and cannot say
the Mediterranean sea is not more beautiful
than 6200 black eyes
cannot say
no sea is more beautiful than 6200 eyes
and
it is useless to love dumb prophets
on the blind-windows of your souls
which not open out to us
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
Call it prolific
Monoliths
Monolithic
Amnesia
And pill popping
I like words
I like how they taste as they flow
From my mouth,
From my fingers,
Into your ears
Your eyes
I'm inside you.
I've never really understood that
****** conquest
(I changed pages on you)
Like, we should be proud, as men
That we've been inside someone
"I put my **** in that"
Congratulations, Charlie!
You came!
Honorary meetings
Magna *** Laude
(Did I change pages again?)
Vulgarity
Shame on you Catholic boy!
Shouldn't you be whining about *** scandal?
Talking about pro-life?
Hating the gays?
Misconceptions
Misnomers
Misconstrue my meanings
Misplace the common denominator
Math is always interesting.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
I made a pitcure of jade and emma,
Tossed it on my wall,
Even took a couples pics
They loved it, that was all.
Neither understood its facts,
and till now, neither did I
Intended not as honorary, but as a battlecry.
That picture I conceived of them, includes me in it not- just my reflection in it's glaze, an abstraction in their thoughts.
And yes, even we formidibal three
Somehow all forgot
That even forever aint forever
Our lessons already taught.
And so the power of this image, is more then I will share-
It merley depicts my two best friends,
Admiting they don't care.
This type of art is devistating.
Astonishingly clever,
So clear its truths invisible
The subjects see it never.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
I open the door for you
To be perceived as polite.
I don't brag because
Humility buys prestige.
I've earned virtue.
Why lie when instead I
Can wear the truth
As an honorary badge?
I donate portions of my wealth
To charitable organizations, so that
Everyone will deem me a great person.
I've earned virtue.
I obey all of the commandments
To receive God's unconditional love.
I observe each and every precept,
Climbing a ladder towards the sage's status.
I've earned virtue.
I serve the community to woo
Universities and potential employers.
I'm a law abiding citizen
Because I fear imprisonment.
I've earned virtue.
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
Evening is the time when the shadows come alive and become crisp in a flickering light, that it is no longer yellow. White, neon, unnatural. No more it resembles candle flame. It looks like a ruthless moonshine which scatters from a ghost lantern. I wake up, not from a dream, but the reality of life and get up, not out of bed, but out of the chair of common life convict. I slip out of clothes and shoes worn by ordinary man. I released the tie, honorary sash won on vanity competition that made me tight, suffocating like a noose. It is not merciful to assassinate me in a flash, but squeezes the breath of life out of me every day, bit by bit. I put my true outfit, specially sewn soft seams on blue silk. My neck is naked, free at last, adorned by corrugated blue organza collar woven by hand, each thread is a smile and a tear streaked with golden sigh. I smeared my face with white paint to hide the traces of blush caused by shame over the living, high capillary pressure of too many emptied cups of bitterness and dark circles as a result of each conscious decision. Hiding clues of eyebrows and transforming into myself, the Harlequin. Painting white to cover the everyday life and return to the carelessness, to the easy present. With the practiced movement I put away my pomades of transformation and close spell cabinet. Last look at the silver reflection and I'm ready for a trip through the deserted streets of the matchbook labyrinth.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
I want to run
And run and run,
To keep moving on,
Straight into the
Darkest places
With nothing but
A flashlight
And my goals
In my hand
As I'll sprint
Down unlit
Night highways,
I'll think one thought,
If only I would
Never come back.
If only I ran
Into something bigger.
Then I will never
Be seen from again.
I would be dust
Gathered on the side
Of the road less taken,
And my casket
Would be empty,
Just an honorary
Funeral symbol
Of the disappered
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
Why does the right hand get all the good jobs,
like greeting visiting dignitaries
(such a pleasure) ,
or blowing farewell kisses to the one you love
(such sweet sorrow) ,
or playing the melody while the left
has to oompah along in the bass?
Right-handers get the best adjectives too.
I mean, we’d all like to be
adroit (as the French have it) .
So why do we poor southpaws have to be
gauche or, while we’re about it, gawky?
Tactless, without grace, ungainly, awkward,
physically and socially inept, that’s us.
And Latin’s no better.
We’d like to be dextrous too.
What makes us
sinister? Was Dracula
left-handed, or something?
Even when we can hammer
or saw or paint or drive a *****
with either hand equally,
or cut the nails on both sets of fingers,
they only say we are ambi-
dextrous, which is a bit of a left-handed
compliment, treating the left
as if it were an honorary right,
as if it had no right
to be skilful
in its own right.
I suppose my left hand ought to be grateful
(in this respect) that I was not born
into a tradition where it is laid down
what each hand can do. It could have been
condemned to a lifetime
of bottom-wiping and not much else,
and becoming cack-
handed in more ways than one.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
After three drinks, I sit and focus
On the night in Santo Domingo,
Like Greene’s Honorary Consul,
It is “the right measure” for me,
Beckett reads Beckett remembering.
Where he strips man’s inexhaustible
Search for meaning to bare bones.
These thoughts aided by a smooth
Handmade cigar and Carlos Primero,
I wonder as I focus on this scrap of
Scribbles should I keep it, or leave it
On the table, for some ***** to read,
While he smokes the dog-end of
What was a reasonably good cigar?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:34 AM UTC
could I ever explain
will any words you transpire
will any alphabet portray
to you rose bush why
why I must take the flower from your stem
what beauty what wish
could make me **** one
to honor another?
Yet, ways of love what
may I give in forgiveness, thorns?
Dear, oh dearness growing
an honorary a remembrance,
may I return her here,
for you to understand her glory,
prettier than growing alone,
is your flower
adorned her golden hair,
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
From a kind North Alabama family
Traveling north across the Appalachia hills to settle in neighborhood built for Mr. Dupont's industry.
Your mother - the child of a sharecropper,
Father - a soldier and a baker.
Raised on Sears catalogues and baseball fields.
Instilled with a obvious desire for peace.
Fell in love with my sister,
Treat her like a queen.
Always taking good care of my mama and my wife.
You have searched for wallets in the rain,
Gave your winnings to my mother for a set of new tires.
Always casting a net to the lost who are in some pain.
There was many times you are the spine that held the pages of this families strength together.
The silent voice that calms the wild,
Your actions are worth a million words.
Thank you for the plane tickets home,
Thank you for the bed to sleep,
Thank you for the food on our plate,
Thank you for picking me up as I was stranded on the side of the road.
Thank you for your punch to the lip when I had stepped over the line.
Thank you for the calming of a family that sometimes is out of control.
I admire your selflessness.
I aspire for your faithfulness.
We all endure through your peacefulness.
In the end, when all ideas have alluded me,
I sometimes think of what your action would be.
An amazing father you are to your daughters.
A father you have been by action to your honorary son.
Some say a pictures worth a thousand words -
I hope these words are a picture of appreciation from me.
Thank you! I am honored to have known you Mr. Davidson.
Happy Fathers Day.
Ben
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
the universe is a claim of a claim
the universe is a claim of a stake
to claim the universe is to direct the universe
the future direct the future
the future direct the stake of the future
the stake of the future is the direct of the future
the stake of the future is the stake of a direction
the universe is a direct universe
the universe is a direct claim
science claim science
the direction of the universe is the direction of science
to direct is to direct science to its claim
to direct is to direct the direction of science
science claim its direction of the universe
honorary is honorary of science
honorary is honorary of a direction
honorary is honorary of a claim
honorary is honorary of a claim stake
in honor is in honor of a honorary science
in honor is in honor of a future science
in honor is in honor of a claim science
Oct 2, 2022
Oct 2, 2022 at 1:56 PM UTC
He was small for a Marine,
The dying boy there in the bed.
Three times he'd fought off cancer
but now, inside his head,
a serious infection
would claim his life instead.
Cody Green was only twelve.
All his life he'd loved the Corps.
They made him a navigator,
The insignia he wore.
An honorary soldier
A marine in time of war.
The crises was upon him.
He would not win this fight
A fellow member of the Corps
Stood honor guard all night
There would be a flag draped coffin
for this member of the Corps.
Cody Green, a Young Marine
A Marine in time of war..
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
Wasteful wallowing in a crumbling hollow dwelling
Obfuscating the obvious problems, scared from telling
A distracted dubious damnation,
I have craved temptation into
cramped every solitary sensation
and turned them to them sins, too.
So I fantasise, and rampantly
Agonise the logic in my mind
I dream of worlds without proportion
and engagements of moral absorption.
Til' I saturate my soul with images
of endless time and space.
In a stale solitary dimension
I weave tales of honorary mention
but forget their ascensions.
Broken wishes of impossible ambitions
With uncultural and isolated renditions
Of self-indulgent ordeals.
Brought upon by uncontrollable feels
and reeled beyond sense into the light
where my mind cannot be healed.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
She sits on a wooden porch
in a chair that learned its comfortable shape
over decades of fireside conversation.
Her hair, still dark,
dark with a swatch of silvery gray
that drapes across the top of her head—
an honorary sash, life-bestowed.
Her cheeks, still round.
Her eyes, still green and wondering.
Her fingers, still short as they
light a long wooden pipe.
With a flick and a hiss, she *****
sweet tobacco smoke
and breathes out secrets
in languages spoken only by
those who understand the trees.
She sips bitter tea from a clay cup
and names each of the birds
that fly into her view.
She grows berries just for them
on vines that twist about
unsuspecting beams and rails.
A metaphor, she suspects.
She hums familiar melodies to herself
and cracks a wrinkled smile.
The world, as she knows it,
is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
I wish you could see how beautiful You really are,
Just because nobody has picked you
Doesn't mean your not beautiful
As a matter of fact,
This means you are the most beautiful
When the other flowers get picked,
They get picked early,
This means that they have not
Completely bloomed
Because you are not picked
This means that you will bloom
Into the most gorgeous flower
Of them all
The years of being left out
And unpicked is only making
You better than all of them
Because you are riper and stronger
When those other flowers get picked
They go into a vase and
Die within a
Week
But not this flower,
This flower has developed
To be an honorary flower
In a bouquet for royalty
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
The many who separately and personally christened themselves
Kings of New York
and Kings of summer
and Queens of nothing except for England, and jadedness, and hearts.
wear crowns made of whichever substance seems most characteristic
made of paint or graffiti or blood or trap rap
made from a mix of loneliness, Kool-aid powder, and youthful idealism.
New York is allowed to be ruled by the masses,
New York is royalty to itself
I can call myself a King
when I dangle my feet and swing rhythms out of ashy windows
and demand that your pessimism shut the hell up..
But most kings get their heads cut off.
I can call myself Honorary Royalty.
Because when I leave the pigeons and the pigeon-toed
and I leave the Kingdom's bubblegum streets and romp no longer,
I stop feeling cramped by superfluous freedom and
I appreciate the bars of my bed and my self-inflicted prisons..
Inner struggle and whatnot.
I appreciate them tripping me and trapping me and ******** on my face
Because of them, New York's air tastes a lot cleaner
Especially when coming from the exhale of your exhausted but prevailing breath as it sighs one last pun about seafood into our clammy embrace.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC