"imprecations" poems
Hollering wind noises agitated
the motherless womb.
Clouds casted imprecations
within a roofless tomb.
One witness wallowed about
Traced her fingertips along the edges
of ivory-laden walls
Unwilling to let her out.
A veteran seeking refuge
A sheep escaping slaughter
A witness shielding her eyes
Only one will escape.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
It begins, of course, in the Spring.
The evenings grow lighter
The air sweeter
and all the world is filled
With sweet optimism.
It continues through
the long hot summer
Humid evenings
and long hot afternoons.
It is a marathon
not a sprint.
Only one team each year
wins the ultimate prize.
It leaves us in the Fall
as Winter’s first foul
Imprecations
chill us to the marrow.
Days darken
and the sun seems absent.
It is both a faith and
a fixation.
Even in winter’s depths
It speaks to us of spring
and the hope
of redemption.
Unless you happen to root for the Mets...
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
I heard there was a secret metric foot
that David knew was favoured by the Lord,
and when he penned the psalms he'd often put
this pattern the Almighty best adored
amongst the endless praise and imprecations;
unstressed, plus stressed, suffuses through his pages,
though hidden by the English of translations;
pentameters still echo down the ages.
The spondee's spurned, and has been from the start;
an anapaest's anathema, and grim.
Though trochees may be near the Maker's heart,
you'll never hear a dactyl in a hymn.
There's only one the Lord thinks worth a ****
the sacred, the unchangeable iamb.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
I foster an incremental relation to the cosmos, enticed regularly by its indefiniteness and appeal.
Its evolutions, innate behaviors, and formidable sciences are recompense for earth’s meager discrepancies.
I often engage in the caprice to dismount much dissatisfaction by the constancy of riveting celestial events.
These beings possess no artificiality.
Its prophetic order, ornate and stupendous architectural facets have allowed a crescendo of dispositional hysteria.
Prosaic imprecations are deduced from its auxiliary wherewithal.
There is no contrition in immersing in enthrallment nor is there fickleness in trust.
Magnificent bodies orbit in finesse and probability, achieving universality and control.
Though these incitements are exponentially cheering, my origin is but connoted in despondency.
Usurpers and ill-suited vandals proliferated by the intemperance of the Ptolemaic discipline.
Rustics, miscreants and idle minds misdirected by less virtuous planetary derision.
My cognitive severity asserted by ominous consummation.
Oh how these preponderant truths confine me unfortunate.
Soliloquy is but an affliction amidst this era of anachronistic reign.
Grandiose passivity is intolerable at this time.
I plan to dichotomize my adamant fate from precepts and conditions anew.
The deposition of malfeasant kings will be sought.
Ploys I have already configured; propagation is near to instigation.
I will exhort my ascent to prime eminence.
The stars will sanction me to a rightful end.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
It begins, of course, in the Spring.
The evenings grow lighter
The air sweeter
and all the world is filled
With sweet optimism.
It continues through
the long hot summer
Humid evenings
and long hot afternoons.
It is a marathon
not a sprint.
Only one team each year
wins the ultimate game
It leaves us in the Fall
as Winter’s first foul
Imprecations
chill us to the marrow.
Days darken
and the sun seems absent.
It is both a faith and
a fixation.
Even in winter’s depths
It speaks to us of spring
and the hope
of redemption.
Unless you happen to root for the Mets...
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
I'll tell you a tale
of our own Devil's Island
and the demonic crash
of the waves in a swell,
the smell and the taste
of the ball-breaking weather
the ghosts that deliver
poor sailors to Hell.
We were out in the water
amongst our Magdalens
the wind plucked the ropes
of our rigging at sea
we looked for a port
and saw many lights flashing
“that's old Devil's Island,”
said the skipper to me.
Ghosts began hurling
their fierce imprecations
to “come to the Island
safe landfall to thee”
but the skipper turned round
the ship with a vengeance
“that old Devil's Island
will never catch me.”
I thought he was mad
to be scared of a legend
it was my first time
in a storm on the sea
and two men washed over
to Davey Jone's Locker
“God bless 'em, they'll rest now”
the skip said to me.
Protesting the treatment
of two forlorn sailors
I said to the skipper
“It's not good to tell”
“It's better,” he said,
“that they're resting in Heaven
than entering into the portals of Hell.”
Winds lasted the night
then the voices did falter
the lights blinkered out
and I saw very well
so many rocks jagged
just waiting to smash us
The Devil's Isle gateways
await in the swell
If you're on a ship
and the voices of demons
come tell you it's safe
in their harbor alee
remember the shoreline
at old Devil's Island
then turn the ship seaward
and gracelessly flee.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
O, to be in dear Petronella
Now that Spring is here!
But alas, poor lass, she is no more,
Bereft of life, dead and gone,
Breathing through the grass,
O woe, O woe are we,
The fat slag's snuffed it.
No more will I and my friends
Ardent admirers all
(by the rancid cartload),
Feel her horrid toothless gums
Slurp their lascivious path of glory
Across our bloated obesities,
******* and slobbering,
Muttering sweetest nothings
Through mangled, matted pubics.
No more shall we feel her body
Groaning under every butch ******
Uttering imprecations of desire.
However one consolation is ours:
We who remain behind on earth
Can have undisputed use of the giant ********
And will no longer need to cleanse it
Following Petronella's awful misuse thereof.
These horrid thoughts came to me
As in a terrible, foetid nightmare;
And I dreamed I saw Petronella's grave
Bedecked with flowers and phlegm;
And the holy angels sang overhead,
"It's an ill wind that blows
Out of the back passage
Once it's been ****** good and hard".
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
I am nothing but footprints in the sand
to him.
Odious, he who left me to fight the tides,
promised me forever.
How long is forever?
Three years, two months,
Eleven days, an hour
and twenty-three seconds.
Now he’s back,
expecting a norm so chimerical.
But, disconsolate as I am,
sleeping ‘til body withered--
crying ‘til eyes dusted--
Yet he’s obdurate to this, my Odious.
No amount of imprecations
can succor this heartbreak.
My armored skin,
antiquated from battles long and harsh--
turned to mere paper against his words.
He has me by the corner,
above the red, red flame
and wants to act like I am not burning.
Such a silver tongue, my Odious,
he can fabricate like no other.
My dear Odious,
Leave me to fight the tides,
as I hope your Promethean fever
leaves you as cold
and as alone
as your true heart.
Yours always,
Detritus
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Hiding in the shadows calling my utmost.
Baby this is a battle for I have a saddle who wants me to deep throat.
Listen I tell you here cause I know everybody got issues.
Keep your tissues cause honestly my tears these days are mental.
Private talks away from the perfect view and you get my imprecations on Skype talking to a guy or ....you.
But you...what are you hiding? Yeah you...can we be talking or just be poetically cool?
The medicine injecting the knees in the room, what I mean yes I'm saying I pray like there's no tomorrow.
Walking really close to the highest in the clouds you start to really see how your life is written down.
Most of the people don't know or like or even have read this all the way down.
But ending with this note....if I ever played piano, IM MOVING MY FINGERS FROM THE LOWKEY AND LETTING MY WALK SING TO HIGHER GROUND.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Here was age and here was beauty,
The nearly young and very old-
women standing ,stripped stark naked
there were forty in all told.
That cold Spring morn
In Sobior, the SS planned to test
Their newest means of ******
On these Jewesses undressed.
First robed of everything they’d owned,
Then compelled to disrobe-
Forced into the chamber
Where monoxide soon took hold.
First the banging on the door
That was securely locked
Screams and imprecations
Then silence borne of shock.
Ten minutes it was over
The last of them had passed
An open pit would be their grave
Their fortunes had been cast..
The path that led up from the camp
To where they breathed their last,
We Germans called the “Himmelstrasse”
For even villains need a laugh.
But on this day in Forty three
The sheep did more than mutter
They killed a dozen guards then fled.
They would not yield like the others.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
Shallow depths sink
wayward thoughts.
But the corpses of butterflies
still collapse inwards,
as the reaper collects dead imprecations.
Burying them deeper
so never to be exhumed.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
The Last Bed We Buy
Should I be grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above this stark
cake of soap, gazing down, laboring to put
names to faces, the couple so familiar,
side by side, palms down, still as miller
moths displayed on pins, our salesman,
Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after
motel king, reading my mind, musing on
this pair of worn porcelain dolls
painted in chipped shades of hesitation?
Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top?
Hypoallergenic pipes Ted or Bill, the last thing
I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen,
one not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
a satiny raft to ferry us the final stretch of river.
Waving like Queens we float on by the last new
roof over which we will preside, a nod of recognition
for the last new water heater, too. Applaud politely
our farewell drive through the Tunnel of Trees
one biting October afternoon in the not so distant future.
Cluck our tongues for the poor dog snoring soft
imprecations to hips gone tender some coming
rainy April night. Blow twin Bronx cheers,
fat, wet, and sloppy, as we bid adieu to one last
shameless act of televised hubris. Grace lies
ahead around the next oxbow, two dormice
cupped in a leaf, rills and eddies conveying us
to the sea on softly rolling shoulders.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
The Last Bed We Buy
Grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above
this stark cake of soap, gazing down
laboring to put names to faces, the couple
so familiar, side by side, palms down, still as
miller moths displayed on pins, I drift off
to the drone of Bill or Ted, rumpled as
a morning after motel king intoning
soft or firm versus memory foam
or pillow top, hypoallergenic …
the last thing I hear before we fall
fast asleep spooning on a plush queen,
not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
satiny raft to ferry us the last stretch of river.
Waving like the Queen we float past the last new
roof over which we will preside, nod in solemn
recognition of our high efficiency gas furnace
apt to burn on years after I’m gone, applaud
politely what jolly well may be a farewell
drive north through the Tunnel of Trees
some biting October afternoon, weep
softly for our old squirrel chaser sawing
soft imprecations to hips gone tender some
blustery April night dog years from now, blow
low Bronx cheers in a fond adieu to life mediated
through screens. Even Bill or Ted knows that grace
lies just ahead around the next oxbow, leaves us
to dream, two dormice cupped in a leaf, rills
and eddies bearing us seaward, buoying us
downstream on softly rolling shoulders.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
The Last Bed
I should be grateful not to find myself disembodied,
hovering high above this stark cake of soap,
gazing down laboring to put names to faces,
the couple so familiar, side by side, palms down,
still as miller moths displayed on pins, our salesman,
Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after
motel king, reading my mind, musing
on this pair of worn porcelain dolls
painted in chipped shades of hesitation.
Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top?
Hypoallergenic, says Ted or Bill, the last thing
I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen
that is not too soft and not too hard, but just right
for ferrying us down this final stretch of river
past the last roof we’ll put on the house,
one last drive through the Tunnel of Trees,
the dog snoring soft imprecations to tender hips
on his old bed some rainy April night.
Two dormice cupped in a leaf
rills and eddies conveying us to the sea
on softly rolling shoulders.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
Sleep Arrived
She arrived early last night
for the ten o’clock shift
frock on the hook, bag on chair
moist kiss of no-nonsense shoes
I like to mimic from behind
the rim of my glass while you stifle
a snicker until it falls in step
with the papery cadence of her starch
whites and muttered imprecations.
It never ceases to amaze, the ease
with which she heaves us
over her pillowed shoulders, knees
cushioned on those ample *******
arms dangling limp to the rolling
sway of her kneading haunches
stealing a good night kiss
behind her dray horse back
as she bundles us drowsy up to bed.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
This averred title announced straight
away so lingering fans
(hoop fully letting me abbreviate)
a short cut so ye
can up and evacuate,
while metered time,
not yet foregone and not to late
hence best heed mine caution
which can protect minimum damage,
asper gray matter within pate
or blithely ignore
admonishment, aye accentuate
hmm...okay,...you apparently
decided to forsake adequate
prophecy, resigning despite
honest to dog admission to punctuate
a most unpleasant prediction,
I did woof lee aerate
worst case scenario,
leaving disabling genetic trait
to effect generations,
where legions of lesions adulterate
causing future offspring to mutate
and closely resemble
teenage mutant turtles, this potentate
(albeit self declared
only mein kampf, thee only life,
his existence he can arrogate
he doth officiate),
hence proceed at your own risk,
to avoid unpleasant fate,
visited upon unborn sons and daughters
uttering imprecations
unintelligible expletive laced spate,
that would approximate
(a cross between duck and pig)
incoherently gutturally excoriate
ting tee, thus don't tell me, I didn't
forewarn ya, whar
yar heart might palpitate,
thus causing da ole
ticker to fluctuate
dem eyes of yaws
could severely dilate,
while sweat gushes out every pore
streaming like liquid useless tube video,
a salty sea would then perspirate
out every last drop of fluid,
erupting magmatic plasma
to pool agglomerate
right under keister,
a lovely bag of bones
delivered to Norristown State
which inability to hydrate,
hence resultant mummification
heroic measures futile
thus humane decision would necessitate
and remaining days
on Earth numbered
starting with zero, not very great,
now this extinct reptile
hoop heed dead gratefully,
express message, and clearly articulate.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
Cassandra
Cursed prophetess
The Debbie Downer
of antiquity.
A beautiful anathema
Embracing life
With the gaiety
Of a dirge.
And all her visions
Dire imprecations
That rouse most to anger
And others to label her
A liar and
A madwoman.
Poor pretty
She’s not miserable
She’s a mathematician
A causal cleric
Formulaic
But people don’t need answers
They need hallucinogenics.
It’s much nicer living in a haze
Where nothing is clear
And you don’t know where
Your mess ends
And some one else's mess begins.
No one's responsible
And everyone gets to live
In a big pile of ****
Together
As one positive family
Attracting abundance.
Until the Trojans arrive
And pull the blind folds off
And then she gets to say
- I told you so
But nobody likes
Smugness.
Poor *****
She’s the **** Jagger
Of the Agora
She can’t get no
Satisfaction.
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC