"infirmities" poems
i went to a witch doctor who uses natural ways of healing
and by witch doctor i mean chiropractor, but the term sounds better for the situation i am about to describe
he asked me questions while i held out my arm
and if my arm fell easily to my side by the pressure he was applying, it meant no
so he asked if i had a heart wall
and my arm fell easily, like the way i fell for you
telling him no
(it was something i already knew but had hoped i suffered from because wouldn't it make life simpler to blame my infirmities on something so emotional and beautiful and dysfunctional we would have constructed together)
he told me my body had nested emotions in other places so as to keep my heart open and vulnerable
one of the places was my left arm
and i didn't realize until tonight that when we first held hands
and your heart was racing so fast i could feel it in my palm
it was my left hand
and
well
that is significant
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
The Drawer of Mermaids
by Michael R. Burch
This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out.
Although I am only four years old,
they say that I have an old soul.
I must have been born long, long ago,
here, where the eerie mountains glow
at night, in the Urals.
A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes;
now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking
fills us with dread.
(Still, my momma hopes
that I will soon walk with my new legs.)
It’s not so much legs as the fingers I miss,
drawing the mermaids under the ledges.
(Observing, Papa will kiss me
in all his distracted joy;
but why does he cry?)
And there is a boy
who whispers my name.
Then I am not lame;
for I leap, and I follow.
(G’amma brings a wiseman who says
our infirmities are ours, not God’s,
that someday a beautiful Child
will return from the stars,
and then my new fingers will grow
if only I trust Him; and so
I am preparing to meet Him, to go,
should He care to receive me.)
Keywords/Tags: mermaid, mermaids, child, children, childhood, Urals, Ural Mountains, soul, soulmate, radiation
Jan 17, 2023
Jan 17, 2023 at 2:08 AM UTC
didn't shower
sitting in the cubicle
for long hours
didn't shower
and blood
is still on hands
and feet are still riddled
with dirt
staining cheap
carpet floorprint
afraid to touch
anything
coworkers peer
over
their fabric palisades
eyes burning holes
through ripped shirt
and crooked tie
head down
don't exist
no one has to
know a thing
didn't shower
hair is manged and
disoriented
I can feel blood
drip off fingertips
pat - pat - pat
on bland slate
carpet design
can't concentrate
didn't shower
everyone stares
black eye
swollen and scabbed
everyone knows
have to
it's all puddling at feet
washing with the dirt
look away
******* look away!
head is severed
on the mahogany finish desk
black eye bulged
black and purple tennis ball
everyone gathers
whispers whispers
jaw opens
teeth fall out
pat - pat - pat
no one says anything
look away look away
look away
get up to leave
the head stays there
dark souvenir
quick drive
home
shower
hours melt away
infirmities recede
sink back below skin
didn't shower
everyone knew
what happened
last night
but now
no evidence
no witnesses
no one knows
the perfect crime
a cruel smile
emerges on
bare white teeth
as night sets in once again
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
the couches' cushions caving in.
The weight of passing hours
and minuettes alleviating thinking
in a miscellaneous metronome
ticking to bring time to a heaving chest.
Stay calm,
the pain of realignment will pass.
Burdensome they may be,
burgeoning wings will free you of...
Pressure collapsing this cage,
walls torn from studs,
leaving only this skeleton
surrounding us as we find delirium
the backbone of convulsing lungs watched,
earthquake mute laughter marring the faces
with jagged faults.
The cost of cracking,
we must accept the scarring permanent.
Breaks unplanned infirmities,
alone, our time line disrupted itself
and the heavens came,
tumbling down.
In silence,
we lay, arms barring
our escaping words.
Eyes overstep boundaries,
slipping through the gaps,
a second moment of
clarification fractures restraints
whilst beguiling brainstorms
sparked our interest.
Our tongues meet,
shyly.
rubies placed upon your breath
slipping against molded clay.
In sapphires
you and I hold nighttime
reflections of passion
contained in coal, waiting.
Ivory runs my length,
bending to ecstasy, breathing
shallow, asynchronous, failing
to find it's end in persistence.
In night
the danger dropped us, longing
that dusty light beaming down on
the show, Act 2 is
the comedy. Off.
Parallel parabola line diamond reflections,
allow for recall with brushed fingertips,
horse hair undertones realigning smiles,
abstract the paintings of today,
of yesterday, stealing away tomorrow
in a previous reiteration of our variant
indifference.
The wings of the demon opened
in symbolic solace, fell far
across this burning emotional
harbor, aflame
in angels' suicides.
We've fallen, taken knees to grace,
whispering eulogies the waves applaud.
Sands wash away to cupped stone
palms, caressing the troubled banks lost
in time. The blood washes away,
momentary marks, brown,
stained, it passes.
Demons foreshadow.
In their shade we are seen
falling into broken arms, sinew
stitched through hearts, still healing
strength gives way.
Our tongues meet
shyly,
this reunion a mistake,
now locked, staying stilled while
attempting apologetic phrasing.
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
blank walls and barren recounts
crashing in.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
In the Church, I met a woman so old
Bending under the weight of years
I wonder what made her steal my attention
Was it her struggle to hold back her tears?
In spite of her frail stooping figure
She seemed to have an indomitable will
Defeating all infirmities of age, she stood
With a face though sad, yet tranquil and still
Strange enough, she recalled to me
The determined, but decrepit old man beside the pool
Whom Wordsworth had once encountered
Gathering leeches so scarce, but resolute and cool
I watched the woman humbly prostrate
And feebly rise and straighten her aged form
Surrendering herself at the feet of God
Imploring grace for life’s little tasks to perform
In her gnarled hands, she firmly held a prayer book
With the other supporting her frail figure on a staff
And with a sigh of relief, she left the church
As if her afflictions were reduced to half
As the Congregation dispersed in all directions
She feebly walked to her accustomed haunt
At the rear side of the church was a Cemetery unkempt
Where the ancestors slept, devoid of earthly cares and want
Among all the tombstones in marble and granite
Erected in memory of the kindred dead
There was a newly dug up grave
That stood aloof as a heap of mud
I watched the old woman approach this spot
Where she knelt down with a calm demeanor
Her withered hands clasped together in piety
And her eyes closed in silent prayer
With a convulsive motion of her lips
She rose up and once more knelt down
As if searching for a face so dear
Whose memory she could never ever drown
Within that mound, slept her only son
Who died in his prime, a month before
Leaving his widowed mother behind
To brave the shafts stinging, so sore
As Time by seconds and minutes ticked away
The bereaved mother stood up at last
And heavily yet quietly walked away
Leaving the one who was once her own part
*** *** **
While the wounds of the young are quickly closed and healed
And their ductile affections entwine around new passions
The aged withdraw to the silence and desolation of life
Once when deprived of the love that life no more sanctions!
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
*O come sweet Jesus Christ come,
You are the source of our bliss and happimesd
You are the path to peace and protection
the mighty deliverer and strength in times of our troubled day
The living water that quenches our yearning and taste
,the door that leads to perfect rest,
O come sweet Jesus come*
*O come sweet Jesus Come
Come and heal our wounds,
come take away our infirmities
,Come calm the raging storms in our lives
O come sweet Jesus come*
*Igho Odiete©
All right reserved*
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 2:04 PM UTC
Nailed and ******* on hands and legs,
Maimed and marred beyond repair,
Cut and bruised out of shape,
Stripped and peeled, so bare to shock,
Lo, there lies a man! The Son of God,
On a cross erected on the summit of the Mount,
Brutally suspended between Earth and Sky,
Stationed amid thieves on either side.
He slipped and slithered under the yoke of weight,
And tottered the rugged route to Calvary,
Scourged and flogged all along,
He bore the cross with none to help.
Never complained nor cursed but suffered the pangs,
Never whined nor moaned, but drained the cup,
Through His death, mankind was to be redeemed,
By His precious blood, their infirmities to be cleansed
It was for our sins that He lay down His life,
It was our misdeeds that made Him bleed,
It was for our lust that He was painfully stripped,
It was our arrogance that bent Him low.
None could gauge the agony he endured,
No man ever performed such a daring deed,
To liberate mankind, the Lamb was slain,
To lead his Flock, He walked in front.
‘Love your enemy’ was the mantra He recited,
What He preached, He relentlessly practised,
While writhing in pain, He prayed for His foes,
Pleaded with his Father to spare the wrath.
When wrongly accused, never said He a word,
Unruffled remained He on painfully betrayed,
Hard it was to be deserted by those He loved,
Sore it was to be treated so very rude.
The Son of Man came seeking the missing sheep,
He builds from where everything is wrecked,
Rejoice in Him, for He is our Lord!
Adore and worship, He deserves to be praised.
Peace was what He promised the world,
Grace was what He gifted to all,
Look up to the Cross when trials confront,
And cast your burden at His feet!
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
With assistance of the Holy Spirit,
compelling achievements will be seen;
supernatural strength is available to…
overcome the nonsense of human routine.
As His responsible Christians today,
we must mature and have understanding
of the authority and power given us
by Christ, to address Life’s demanding.
When we have not, it’s the direct result
of not asking for… what we really need.
Working from our natural strength fails,
and we will be trampled by sin’s stampede.
The fleshly combination of impure motives
and one’s selfish, wrong timing for results
will keep one ensnared in Satan’s traps-
insuring the onslaught of ongoing assaults
that interfere with one’s divine purpose.
Prayer remains a violent, spiritual force
that interrupts the enemies’ plan against us.
We have a High Priest who keeps us on course-
One Who understands our weaknesses, infirmities
and the God-given abilities for Kingdom victory!
Come boldly now, to the heavenly throne of Grace;
enable your faith with prayer and learn to see
that Faith only works by the power of His Love.
Be anxious for nothing, with real thanksgiving
and let your specific requests be known by Him.
Only in His Name, can we achieve… greater things!
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
John 14:12-14; Jam 4:1-2,5:13-16; Heb 4:15-16;
Gal 5:6; Mark 11:22-25; Phil 4:6; Luke 10:19
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
Last year, despite his long gone testicles,
& 91 dog yrs of innocence,
Old Jack got dragged around the whole back yard
By his bone, by a coybitch he lives with.
He's a lucky dog, but he's 98
Now and down in his hips. He cries at night,
Housebound by his infirmities and I
Talk to him, touch his head and give him pills.
I remember my grandmother's voice--
You old dog you; I love you like jackfrost;
Mothers are like that, yes they are. She lived
To 95, forgetting for the last
Four who she was and where she was and why.
Should you or I be 1/2 so fortunate.
An old dog doesn't know he's dying, just knows
It's harder to live. I blow smoke in his ear
And we watch ****** stories, real and imagined.
Forensic files, Hitchcock. He struggles to stand.
I'm slow at doing what I have to do.
This morning, like most, weather permitting,
We're 2 blocks down the street from
Where we live. He struggles to ****
Cancer blocks his peristalsis, makes it difficult
To squat. And I stand ready with my Kleenex,
In case he gets it out on neighbor's or
The sheriff's lawn. Go ahead old friend, let it
Go. I'm right behind you.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
Look how far we’ve come.
I thank God for the injustices, the smarting wounds,
Infirmities of the soul;
the pains of the past magnify the high
that your love, that your life supplies.
You love the stitching, the commonly-overlooked,
the embroidery, all the parts of me that
have gathered dust.
You find beauty in my tatters and rags,
In the me admirers shy from.
Look how far we’ve come, already.
You light me, you give me rhythm,
passion and dynamism.
You’re a song I never thought I’d dance to;
a color I’ve never painted with,
an octave I never thought I’d reach.
I want you to know that I understand, that I admire your mind. I appreciate your heart.
You are who I’ll fight for, believe in, and
to whom I’d give my last.
I’ve found a friend in you, a striking reflection of
God’s patience, passion, of His love.
Your eyes are full of thought and light;
your smiles are full of love and life.
I see your strife and sacrifice,
yet you stay strong enough. You manage to
save some strength for me.
Life erodes us, corrodes gentleness,
ices hearts;
after everything you’ve seen,
I never tell you when to hold me,
when to listen, to love me.
I’m growing in fertile soil now, upward and
under watchful eyes, genuine devotion.
We’re gonna make it—
I see how far we’ve come;
I see how far we’ll go.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 3:32 PM UTC
I like to believe
that nobody understands me
and I'm one of a kind
lost to obscurity
but hinting of mysterious
significance
And I feel sorry for
my uncle's three-legged dog
and the malignancy
of fear in rural America
and the failed successes
of the Bolsheviks
I wonder about the air
in Saõ Paolo in January
and the muskuloskelatal
infirmities that creep in
and make the aged
into churlish curmudgeons
There is no way I could
hunt truffles or find a fresh
Morel in the woods when
I didn't even realize until
my grandmother died that
we own a creek
Uttering vespers in moonlight
yields some sanguine lucidity
like contemplating the nuanced
differences between polenta
and cornmeal mush
It's like I'll never write a poem
in time or finish a marathon
or kiss a stranger deeply
through the crisp ventillation
of nevermore.
We might daydream the bombastic
colors of Cezanne but all
we'll ever be is some nondescript
platinum ischemic flash,
a slimy buffet consisting in
all-is-lost
An apocryphal journey
to the center of the city
faces our insubordination to plastic
with the harshness of a dictionary
in the face of the illiterate
But in the end, apoplectically
forgotten, I come to the
unintelligent conclusion,
mathematically speaking,
that there is nothing singular
nor more available
than the finite banality
of my empty, insufficiently
obscurantist words which
flow and choke and all can know
and see clearly through
though I insist that none
of this pretence is born
of any maleveloence, and I chide
"How very meta of me indeed"
to have thought of another witty
and most cleverest retort
the day after the insult
was first delivered
But I used my last gift card
to purchase this still life
to pierce the hollow
cerulean satisfaction
otherwise known as tears
Barring diastolic ******
I'll stick around to see
how this all turns out
and hope that one day I can stop
being so completely understood
And then I can hide in the lonely
and find refuge in the cave
as a single meaningless scrawl
buried in the last pages
at the end of the world.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
*"It would be a statement of complete fatuity were I to claim I had approached the venture with no measure of trepidation." - Myself, moments after writing this poem.*
I claim very little.
I claim the cold of the night as regards my own warmth.
I claim the twinge in my right ankle for no one else would, surely.
I claim what little daylight I see and that sees me.
I claim the stagnation and degradation of my soul which I allowed to prosper deep within myself in all those hurtful years I spent convincing myself that you would eventually be capable of loving me as I did you.
I am.
I am aware.
I am a vigil for myself.
I engage the world for my own ends.
I sing a song that carries no one.
I breathe only when my lungs will suffer no further delay.
I am the concept of revulsion that stirs the body instinctively, like unnecessary skin.
I am the cold entity who never felt an embrace, whose face slips out of view of the light of the flickering bulb.
I wrong myself furiously.
I rarely forgive.
I choke on the water. I burn in the deep tissues.
I feel the idea of desire, and I smell the smoke, the herbs, and the mud.
I prepare a table for myself in the presence of my infirmities, and I cannot help but look at my self between my fevers of antique wakefulness.
And I wish to God this had a happy ending.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 10:02 PM UTC
You've been provided with a perfect body to house your soul for a few brief moments in eternity. So regardless of its size, shape, color, or any imagined infirmities, you can honor the temple that houses you by eating healthfully, exercising, listening to your body's needs, and treating it with dignity and love.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
We live in a world of undigested hatred
We salivate over shadows of malice
We don’t know who or where to turn to
We’re far from milk mountains and the crystal palace
We take baths to drive sadness from our minds
Cause after all, all life is a trial
When we’re awake we’re flooded with fiends
****** impulses sneak into our dreams
Infirmities restrain us from reaching true grace-
Let alone knowing our place
Some tremble at the thought of true praise
But speaking in tongues requires no wage
Light is the king of colors, defeating sinners’ oil
What goes up comes down, just as the victor’s spoils
If you see God, be sure to say hello
And keep some yoke for your wounded halo
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 12:10 PM UTC
The infancy of evil,
infirmities youth
Children surrendered
—caught in its truth
(Dreamsleep: November, 2021)
Nov 14, 2021
Nov 14, 2021 at 12:02 PM UTC
This is the Anniversary,
of a gentle night in May.
The call came from the nursing home.
to say you'd passed away.
You lay there still and silent
already growing cold.
The Priest already come and gone
to tend to other souls.
We whispered sweet endearments
to our mother good and kind
Released from her infirmities
marked with the Savior's sign.
I wonder did she linger there
to her our sad amens
like she listened to our prayers
said at our childhood beds.
Voices cast upon the wind
beside her final bed.
I'd like to think she heard the tears
and the prayer my sister said.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
#the forming of substance 04
Stephan W
*"For years I’ve wanted to live
according to everyone else’s morals.
I’ve forced myself to live like everyone else,
to look like everyone else.
I said what was necessary to join together,
even when I felt separate.
And after all of this, catastrophe came.
Now I wander amid the debris,
I am lawless, torn to pieces,
alone and accepting to be so,
resigned to my singularity and to my infirmities.
And I must rebuild a truth–
after having lived all my life in a sort of lie."
~Albert Camus*
~
*Worlds apart,
there is a tension
an alienation--
now, strangers-
in a not so strange land
So many parts..
fighting the glow
fighting each other-
These parts, hiding--
From having to be seen- when needed,
From the pain of
having to need the other parts
who also are so unable,
From the visibility--
from having to be asked to join in-
to the process of
an integrated internal functioning;
the metabolizing of things.
From the pain of it all-
and the despondency that will come
from any attempt
to even try.*
~ ~
*The spirit--
its dimly-lit distant memories
of a wholly different time
now afraid to ingrain itself
into a body- that is as of yet
wholly unable to even know itself--
Fragmented parts of the heart;
broken spirit,
a lonely longing-
There is a division
a separation
immersed in a dank mist of fear--
Parts-- nearly touching
but, so unable to see..
or even feel each other in the dark
And the greatest loneliness
becomes the one that is lived within oneself--
An unlived-living
within the broken internal-world
of fragmented parts-
now huddled into remote corners
with such large spaces in between;
parts, isolated from
other parts.*
~ ~ ~
*One day they will no longer be
so afraid of each other--
Even in its dimly-lit state of being,
the spirit yearns for a cohesiveness,
a wholeness--
a re-integration of all the parts;
a reassembling.
Until that time, everything will be partial;
dis- assembled
fragmented.*
#
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 10:41 PM UTC
The objective as I see it, is
to run and skip right through it, as
if it was a minor irritation, like a rash you
can't get rid of but you do not want to hide it,so
you proudly tag your infirmities,call them niceties and
you can please yourself if you're bought and sold or
prefer as some, to stay up there,being dusted once or twice a year
on the shelf,in a neat alphabetical order,thumbed and licked occasionally
by the warder,
who some call the great provider.
I divide my time between the two,the best of both or so I think but
thinking's not my game,I'm more of do and do again and that's the pain of loneliness,the creeping of the timelessness where times weighs heavy on my back and time begins to crack the shell I'm hidden under,
Hear the thunder but not really thunder just me farting under one more shell where if I'm lucky I can tell what time cannot,
but not really
just me stalling,inevitably falling once again,if only I could make the leap,beat the creep of being lonesome,get a life,stop being one who's on his ownsome and so I run and skip and all that shit,the modus operandi of the faceless in the crowd guy,
if the objective was to sit and spit patterns on the pavements where all my movements have been monitored,I have reached it and surpassed the goal.
one must move out and go beyond the comfort zone but some like me find comfort in their own home and there's no saving them from mediocrity,I save myself and only me
and the objective changes constantly.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
*"My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish and fearful;
In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Among the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,
If ever I were wilful-negligent,
It was my folly; if industriously
I play'd the fool, it was my negligence,
Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,
Where of the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord,
Are such allow'd infirmities that honesty
Is never free of. But, beseech your grace,
Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass
By its own visage: if I then deny it,
'Tis none of mine."*
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
On a bed in a shallow room I lay
Breathless and In huge dismay I ponder
Lifeless, cold in nature
I wonder to glooms of this darkness
Feet hurting on my back I remain
Cold as the sways of winter nights.
Comfortable as can be
I am at peace
At peace with this cold death state I am in
For no worry can be troublesome
No fearful thoughts can be spoken out loud
At peace with the cold death state.
A man came to my comfort zone,
With the sweetest voice words can't tell.
Touched my lifeless body to life
A fairy tale seen only in dreams
‘Little girl Arise' He said.
Little girl wake up.
Look up to the skies.
Healing is found beyond the horizon
A place only prayer meets.
Damsel arise from your infirmities.
That affirm your misery
Arise from your drunkenness.
That drains your energy
Arise from your pain
That paints your smile to sadness
Arise from your past
That punchers your spirit.
Arise from disappointment
Live beyond rejection
Don't let the frictions slow you down
Lift your heart up high
Believe in Him that never leaves nor forsakes.
The state your being depends on it.
For one day,
We shall see him in the clouds of glory
We shall arise, arise, arise up to the sky to and meet Him
Listen here
The blind receive their sight
And rise to tell the nation they see,
The lame walk
And rise to tell the nation they walk,
The lepers are cleansed,
And rise to tell the nation they clean
The deaf hear,
And rise to tell the world they listen
And the dead are raised to meet Him in the clouds
Damsel, little girl, arise.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:42 AM UTC
Let's get lost in the grace of forgetting
past mistakes and errors of our foolish youths
and let us live amid the worldly hope
gained from exchanging sentences of solitude
for paragraphs of insight into better days
Let's abandon our halcyon memories along with
our sordid ones eschewing their credits and excesses
and let us eat chocolate cake now while we still
have teeth in our mouths exchanging bites of confection
for those trim waistlines we never really had
Let's play in the fountains like kids without
cares about having kids of our own or owning gardens
and let us plant gardens on fire escapes and in alleys
growing herbs from the soot and exchanging harvests
for wisdom and a proclivity for jigsaw puzzle completion
Let's debate the merits of interstellar politics
without the fuss or nuance of believing we were ever right
and let us pray for our righteous *******
earned by sweat and salt after exchanging fear of rejection
for a fuzzy blanket and a burger on a snowy day
Let's give up on fixing blighted communities drowning
in the pity of their own sacrosanct infirmities
and let us beat our own swords into ploughshares to sell
online if anyone will buy them exchanging broken guns
for cold hard cash that binds better than pectin
Let's sleep all day if we feel like it until
we've slept away all our regrets and fears
and let us awake whenever we **** well please to eat
baconfat and sip bourbon exchanging all the calories
for the lives we've always wanted but never had
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
*iv'e have not quite come to terms
with that dark thing that lives within me
oh lord
have mercy upon ophidian's soul
have you not enslaved me
with desires despicable
drawn darkness over me
with a black wands curse
into
feral gates castellation
as I sleep
towards mournings flaring sun
with aches infernal ****
i behold images of
hung women sway-less
heads pressed firmly against stone walls
legs and feet splayed behind
squandered treasures
******* yellow soaked with *****
so ghastly
my darling
so touching
oh lovely horror
she said
to die that way
in a little room somewhere
would be perfect
so easy
even pleasant
as lips brush caressed
she cooed whispers
protect me from
from the cruelty
of grizzled age
and heaped infirmities
like stones on threadbare silk
that unravel and tear souls
sorry and dull
until collapse
standing tippy toes
her head on my shoulder
arms around my neck
my soul her mausoleum
undulating as if a rounded wind
eyes like rushing poems
pleading
a bloodless brain
she mused
better than the delirium of
glittered fizz
cocktails
we could do it in easy stages
all tender accommodations
as you lasso the rope
gently around my neck
and attach to a sturdy handle
then lay me firm upon white linens
with wet-lipped kisses
and let me drop weightless
like a slipper off a foot
into sweet
night tides
nirvana*
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
I would like to pass by your life,
as a beautiful flower that
hung in your life's garden,
And leave a fragrance
that will last you forever.
My leaves may wither,
My flowers may drop,
But never mind,
My seeds will sprout again
to soothe your life,
Heal your wounds,
and broken heart,
with my presence and fragrance.
I would that you understand
and nurture me,
Water me,
Dress me as you would
dress a beautiful garden,
For maybe this,
or another season,
you may or may
not perceive my fragrance,
but I will always return to
heal you of your infirmities.
I only ask that you care
a little bit more like I did.
© 2017, Emeka Mokeme.All rights reserved.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
woke up to gray and white
streaky Van Gogh clouds
with patches of cerulean eyes
peeking through
the house is cold
and I am old
but it feels like spring
calendar says we’re past equinox
sunshine seems to be getting longer
flowers bloom
forecasters say Raiden’s not done
but it feels like spring
dreamt last night
that I was outside running
and easily leapt over an obstacle
drove my car
city sights and sounds whelmed me
in pleasant memories of living life
flashing by like a fast motion freeway
it felt like spring
been shuttered with infirmities
and limitations
but strength training and tai chi
have become habit
unassisted walking toddles forward
but feels and looks good
I’m getting there
it feels like spring
Del Maximo
(c)03/27/2023
Mar 27, 2023
Mar 27, 2023 at 11:56 AM UTC
It is the process of revealing oneself through which one can understand their infirmities and their powerless nature. Successful people will always build their lives around others. Because they are people who want to hear what they want to hear. But, being rich doesn't mean you automatically subjugate yourselves to the weaker philosophy and opinion of the crowd.
But, when we realize that we are different from the rest, therein lies our uniformity. In that clarity, you can see that your life is a search for individual truth. What is being unique?
Instead of a truth that is of cosmic proportions, we find ourselves in an abyss.
A child akin to his parents will think of how he can model himself. Notwithstanding, the parentage of a child becomes a vital factor in the moral upbringing of children. But, a child should be allowed to lead a life among the forests, oceans, and leaves rustling languidly. Thus, pursuing an education in the caprice of the divine and the grace of Earth.
That grace is not available in strictness of the cane, but it flows in the wings of birds.
Instead of forcing conformity on an infant, the perfect mother should propose that a child chose a path. They will react to the stimuli present in schoolyards, playgrounds, social gatherings. Later, a child explores a form of conscious intelligence. Here are places where children feel pressured to excel and become self-aware. But, that self-awareness comes from how close a child is to his parents. A child will never model his behavior to his parents unless he loves one of them more than the other. In other words, he respects one parent the more. It is enough for his subconscious to devise a manner in which he finds a partner similar to the parent he loves. But, the sole burden of pleasing the parent he respects forces him to model himself to the parent he respects.
In some ways, the partner a man chooses is someone he can never be. Free in the ways of the world, one with nature. In short, a child at heart.
This individual is made up of his prejudices, influences, and his little world of interests. Yet, instead of following the footsteps of the kinder parent, he replicates the behavior of the domineering figure of the house. A child's mind is made up from the moment he is born.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC