"impute" poems
This is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race,
Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,
My span's last inch, my minute's latest point;
And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my'ever-waking part shall see that face
Whose fear already shakes my every joint.
Then, as my soul to'heaven, her first seat, takes flight,
And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,
So fall my sins, that all may have their right,
To where they'are bred, and would press me, to hell.
Impute me righteous, thus purg'd of evil,
For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.
7.8k
968
Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance—Grace—to Me—
With Summers, and with Winters, grow,
Some passing Year—A trait bestow
To make Me fairest of the Earth—
The Waiting—then—will seem so worth
I shall impute with half a pain
The blame that I was chosen—then—
Time to anticipate His Gaze—
It’s first—Delight—and then—Surprise—
The turning o’er and o’er my face
For Evidence it be the Grace—
He left behind One Day—So less
He seek Conviction, That—be This—
I only must not grow so new
That He’ll mistake—and ask for me
Of me—when first unto the Door
I go—to Elsewhere go no more—
I only must not change so fair
He’ll sigh—”The Other—She—is Where?”
The Love, tho’, will array me right
I shall be perfect—in His sight—
If He perceive the other Truth—
Upon an Excellenter Youth—
How sweet I shall not lack in Vain—
But gain—thro’ loss—Through Grief—obtain—
The Beauty that reward Him best—
The Beauty of Demand—at Rest—
3.4k
As a young girl I was always expected to do as I was told.
Don’t be too loud, don’t talk back, don’t appear to be sassy or bold.
Mind your manners, hold your tongue, there is no space for being rude.
Tone it down, cover it up, we don’t want your black girl attitude.
Forced into boxes with no space to move.
Restricted and restrained with everything to prove.
Constantly combatting the narrative they paint.
Making us look like animals while they look like saints.
We are said to be angry, bitter and loud.
Troublesome, uneducated, following the crowd.
Masculine, impute, stubborn and broken.
Accessories, trophies that ”one” friend, the token.
These strings of disrespect will no longer be allowed.
I don’t care if I’m not polished enough, I’m unwilling to be cowed.
Take back your subtle hate and blatant prejudices all wrapped up in a bow.
Served on a platter with fluffy words of disapproval and the saying “that’s just the way things go”.
They say we are stubborn, unmovable and complacent.
Well , consider how our feelings are always compartmentalized and latent.
Our cries go unheard, our request are unmet.
No one to protect us, left on our own to fret.
This debt that we carry is too much to bare.
It’s just as heavy as the onus that we all have to share.
We are ethereal, complex and fed up with your satire.
You can have whatever you think of me, I’m done being your Sapphire.
Nov 10, 2022
Nov 10, 2022 at 2:19 AM UTC
This is my play’s last scene, here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage’s last mile; and my race
Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,
My span’s last inch, my minute’s latest point,
And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoint
My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my ever-waking part shall see that face,
Whose fear already shakes my every joint:
Then, as my soul, t’ heaven her first seat, takes flight,
And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,
So fall my sins that all may have their right
(To where they’re bred, and would press me) to hell.
Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil,
For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.
1.4k
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
That barren tender of a poet’s debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb,
For I impair not beauty, being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
1.1k
The room dark, as I see images pass by
my mind active, I try to ignore...
wealth not clarity,
health a disparity...
an existence started;
invited to beauty.
I don't always have something to say,
learnin' that's okay,
I smile now and think more...
I got so much to adore.
I can be literal,
a fool;
impute magical powers to my being...
and I smile,
and it cracks smooth lines...
a delightful guffaw.
An introduction to me!
Run Run Run,
that little boy...
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:35 PM UTC
The second chapter began
And no story
Was told
But some secrets
Began to unfold
Some mysteries
Consumed in the darkness
Found their place
The urge was
To deal with things
In a pragmatic way
To mould the fable
With pertinency
Refrain from portraying
Crass assumptions
Impersonate the characters
With the queerest disposition
So that by the time
You drown into that tale
There’s nobody left alive to
Impute their arguments
There’s no need to appeal for clemency.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
Waves slammed strong and furious
afternoon sun in a curious
cover of orange glows
against ferocious wind blows
as I basked in the velvety shore
in high spirits heretofore.
My toes digging into the sand
as I listen to the rustles inland
sounds of troubled waters
downed muffled cries and whimpers
oh do not feign penitent
this tryst is dampened by cruel intent.
Smell of fave exotic tropical fruit
stench of loss, on you I cannot impute
as tears welled in my eyes
these sad hellos and goodbyes
against ebony skies and late afternoon rays
Oh, the sting and pain of parting ways !
Delilah, August, 2013
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
How misguided
And mistaken
Of me
To impute my 'I'
On bits of
Other people's
Bodies
The fate
Of these bits of bone
And flesh
Is that they will be
Enmeshed with
And buried in
The bigger body
Of Mother Earth
Of course
This me
The mistaken me
The one that we see
Will dissolve
And disappear
Forever
But what about
Actual 'Me'
The me we cannot see
Where will 'I' be
After 'I' die
Windermere Feb 6 2016
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Who determines
What’s the proof
That’s required
To find the truth
Shouldn’t we question
Who’s the sleuth
And do they want
The answer forsooth
Or is it political
At the root
It’s apparent
If you’re astute
They’re just trying
To dilute
A reputation
Which they impute
But what’s done under
The cover of night
Will come out
In the morning’s light
It’s the truth
You know that’s right
It should be them
That we indict
Who determines
When it’s enough
All of us
Should call their bluff
Cos they’re not dealing
With no cream puff
So why should we
Tolerate their guff
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
And so the prince swims to land
And embraces the chilling spell at hand
His tail disappears, and is replaced by two
Human legs, both soft and new
Wobbling a bit, he slowly stands
And brushes away the water stained sands
And there he awaits, hopefully
The maiden who fell into the sea
When she comes, she comes gracefully
And he kneels before the shine of she
The maiden, her heart kind and bestowed
Welcomes the prince to her humble abode
And the next few months they go to and fro
And through this time the prince knows
Should the marriage of the maiden to another resolve
The dawn of the next day, the prince will dissolve
The maiden didn’t mind that the prince was mute
For it wasn’t his voice that’s his impute
But what a pity, for all the maiden knows
Is his beautiful voice singing his woes
On the day the prince will declare his love
The maiden tells him then thereof
That there is only one who her heart is for
And it’s the fisher who she believes saved her
And so the maiden, in kindness and laughter
Finds the man and declares her love after
Their wedding will happen at that midnight
To celebrate dawn’s coming light
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 7:14 AM UTC
Walking on a street's path
A distance as far as I've been back
Lessons and retrospects carried in an heavy backpack
Streets lights off standing tall under the sky'
s dark
Dark as panther in a zoo or a park
O' peace of sight
Rare are you in my days
Endangered sanity at night's plight
The glory of day uplifted and dropped in an emigrant's flight
Walk on keep
A voice passes me by
In dark knowledge of my start
Not even enfants it has been
But grown exceedingly pass my reach
Still walking yet destination awaits me
Legs crumbling head unarmed
Growing older yet they passed me
Ha' you famous of sight haven't you grown
Said as they were inferior now superior
I am as they were before
Lights inplaced at my backpack
Never knew I these lights is a collection mindless to my knowing
The lights of conquest and triumph which beam is essential
Lightings of value and dignity exuding inevitable shine
Lights of blunder rays so repeat them not
All these lights never knew I
The inscrutability invades my mind
Evoked my soul to it's captivity
O' spirit of exigency,deceit, corruption and unpatriotism
Can't thy be exhumed
Control my mind ignore the lights pack
Walking through out the darkness you caused
Growing older moving backwards
Retrospects of who I was
Doctor now patient
Teacher now student
Long gone host now parasite
Too late to back
Extremely damaged to front
Can't just find a way through this darkness
Old lady of Africa
Treasured by history
Record as a routine I've broken
Adrift till I've broken my self
About to none
That's for the others impeccably
Imperiled by a spirit in mind
Collecting the strings yet I play not any
Evinced impetuosity mischief set in motion
Can't desorb in this modern solvent
Peter natural to be seen as such
I should be the star that parties with the moon
The zephyr that coaxes the tree leaves in mobility
Being not the sun that chases the moon away the sky
Nor the fire that burns the trees
This darkness drives away my delight
Impute backwardness
Lest I think those lights I ignored years long
This journey seems impervious
This dire adventure is far from the abyss of remedy
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 10:23 AM UTC
world does not impute
itself on you you impute
yourself on the world
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 1:41 AM UTC
Time past, is time controlled.
As forms become things
Distinct, yet malleable to our delusions
Connections, knotted together
Snake mouths clamped to tails. Does that not fit?
Or does it fit too well?
Time is not death, but it is its curator,
Yet the two may be false gods
For the unknown is also immutable,
And facts are not truths.
Time is an unreliable narrator
Who we parse, to try to understand
The haphazardness of existence
Time is the blank slate
On which we try to impute meaning
Yet through time, our thoughts
And memories stay alive
As we are born
And reborn, in encounters.
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 8:45 AM UTC