"honorific" poems
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Dear New Poet:
Then I'm your man,
your very own
Northern star,
one leg up of a
3 legged stool,
upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule
the honor you
bequeath me
to be,
a first follower,
your very own
first responder,
it, cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished
this instance,
this birth,
a novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the sweetest blessing
to be the first—
let us be
the quencher
of a desert thirst so long
in the parching,
the throat burning,
by a desert sojourning,
of a now ending
forty times
four hundred years
so come to me!
message me a message,
find me a find,
your poem fine,
so now we vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken
give me this
honorific!
let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
with arms entwined
toasting you and
all that mind and
breasted chest of yours,
full bursting from
its future~contains,
of which,
its full release,
brings a fuller life
for us both
I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
and a First Responder,
for all who needs a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
it be but a first step upon a
ladder with no top, no end ensighted
my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened
but
by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise
this,
the blessing
we both make and earn,
when you write,
and while we wait,
in quiet attendance -
for all of your good works,
your kept promises
Blessed
are You Lord our God,
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life,
sustained us until now,
***allowing, allying, and
alloying***
the treader of treacherous waters,
reader, writer, swimmer,
to reach, meet, embrace
and greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
whispering and shoutings
together,
as one
in one, of one,
one
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
how many generations can
lay with you in your bed?
Matriarch Mama,
honorific due you,
title earned, not learned,
and now a teaching PhDs of
Matriachal Science
let us have tea,
a tea party in you garden,
and the granddaughters
dressed in their church finest,
running noisy but that's ok,
mass is over, and the party
is now a backyard affair
me, a recorder,
standing in the corner,
invisible observing,
leaning on that old banyan tree,
smile playing on
my eyes,
counting
cousins daughters sisters,
and best of the best,
grand babies wilding in their Sunday finery,
even seeing
invisible fathers standing beside me,
but espy only one
Matriarch Mama,
sallying forth,
gunslinger of poetry,
nobody messes with Sally,
she is the brood defender,
poetess not
of the day
she is a
generational inscriber,
an author of a
gene pool of life's best,
her existence,
from heaven, sent a manna,
to feed-across-time
just one family,
an ordinary,
if such there was,
Matriarch Mama
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
***I was lost on the pavement
Along the corridors
Who left me unspoke through the scattered bloods
That left me hang on a cliff
My eyes was beneath the aftershock
But all I could do is to stare at the ceiling
No words to be found nor sounds could form
Only the laugh,scream and yells of the crowd
The thunderstorm,chill of the breezing air
Wants me to follow the serene.
My catatonic blueprinted smile was fainted
Schizophrenia that I could last at the moment
And yet an honorific began to squeeze me
There were thousands of people
But I could feel like im on the spotted arena
If I could shout out loud and escape from the reality then I'd go save by the bell.***
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
on the margin
the paraphernalia
employed to obtain
the sweated inspirations
to tell these lies randomized
stories, factuelle (feminine)
pestle and mortar martyrs,
crushed together, drink in
her form, the S curves
of her shape, my fav
place, on a long list
of favs,
and she says;
hey poetry man!
which renders my
100 or so
senses,
that radiate,
congregate,
infantuate
rendering moi
delightfully attentive,
and I think:
Solitude:
Be All well and good,
wells and veins awaiting
for spelunking & mining for the
nexus of the
next line, but when she summons me,
with a cherished honorific I am
sundered by words deep felt,
and the next line forgotten,
disappeared and
for multiples,of poems,
that
die
heart busted broke
when she call poet, come,
it is like living in a gearbox
Stuck in Fifth,
that message of multiplex pixels,
so engaging and so many container conceptual structures,
those poetic burst and bust out,,
gnawing to be released free,
***** solitude, it’s her
attitude that gives
more than I can
handle…
and the poems are about the conjoining
of
the mutuality of our:
soliciting solitude attitude
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 11:03 AM UTC
Sa pamamagitan ng kabutihan ng Kanyang Kabutihan
~~~
*the message arrive by private telegraph line,
"write,"
she behests,
more than a mortal's requests,
an authoritative pleading,
an urgent prompting
with an element of divinity attached,
almost a command
by virtue of
her virtue,
who am I to refuse,
though the writing gene/genie,
somnolent, suppressed, quiescent,
melatonined by the pills the
life force feeds us
from a bottle lonely labeled,
"whether you like it or not"
reckless explore the venues
you would prefer to never venture,
so,
this poem becomes her,
this poem be comes her,
this poem be comely
for and because of her
unbare chambers that have rusted shut,
be unafraid,
she seances me telepathically,
in the poet's way,
a crying smile accentuated with
"write of the titles you have confessed
to the body's mind inquisitor
that be stored
in the warehouses
of thy heart"
this irrecusable, willing bidding,
sneaks in the back door,
so easy oiled opened
by virtue
of her virtue
seven years of grain Pharaoh stored
in preparatory for the lean ones that
inevitable
come
yes, have so many would be's
gestated, but not fully formed,
none adequate to honor sufficient
her comely
behest
thus commissioned,
my purposeful mission,
to honor her once more,
with a simple honorific,
her wish, no matter how couched,
t'is my duty to fulfill
so here, full and filled
I grant her wishes,
with impoverished verses inadequate,
for you know her too,
as she full and fills us all*
***by virtue
of her
virtue***
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
I am an honorific supposition
Relieving vowed perdition
Of narrow corridors
Sedition pounded
Flounders madly
Seeking loudly
A righteous chore
While resolving disputed dignity,
I know eight faces:
Soft Admiration
Rowdy Persuasion
Mighty Resolution
Orphaned Confusion
Delighted Fixation
Grand Separation
Sly Rumination
and a frequent categorical shuffling intellect
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
just past midnight, in bed with you
together, yet I alone, listen, awake,
shuffling in a Pandora world,
Iz's ukulele invites me over the rainbow,
unaware and unbeknownst to him,
I am there, already
awaiting for his too soon,
untimely arrival.
the weekend war, culture vs. football,
resolved, peace negotiations concluded,
orzo and grilled chicken repast served,
après le bon deluge,
love the treaty signing dinners.
just past midnight,
caress thy hand with solitary thumb,
whispering you are my woman now.
you groggily answer interrogatorily,
"what?"
and I suppress the infectious,
giggling way too loud.
these are the unsummoned moments,
these are the thee-free moments,
this the summary of a man's boon,
their disparate pleasures collectively,
a unity deserving the honorific,
Untitled Moments.
Why is my vision blurred, my cheeks wet?
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:53 AM UTC
I love all good poems,
and how they make me
feel whole but deboned,
de~parted,
sometimes cleansed
sometimes *****
sometimes ashamed,
occasionally fried,
occasionally enlived,
often all of these,
simultaneously
I love how mine please you,
breaking the knots of anonymity,
unleashing the little white package
strings of connection, and, when yours,
make me guffaw, or even a better, person-age,
when we weep deep in our recesses where the
just-beneath-the-surface emotes, are pricked and
brought to the surface, for the first time, or the last of time,
exposed, curated, healed, leaving but a tiny sore, that lingers
on the body's surfaces,where all things.are etched that
are needy for a reminding of the when,
and here, right there, is the where,
but your loving of likes somehow
dissatisfying, like a kiss, perfunctory, skullduggery
or dis genuine, a hit and a move on,which is why,
I treasure your comments, long or short,
insightful or delightful, critical or critique(e),
just a tender heart of appreciation, a snuggle
from the sea, throned out of Jonah's whale...
rounded bellicose belly
but they render me
alive,
when they split and spit me, to you,
you, to each, defined in pieces, gratitude
nuggets, each, treasured, each hugged, each letter,
a custom bespoke of connectivity and
who needs friends, when your words
embrace me so deep repeat and touch me
in places where my heart must follow on & on.
now many poems you commission with every exposition.
even the dimplest thanks is a vibrato of pleasuring sounds, that
you, you, you, took that particular moment of time to
express the heartfelt, destroys the invidious
that does quiet creepily slides inside us,
saying I am your comforter false,
but is not!
use your words, that,
they to the children teach; let us too
embrace this honorific so terrific, and touch each other with
comments, a sharing, and the sol shines on
'we two too, for all to seer and see
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 2:32 PM UTC
Father is a verb. -
Father's Day and Father Christmas
have tried to convince us, - but don't – be - fooled:
You can, may or will father, depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.
It only works in the transitive.
you can't father alone, only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard with jokes on recycle.
(insert dad joke here)
Yes, father is a verb.
It's something that you do, despite the hour,
it drives right on through the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten fingernails to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation (with an ill-suited hat on).
It turns manliness into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.
Be sure, whoever you are, it works in the singular:
I can father; You can father
(and I'm not talking *** here;
that mostly needs a partner.)
But also,
- it works in the plural -
we can father; and they can father, because, you see,
in this village it’s a joint activity:
we father (and we mother) collaboratively.
It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "later!". -
It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter.
sometimes active: directive, protecting.
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening.
... holding, and hugging.
It responds to need, you see, but works best proactively,
works great sacrificially.
More specifically, in the end it’s a doing word
not a noun to be worn like some tilted crown
It's not some post-coitus reflexive honorific
It's a feat way beyond a sudden beget.
Father’s not some title that you necessarily deserve.
It's one that's sorely earned.
Please believe me - that’s right, you heard,
father is a present continuous, long lifetime of a verb.
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 11:28 AM UTC
Father is a verb
It's not a noun to be worn like some crown
It's not an honorific
It's a doing word beyond what you do with your ****
It's not some name that you automatically deserve
Believe me, fathering is a lifetime of a verb
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
Indeed
this important and yet impotent word,
sometimes hurled with mighty scorn,
or quiet whispered ruefully reflectively,
empowering, yet so weakly confessional, that
it is a word equally reveling in overarching wonder,
or a summarizing a simplicity of inability,
to surrender by weak agreement…
indeed,
that selfsame word,
indeed,
I’ve employed usage unthinkingly casually,
mis-appreciating its power of causality,
used so often in poems, slipping it in to the
hilt, succinct dagger of irony, killing easily,
and yet only 17
thousand
poems of the mega-thousands here,
have been designated with the honorific
#indeed
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 2:30 PM UTC
Sad wounded incurs,
Soldier— trigger happy dead,
Just like a good dog.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
the thought seizes me awake,
after a heart powered hour of sleep,
rise in silent reverie, nary a peep,
though my heart rate breeeches
150 miles per hour, each beat
yesterday wrote of the eloquent
sensibility of simplicity, its natural
native appeal, and when I think of
things that world needs most urgently
which is, for poets a de rigeur activity,
fyi, that more common than uncommon,
sobelieve in my expertise,
we need badly, another Hobbit movie pretty please!
we need rallying after the tallying,
we need fellowship among the species,
a crossover inclusive of the animal kingdom,
require fearless leaders who value selflessness
over personal gain,
less optimism rhetorical,
and some plain honesty to give the world
the equity of equality,
what it wonts,
and not what pro poli’s
tell you think
which slogans sell…well
whent to the corner store,
bot all kinds of fall
colors of berries and tiny flowers,
went all-in unreasonable
on clot colossus seasonal,,
oranges, yellows and quiet quilts of
hardy little greens,
bread, OJ, larger uncaged eggs
a-dozing,
and though my impossible orders all fulfilled, the boss,?her list defeated,
by crossing off
my abbreviated illegibility scribbling,,
it was still insufficient for missing was this:
*what the world needs a fresh Hobbit triumphal,
where self~sacrifice always come first, and duty rightly prevails, over evil,
always a close call,
and the chill of fall,
the dint of wint-
er
is warmed away by
love, justice for all,
besting every close call,
and for a replay of the
World Series where them
Yankee underdogs emerge
victorious and the city lifts
its chin, and says OK to the
new day, week, and that
extra hour of…mmm…
daylight
sleep*
call me naive,
it is an honorific
terrific,
great fully
accepted
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 10:02 AM UTC
stumbling around through bustling places
all these people run in personal races
i walk among them, stepping one foot at a time
trampling on the sidewalk the same way i try to rhyme
question and concerns circle 'round my head on the daily
and i know there's no heat under my feet,
nor a passion in my chest,
nor a map in my head,
nor a compass to guide the way
life is either/or, not made for indecision
the weather here didn't catch the memo,
since the sky's half gray, half blue
i'm staring at the skyline missing somebody
but **** it all if it i know who
the going gets tough but sometimes
the tough just need to lie down,
and the world keeps spinning even
when it all falls down
in the here and and now
i sing it loud, sing it proud,
follow the crowd
following a path tread by a million others,
am i a boat flying towards shore or
a girl wading through this
honorific storm?
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
~for rr~
good things to know…
~~~~
where to begin, how to end?
a sincerity well intended,
a first word provocation & invocation
to bless a new day is thereby missioned
it is good to know that there are among us
those who restore to us the history from
pieces of broken glass, fragmented histories,
that tell us tales that when found, birth insight,
who among us can claim this honorific, whose
work(!),
is glorious tasked to give us understanding!
réalisateur,
(more powerful in French)
to comprehend, achieve tween us a shared reality,
linkages of time in ways that makes time a truthful
almond confection, sweet with bitter as an after-thoughtful
aftertaste
but no talk of bitter today, John Denver’s
sunshine on my shoulders after 5 days of wet wooly
mammoth gloom, and so I say simple thanks to you,
for it is another
good thing to know,
and leave it
here
Sep 27, 2023
Sep 27, 2023 at 9:46 AM UTC