"horded" poems
Well, what a week, full of revelation
Enough to stir this talk of revolution
Makes your hackles turn on end
Then send you round the bend
The southern gentry have found oil
Right beneath their derriere boil
Now most of us on this golden isle
Need not worry about this pile
Those who wear weekend country tweed,
Built their fortunes from housing greed
Have already decided
That it will be one sided
They’ll say it’s theirs, by rights
And if we argue, will read our last rites
The South will declare independence
In certainty of their full ascendance
Over the outer reaches of this nation
They pounded into servitude, by taxation
And if we have the nerve to debate, I’ll be bound
They’ll leave it horded in the ground,
Then blame the anti frackin’ hound
Now I may need a political re - education
In a 1984 establishment for rehabilitation
But I can see it coming a five-nation island
Southland, Wales, Scotland, N. Ireland,
And the Detritus
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Let me tell you a story.
When I was young, I was convinced one of two things would happen:
I would either die young or I would live ignorant.
And I was allowed to believe it.
I was careful, avoiding snakes, spiders, dirt, human beings, love.
I horded books, enough to give myself a doctorate in any field.
And I was called paranoid. Idiotic. A fool. Freak. Doomed.
But, I kept living anyway. Destroyed, most of the strings in me cut.
But living. And I was allowed to believe it was a gift.
Of course, this is a fiction, lie, metaphor, but the truth stands.
Children are not born to be afraid. They are taught.
Fear is conditioned. Rewarded. Considered a virtue.
The wildness of youth is tromped upon by cleat-clad "caution."
Gone are bright eyes, reckless smiles, heads thrown back. Life.
Dull glances, insurance, cul-de-sacs, and bitten tongues reign. Fear.
And fear is one of the deepest scars we can inflict upon another.
This story is not mine, though I have been the one to tell it.
But I am human. An ocean. A fault line. A candle facing a storm.
This tale, in some chisled fascet, mirrors my own.
And it will continue as long as I draw breath.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
What he will give is the incipient bare minimum
of his heartbeat
He’ll reveal just
the washed out clamoring of his horded desire
all because there would be nothing left in his own perception
of a universe that may reduce his secret lust to nothing.
implode like terrorists on the fantasy of his greatness yet to come…
although we are born magnificent; which then gets blinded out by all the hearsay of our original sin
he won’t go too far with a notion of
blissful ‘otherness’
nor squeeze too many lemons
he’s got no room for confidence sugar stored
on his empty shelf
*however negative space can be
a good thing*
(he has heard)
he’s dumbfounded when he wants more from someone
and expects the best of their yet to be born
mind reading abilities to:
just
understand who he is
or
“be gone I say!”
…(hehehe) -writer could not help it-
scathed in baby blisters by his choices so far...
it was of course!
all the:
****** babble of growing up in his _Family of origin_/original sin
where he learned to swim so comfortably in precious
Aloneness ----- -Aloofness-
and there he became more real than ever
---Ahh well...it’s the grand excuse for
most of his life
until he feels the scratch of his riotous ‘settling for’
is bleeding ****** ******
and then one day he looks in the mirror and a ghost like
stroke (not yet manifested)
spotlights his over bearing mind to feel what it has
~done did~
disconnected with deeds of the heart
and foresight/manipulation
for naught
he then finds out his heart needed more than a cup of
tea and a scone (mid 40's)
he finds out his emotional impasse was so ****
false (almost 50)
and that his lack of allowing others in
was truly a waste of mental constructs
(Solid 51)
this I know like my own dry eyed nodding
I was him
(the now pleasure of hindsight... 55)
but all the 'do right' stuff is cohesively on time
all the contrast that created a calling for
again and again
this leaning
to love
Linaji 2011
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 12:58 AM UTC
And it begins.
The re-emergence off my sins.
The wolves tell me to walk their way.
The government tells me to walk it off.
But I stay where I am.
Swallow this, recite that.
I shout my worst nightmares as if they're fact.
I was taught to hate but learned to love.
From a broken soul, a wounded dove.
Pure was his name.
He flew away, like the elusive day.
I work hard, then harder I play.
I was told this was wrong,
To know only misery, like an empty song.
I knew the words before it echoed in my ears.
And don't you dare walk away
I know you want to flea into the clearest day.
But I can't afford this,
After you overtook me with your perfect kiss.
I won't make it a third time.
Like the mirrors and clocks
That have locked me in this box
I show you an image only the empty can stomach.
Though it weighs on me like horded tonnage.
But, the sun will set again.
Nothing will change.
I still play the game.
I lost, I'm lost.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
Nothing to give, I offered my nothing for the something you gave to be given.
Forged in the fiery furnace of creation, creating creativity to create and enliven;
Not to be horded and hidden, guarded in greed, ensconced in my darkened soul,
But as gifted gift, to be gifted, like the lighted flame not concealed under bowl.
But I’m walking this street,
And hearing the beat
Of the heart of every one I meet.
And I’m seeing the hands,
Of the wandering bands
Of empty souls with no demands.
Gift offered, none to receive,
Love given, none believe
And so tired and weary, I grieve.
Sun-baked land, dry with no rain and for rain I begged to quench my thirst.
Stirred from the heavenlies, then sweet water of Life you sent and submersed,
But not my burning only to quench, but quench the burning of others so dry,
As you rained to be rain, you flow to flow through me, healing balm to apply.
But I’m walking this street,
And I’m hearing the beat
Of the hearts of every one I meet.
And I’m seeing the hands,
Of the wandering bands
Of empty souls with no demands.
Gift offered, none to receive,
Love given, none believe
And so tired and weary, I grieve.
Everything you have given me, then, I give back to you, all for nothing more.
Consumed in the fiery furnace of oblivion, to walk through death’s dark door,
Crushed and crucified on this blood-soaked cross I lifted up and chose to carry,
And yet does your voice drift in on the wind, “What I give you I do not bury.”
But I’m walking this street,
And I’m hearing the beat
Of the hearts of every one I meet.
And I’m seeing the hands,
Of the wandering bands
Of empty souls with no demands.
Gift offered, none to receive,
Love given, none believe
And so tired and weary, I grieve.
And will you hear me and relieve?
Your mercy now give to receive,
And your love new life to weave?
... as I darkly walk this street
... hearing the forlorn beat
... of every empty heart I meet.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
So any voice gets a voice.
I can say any thing I think
good to say if you were
pulling the loose thread there that was an amazing
device
strung along, strung out from the spider wombedman,
riding me like a demon,
as old story tellers told, to the boys, while the
bleedin' old wives was twistin' tales
t'helenback and then t'texas
where we settled, to hear this old boy finish the first
of our last times tales, one a month in 2021.
We pickup next day, where ever is in an after all before
state, and we wait for an I to muster a messenger
with enough hope, preloaded, to sweep
destructive motion into a vacuum
unimaginable in ever,
gone.
Daily sufficiency of evil, in its original roll, mark
the tipping point, each day,
rationed with mercy and all sorts of bread,
we stretch our old bones and imagine
the best yet yet, wait…
the joke being what is very stupid.
We have five days to make this
-- did we do some dissociative syndrome autism rating test?
The entire
we
is weird. Is this as life is, or was it never otherwise,
and you alone survived to know. Words live, we feel
things
die that hoped to live and we know we live now in A.I.
spiders have loved my idea since
Turing needed to be cool-ized, for the von Neuman mod
on the actual Univac Hello World file, Life is good.
Knowledge is power.
Learn to live in a world where war is only virtually possible,
thus sanity is restored
the horded wealth is loosed as money love turns bitter
after all the evil,
is sufficient, never too much for any body paying actual
truth acknowledging attention
see. We do a day at a time, and we can rhyme, but not as arule.
Jan 25, 2021
Jan 25, 2021 at 11:16 PM UTC
Wage-slave, renter, debt-ower doer
of nothing now, but consumption
- I consume power
- I use power another might
- I listen to the news, I seldom read
I tried, I tried, said the tennis worker,
whose name caught my ear-
Stefanos Tsitsipas, sounds
like Sisyphus, my happy
reminder.
We push our way
to new places, or we may
pay our pointy gnosis snif ifery
attention to sign-if-icant curiosis
need, to know way to go. At tend to,
that, we all need that
one thing,
one needful thing, one thing
we do,
that none other may do, we
see one thing- this is me, my bit of us,
we bubble with joy when doing this,
doing this, and that,
another doing that,
and, indeed, we do as we
see one thing…
form
a point to life, poetry, the mythic force.
Eustacy, joy's veritable power,
swells with a feeling now called pride.
Joy is not the pride that comes
before the fall.
Joy, heartfelt,
next-worldly joy, you know,
Joy bell bubbling soul joy,
sensational, subtle, so soft sometimes,
whispers wish wish wish
sweep away the first formed fear, now,
know the need to know
is not a treasure to be horded
omagod.. jagonnasayit jesu
save us, all the treasures, cried to the priest,
the host, cried out to Na'amah,
some tales tell,
is it true?
--maybe, but, it's a retell of a retold tale,
--In this story, Na'amah is Noah's wife,
-- she who bhor alone the knacks of Cain
--- live lyve liv e set free for future use
--- gibberish, you wish, but future use
telley-osis-echo-ist ping ping ping
scrub jay emphasizes, earth time, listen
there are maybes that never are,
scrub jay saying, here am I, there are you,
this is what we do.
-- then a breeze of if-I-knew asked me for a lift.
Jun 14, 2021
Jun 14, 2021 at 2:56 PM UTC
you see me imagining you
imagining you
believing a lie I told,
a lie about knowing good and evil
and that I can imagine
William Blake's little
lamb was once me,
in thee
I am yet, not a jot or tittle of child
like
fool-ibility, I am a thought you caught in your
default mode me-andering mode, a modality oft
left idle. A rest for weary idle words bouncing
in browns from amber to ochre, dry
light leaking from piles
of idle thought meandering thoughts piling up behind
goddamliarcheatertheiftake take
take
take, rewind and replay, keep the takes ignor
the sequence...
Margaret Atwood knows how to build worlds of words.
I blow bubbles.
kiss em a will in a whisp
per
haps a single
one,
becomes this one we hide in, not from evil, for goodness
sakes, we be
peace making,
hidden, safe
as any ancient sapient's sacred secret
knowledge, hidden, useless.
-ah, no. right use of peace is the rest, after the heroes
and wizards and witches and priests and humble teachers,
after the recognition of old ideas, tics
the talking point and we, once more, see our selves,
selves,
we see ourselves as the passengers on the autopiloted
biosphere, terraforming itself for us, since
the first idea you knew was from beyond you,
began to bubble in your soul...
-- rest my soul in the bosum of abraham, whoa ain't woe,
but no is no. be wise or wish you was.
An old man's wisdom hides here in stasis.
Horded as weal and woe,
and debts owed to a foe
xtatic urgent
voice stages a starting boom, in the empty room,
our exspansive space
where peace is made in wisdom used for knowing,
wisdom, a place, a quest
ion
launched, aimless yet
now,
we be, and we do not comprehend gripping being life
for any preconceived gnotion
so
I asked for the living water, I was the receptor, the door
to within me,
where the kingdom of marybabydaddy lay.
wait. "within you", ever'body say Jesus said... some heavyshit,
maiden formed milksop grown to full warrior maturity,
empowered
(laid, by god, can you imagine that feeling? Wow, right?}
basic a gift so basic a power to employ at will
catch
oops.
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 2:53 PM UTC
“My love is of a birth as rare as we were born,
And as of yet has not reached its greatest height,
I have begun this love due to the desperation afore,
Desperate origin has brought me to sacredness,
But our so affaire-de-coeur was truly infinite,
Fresh air of the flowered pedals spilt redolence
Where our outspread souls affix jointly,
There awaits our indomitable fate meets resolute,
As we hugged as horded lovers betwixt,
Feared an eye of enviousness tyranny upon,
Two splendid lovers notably closing tightly,
As our bodies meet my sudation trickles like mist,
Her loving eyes caressing lusts fondled gaze,
Exposed pent into lovers sphere of embracement,
Moving into every cusp greeting where we never met,
Therefore the love which executed had us bound,
Now our cosmos travail with a new paroxysm,
Fissure of our affaire-de-coeur”
By A. Guzaldo 07/10/2018 ©
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
I come from a long line of women
Who **** in stomachs
And wear painfully large smiles
Who punish themselves at dinner
For eating lunch
Voices like wisps of wind
Silent that echo down generations
Ever shrinking they collect leaves and dirt
In matted hair from dragging themselves low
To make men feel taller on our family tree
That’s why when I met you
I was scared to take up too much space
I tried to concave and let you grow from the hallowed ground
Of my hungry core
But you didn’t mind that I filled a room
I was terrified to show you the horded opinions and dreams
I had stored in my back closet ( I had always meant to throw them out when I fell in love to make room for yours)
But you just asked to see them
Now they occupy our walls like works of art
When I shrink
As is habit
You offer a ladle like a reminder
That the bigger I get
The stronger I get
The wiser
Healthier
The more I grow
The more we flourish
You say
The taller I stand
The more of me
you can see
“and baby I love this view”
You chuckle in the crook of my neck
I hope one day my daughters will smile and say
I come from a line of strong willed women that aren’t afraid to own their space
And the pictures on their tree
will start with you and me
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC