"imparted" poems
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.
A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.
I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.
Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.
Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.
Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.
Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars. Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.
And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"
All indeed, fare questions.
When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one. She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks. Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom. Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance. She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer. When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance. She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life. While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant. She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar. The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left. And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
Together we are alone
the wishers utter was always unheard
the Art of my consort is like ash in the wind
this purified drift of the eternal fire burning for all eternity
Timid little shell as fragile as the pearl inside
Impurities imparted and manifested into a gem
Let me see the diamond
the diamond in your mind
I ve been mining with a keen intent
to break down the barriers only to be surrounded by the remains
Im intrigued by lustered reflections of light in these rays of waves in this passing haze of the delicacy protected by your shell
Pandoras box and eves delight
only gives me a peek of that iridescent insight
Such an elusive emblem of the coveted representative Aphrodite
Awakened by impending doom
To
Cross the threshold of a Careless bloom
you turn to me to turn away
that I see
the Diamond is your mental mineral.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise, shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope.
Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos and the Dark.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.
Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.
She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.
She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.
But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
As you start your new adventure
With hope, excitement and longing
I wonder about that greener pasture
And the dreams it might be growing
And as I muse, reflect and ponder
I settle with but one impression …
Whatever dreams are there and yonder
Are worthy of pursuit and possession
Please know of my sincere affection
For all the kindness shown
You steered me in a new direction …
A mentor, none better have I known
Your support so kindly imparted
Will be both missed and treasured
Lovely, generous and kind-hearted
A friend by whom friends are measured
I wish for you happiness and health
Amazing travels, both near and far
A future filled with such joyous wealth
But for now, my friend … Au revoir
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 3:09 AM UTC
!!!
**Dreamt
a dream with childish eyes,
Burnt in the belly the flame of patriotic fire,
Decided to become a soldier and dedicate my love to my land.
The promise I made,
I cherished, I fulfilled.
Imparted soldiers duty filled with passion,
For my motherland,
My heart was filled with proud and patriotism,
Promise to die for my motherland held above all.
Today proudly,
I am enfolded in tricolor of my country..
For my last journey,
For my final abode.
Dream outlived me.
I will be born again to serve my motherland.
**
Sparkle In Wisdom
27 Feb 2019
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 3:48 AM UTC
A rain of bullets hit Las Vegas, leaving blacken skies
From disgraceful clouds of a loose cannon.
From the first 911 call to storm's demise
72 minutes downfall took human companions.
For them, life for one minute enjoying country songs
In the unbridled company of each others innocence.
Then good faith served the merry goers wrong
As the concert venue became the tomb of dissonance.
It hurts my heart to follow this story unfold
Of the climbing death toll, making this the worst ever.
Harder to imagine a mass killer cut from this mold
Of being so heartless and desensitized to life he severs.
To the victims accept my cries of condemning this worm
While paying homage to harmonious humans imparted from the eyes of the storm.
Logan Robertson
10/4/17
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
I'm a reformed man
my habit has been cast out
a good woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer in a grog fog
on the path back to sobriety
her hand guided me
with its never ending
patience and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sunrise
the grog couldn't stay
in my addled life
cause it had imparted
much too much strife
for the rest of my days
I'll be a reborn man
for a wonderful woman
took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of it's fog
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
As I close my eyes a single image is brought forth
Your smiling face is branded into my mind
From so many years ago
The last smile that was imparted from your lips and carried on by your features
The last smile that I could smile back to
None could take the pain away like you
None could compare to the relief that came from your smile
And you
Not even knowing the effect that you bring forth
Having no insight to my mind
The mind and heart that yearned for you, wanting to reach out and take your hand and never let go
Smiled on
Then the time for staring and hoping for your smile to land forever on me ended
Until that moment when you took the leap, the chance
After so many years you smile again
Knowing it is my doing, I smile too
Nothing can take away this smile
Nothing in the world
An unstoppable force would be stopped
The sea would stand still
Volcanoes would not dare to erupt
All would be silent
The wolves would stop baying
The winds would cease to weave around the world
Every living thing would find their heart broken
The heart of the one you love would stop beating
If anything were to separate us
But...
Nothing can
Nothing will
Your smile rescues me and chases away these thoughts
Distance now means the most closeness later
Your smile rescues me
For Dan- I love you Danny
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
After I’ve accomplished
my duties of this day,
I still don’t deserve
Your goodness and sway
of Your Spirit in me.
Quiet peace in my heart,
reminds me that I’m…
your servant, imparted
with the grace of being
cherished as Your child;
with Your Presence, I’m
spiritually beguiled.
To speak with You daily,
is a privilege of prayer;
our conversations show me
the depths… of Your care.
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Luke 17:7-10
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
Phone calls were made, meetings were held and the new group was set to get started
There was lots to be learned and so little time for the lessons to all be imparted
The plan was immense, it was larger this time and the time was going by fast
They would all act as one, getting everything done and their goal was to not finish last
It was done every year, in the schools through the town, it was something the kids all enjoyed
But this year was tough, with all the closings and stuff and the fact there was more unemployed
Each school was set up to blitz through the town and to collect all the food that they can
But with more on the list and those who would surely be missed were the ones who set last years plan
Team leaders were picked in each group at the school, and their job was to get this all done
And to beat last years tote by at least one more pound and to make sure that it was all fun
Pep rally's were held to get the students involved and help motivate those involved
But with more needing help and less firms out to help, they had problems they had to get solved
On December the first, the kids all set out ringing bells in the malls and the stores
From there they would go with buses and trucks and collect food by knocking on doors
The school who did best bringing in the most pounds would be win a cup and awards
But to all those concerned, they had to get out and blanket the town in great hoards
People backed out from tasks all assigned, It was cold and they had too much to do
There was homework as well, and jobs on the side and alot wouldn't see the task through
But they all persevered and the food all came in, cans and boxes and crates and in bags
There was food left at school from donators unknown, just good wishes all written on tags
The goal was to raise an amount more than last and to do it in twenty two days
The total to date was behind just a bit but there was still time to make this year pay
So with one last great push the students went out and they held one last drive at the mall
If they collect one more ton, then all would be done and they could all know they answered the call
On Christmas Eve morn the principals met and they said they had all reached their goals
They shook all their hands and they stuck out their chests for they knew that they'd fulfilled their roles
The students were told at assemblies too, and the food was dropped off through the town
They had beat last years numbers by about fifty pounds even though they all thought they'd be down
So for all those they helped for the one day that month, where they had Christmas dinner and laughter
Was brought back to earth by one voice in one school, who asked "What would these families eat the day after?"
.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
a nacreous tossing around at
the sides, a dappled silver
sunlight if looked one way, an
apocalyptic gloam if another,
exhaled from a seeming
mouth, feeding on what has
already eviscerated an unfelt
***** a predator certainly its
own prey, a heat certainly
poison-breath on a cheek
falling when a meretricious
lover spouts that spurious
hypocorism, and also just a
wavering, iridescent puddle—
cornered, soft as a liquid steel
echo of a futile struggle
rolling around, bouncing off
a wine glass, and a porcelain
table edge, while a listening
head shakes, looks down
despondently, gloom glowing
out the hair, a voice jaded
since birth saying some
thing about differences, or a
helpless slender strap of hope
hanging itself on the way two
other eyes look at it across
checkered watered wings, two
swirling god whorls, two
effulgent galaxies the color of
melting pine bole circling
around in living umber striae,
pulling its gaze, raising it, as if
they, they were blazing truth
cased behind lithophane, and it,
only an aporetic puddle now
of tepid ocher, a mild earth
stone placed in a hand, asked
what is thought of it and the
response: yes, yes of course,
before foreign distance splutters
its face, and it retreats from
its meaning imparted to every
thing (with the vulnerable
precision of a swaying finger
tip) to the baby lanugo of a
delicate floating, through
human rills, of what is horizon
docked, dead, not merely
deciduous—forever jilted with
breath bulging as when beating
a flopping eyeless fish to
half-dead, head tilted up a
throat trying to pry itself
free, trying to live by
streaming snagless, airful,
without spirant sound of going
lost straight from the hands—
then a short chop of fullness
finally expunged and sputtering
like an escaped tuft of
shackled wonder soaring up
the sky in a puff and soul ring.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
On the edge of the railway
I was caught unprepared,
of whether to fight or not
of whether to give up or to give in.
I went to runaway
taking every breath that is left in me,
chasing the shadows away from my sun
pondering through these thoughts
of whether should I live or should I die?
I took the imbecile mind of a weak heart
struggling for words I cannot say,
revolution against chaotic ideas,
generating evidences of what is left,
generating evidences of what was taken away.
I stumbled on the great floor,
misled my feet on the broken rails of the railway.
I fractured my foot, the other luckily was scarred
now I have to run, but I just can’t.
Where should I put myself in this trouble
imparted on my living sense of self?
Now I have to run, but I have nowhere to go
I need to escape this extravasation of doom
as I left my heart on the coffin of his memories.
I wept right where I was trapped,
until someone offered his hand
and gently lifted me up from this pandemonium.
I turned my head up,
and saw the sincerity of heart that he possess,
whose eyes brought me to a safe haven.
I moved with him, and with him I breathe
the air of solace, the soliloquy of the imbecile.
He brought me to the sun, bequeathed it to me
and for me he chased its shadows away.
My doom is now the doomed,
as my chaos is now the chaotic,
for what was drastic is now lenient,
and that railway is now just another railway,
a quotient of my unfulfilled repose.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
It positively affects my mood.
I become more independent of the society, I help people with their stuff and entertain them with my poems, stories, couplets, jokes, essays, songs & guitar.
I also take to first-hand social service whenever possible and I've also taught some underprivileged children & imparted elementary education to them.
I get my poetry ideas from this activity.
I think & feel differently about the world.
I look the others into their eyes with piercing confidence and I think you never had that confidence.
I feel stronger & more in control.
My appetite has greatly improved from being a poor eater in my childhood to a healthy eater in my adulthood.
My virility isn't affected at all and instead, I gain more stamina and manliness; my tool is strengthened.
My imagination power, IQ and hence smartness is also increased - believe me these have actually increased.
I cleared 9 & 10 examinations in my engineering degree two different times at one attempt each and my response time is greatly improved.
I become more confident.
My strength isn't reduced, but I go to the gym and I exercise as good as others.
My power & force are perfectly normal.
My eyes are shining bright, dark black in the middle of pure white.
I have never got any dark circles.
It takes me no more than 10 minutes to recover completely, it depends on the body about how it performs.
Over-use of anything - even oxygen as it oxidizes body & mind - is utterly harmful.
Quality has become thicker & brighter each day I exercise.
So keep hands on your tools than some ****** books blaspheming against the new-found rage.
Consult an expert instead of developing your own stories or believing the same old ****** stories.
Everything has a limit and within that limit, it is extremely enjoyable.
Just one last tip: Keep yourself humane with yourself & don't become a dumb & helpless addict to get embarrassed in front of your family one day.
Now if you feel that I'm spreading blasphemy & bad thoughts, you may please stop reading my poems instead of cursing me in vain.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
*if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
the genie of imagination begins inking
every piece referencing an original thread
one formulates works by this unique stead
of its methodology there will be no sinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
images and descriptive terms then spread
through each line noted on a linking
every piece referencing an original thread
to create one's own mixture of bread
never deviating far from the nub's clinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
always keeping time with a continual tread
the blue-print imparted in one's thinking
every piece referencing an original thread
what concept may spring to one's mind lead
within the verse there found natural blinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
every piece referencing an original thread
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
darkened eyes, a loss of sparkle
hardened by the starkest heart
marvel at the harmful parcel
imparted scars starting to part
discarded stars, embarking targets
barred from the starving art
pardoned by departing darkness
that was ardent from the start
(in a crescendo poem, the vowel sound you are working with must build up to a peak in intensity(crescendo), by increasing that vowel sound with each line, then gradually decreasing in the second stanza. for example, here i use /ar/ sounds...2 in first line, 3 in second and third lines, and 4 in the fourth line...then in second stanza, use same count backwards, like 4 in first line, 3 in second and third lines, and two in the last line...it can have a scheme of 1-2-3-4, then 4-3-2-1 or whatever, as long as it gradually reaches a peak(crescendo), and then gradually decreases. both stanzas must match in the amount of vowel sounds used)
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Got lost and stopped by the grotto
struck deals with villains,
and though I'm in my feelings
kneeling and ****** off
I payed to be ripped off
cadences dip, lost the lotto
Watery graves appealing strange
the solution is lame
the parade's an insane path to follow
Radical urchin burden
grifting the current
mechanisms infected
luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum
fathom futility in survival
famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival
in my head
I'm just playing dead for my recital
better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled
feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael
clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era
but staring in awe before the cycle
Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final.
Bury me after my heart
and guard informal notions of the lauded
if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it
whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless
for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness
I won't ask if you were listening to all this
but I must admit
I don't think I can trust you
to be honest...
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
We ...
Are The Architects of Our Fate
we build the walls
all these gates
We construct solid walls
they take them down
let them fall
then look around
for Solid Ground
until it's found
I plant my feet
Take a seat
share a story
of honored Glory
My Father was a Carpenter
a Master Builder they would say
And I see his buildings
every day
Arts and craftsman
my kind of build
houses filled
engrossing skill
amazing will
holes were drilled
handhewn milled
beams
intricate details
imparted to me
you can see
by carving
wooden
weathered
leather hands
It's good to admire
though I do not aspire
to live in one now
I miss the farm
in simple charms
A time exsist my memories
Queen Abigail of Chelsea
a border collie
she was our dog
Willamina a hog
or the name of a pig
rooting earth she'd happily dig
a silly gig
She never was a meal
Her funny squeal
Saved her life
had a horse named Cochise
no wool from lamb
that we could fleece
you could not ride
but would stand on hind
legs
and beg
for marshmallows!
I miss the Farm
all the time
it taught me
life is worth living
to keep on giving
what I can.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
a year secures its legacy
as the moon veils her phase
with light facing inward, reflecting
the passing of life's days,
and an aura
surrounding morning
its all to fated hand
that I often think about, but can seldom
understand - the love
you imparted with the waxing
of a tear - faithfully
a promise, the gift of but one year..
of days and nights as
lovers
an all to fatal vow... now
ending as you take your leave
along with goddess
and her throne, shrouding me
in memory - and standing
all alone....
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 7:15 PM UTC
i am
considering
buying tickets
to a lecture
on the cosmos
though my thoughts
have often
dwelt
amongst the celestials
in one form
or another
i know little
beyond
what was learnt
at school;
cursory details
when the vastness
of the universe
is considered
there is a desire
to understand
from where we came
of what made us
how we came to be
and
our chances
for a future
there is
a radiance
and pageantry
to the stars;
an expanse
that should incite
inspiration
and wonder
instead
this infinity
is a subject
dominated by
doomsdayers
and
doomsayers
without much
pity left
for
the rest of us
if i do
choose
to attend
i know that
i’ll be lost
to the magnificence
of the dwarfs
and nebulas
understanding
at best
half
of all that
is proffered
to be honest
i’m not sure
its worth
the £50
plus postage
when i think
i can predict
how it will end;
warnings
will be given
and advice
imparted
unfortunately
there is
no guarantee
i will still
be listening
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 6:04 AM UTC
You can see a fiery stream of delayed concern
Scattered carelessly in the emotion
In the exaggerated encircling of compassion
Shown as false proof in bits of devotion
Spontaneous flickers of suspended movements
Oblivious to thought or care
Briefly promise to abolish the damage imparted
Yet never quite honor anything there
You question the sequence of disgraceful events
With a pleading silent look in your eyes
To find yourself under siege by the fiery stream
As your honesty discloses their lies
Create a severing of ties with the fiery stream
By the slightest move of your hand
Shunning the counterfeit display of compassion
Placing your protective shield in command
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 7:52 AM UTC
Introduction
Burning pages
Blood-red sky
Rage of angels
Days gone by
The Chosen one, with eyes of searing flames
Is opening the book of Living Names....
I
The turning pages tell of lives gone by,
Furled by the one whose eyes are blinding flames;
Hot ashes flutter to the blood-red sky,
Like burning souls of undeserving names.
Where justice fails in life, death compensates:
Rare Mercy brings the angel who redeems,
While cruelty brings down avenging fates,
Even if conscience sleeps throughout our dreams.
The one with eyes of flame sees everything,
His Book of Living Names is always fair;
Yet every page frail as a fledgeling's wing -
Tread carefully if your name is not there.
There are but two volumes: one leads to light,
The other leads to Hell, without respite.
II
He sat in shadows, working through the night;
A scribe writing in words of ****** red,
While brass lanterns imparted sickly light,
As nightmare voices raged inside his head.
And all the names of those forever doomed,
Of future deaths and those of ancient past,
Were on the page, committed and entombed
In holy blood, scarlet and colour-fast.
All those whom God shall cast into the flames,
Unworthy of Heaven's forgiving grace
Are ever here, in this Book of Dead Names -
Named, numbered souls, each one bereft of face.
Thus, all enjoying notoriety
Shall be vanquished in anonymity.
III
Place copper coins over these weary eyes,
Gather my gold around me in the tomb,
Pray overlook transgression, all my lies,
Cradle me unto death, as from the womb.
Bury my silver at my lifeless feet,
Burn sandalwood, utter my name in prayer,
Drench me with nard and hyssop, bittersweet,
Remember me with lilies in my hair.
Pray write me in the Book of Living Names,
God turn thy face from my iniquity;
Spare me the flail, the pit of raging flames,
But let the quiet waters carry me.
Float me upon the Styx when I am gone;
Erase me from the Necronomicon.
NOTES:
This was inspired by some of the startling imagery in The Book of Revelation from the Bible.
Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 11:47 AM UTC
I'm a reformed man
my destructive habit has been cast out
a good-hearted woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer veiled in the grog's fog
on the path back to sobriety
her supportive hand guided me
with its never ending
belief and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sun rise
the grog couldn't stay
in my confused life
as it had imparted
much too much strife
this day I am a reborn man
a good woman took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of its murky fog
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC