"inheritor" poems
I sit by the window looking out
And see myself reflected
Outside the glass looking in.
Reality and illusion facing off -
Or is the window the only reality
Separating two ghosts;
Or perhaps imprisoning just the schizoid singularity
Of a self-absorbed existence?
A Rowlingesque Hogwartian mirror showing
My heart's deepest desire - myself -
A true inheritor
To the mantle of Narcissus
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty of you,
letting you see how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking off you. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
4k
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, ****** like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
with love. At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded
down starch halls with the other unnested throng
in wheeling baskets. You tip like a cup; your head
moving to my touch. You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel. They want to know
the facts. They guess about the man who left me,
some pendulum soul, going the way men go
and leave you full of child. But our case history
stays blank. All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although
I never spoke a word. I burst empty
of you, letting you learn how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me
and I turn my head away. I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize
your need, the animals of your lips, your skin
growing warm and plump. I see your eyes
lifting their tents. They are blue stones, they begin
to outgrow their moss. You blink in surprise
and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin,
as you trouble my silence. I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in
such sanity will I touch some face I recognize?
Down the hall the baskets start back. My arms
fit you like a sleeve, they hold
catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms
of your nerves, each muscle and fold
of your first days. Your old man's face disarms
the nurses. But the doctors return to scold
me. I speak. It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told
them something to write down. My voice alarms
my throat. "Name of father-none." I hold
you and name you ******* in my arms.
And now that's that. There is nothing more
that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before
and could not speak. I tighten to refuse
your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers. You bruise
against me. We unlearn. I am a shore
rocking you off. You break from me. I choose
your only way, my small inheritor
and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
3.1k
1
Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.
Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.
Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,
Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,
And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.
2
The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra
Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the
Ambulance.
Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Pandora’s box,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.
Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.
Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
In a world of my own construction,
reality bends to my will.
Ancient secrets of ancestral blood
transmute to its inheritor.
The voice of eternity whispers my name,
carried on winds of rolling laughter
to my ear, waiting.
Naive enchantment behind child eyes
is transformed into something magic,
but real; second sight becomes
second nature.
Soon, the joy behind my eyes will return,
forged in inner fire and whetted with love.
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 10:48 PM UTC
Staying in character
playing the charade
disparaging inheritor
of decisions that were made
Sticking to the act
keep up the appearance
less and less intact
searching for coherence
As a strong minded exterior
veils a war torn landscape within
all motives seem ulterior
in a game not meant to win
Trying to drown demons
clawing at the back of my mind
between dreaming and seething
middle ground is hard to find
above the watermark
where the fluid
seeps through the cracks
of this overused shell
a little bit of heaven
above a vast infinite hell
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:20 AM UTC
The ability sincere to not in faith
Waver, to never for once cave in
Like Abraham to Sarah's chocolate
Gift of Hagar--
For by her Midas' touch, she
Turned her own maid to a mistress:
The genesis of a prolong distress--
When God's promises look lingering
Like a night dark and weary,
As pressure like tides keeps rising, but
To tarry still in hope and be decidedly
Waiting for heaven's bright day of reality
Like Joseph when folks, as the but-
Ler chief, are
Excelling in life, marriage and career--
Is verily an uncommon genre of grace,
Especially in this world of rat race.
For man, for comparison and jealousy,
Is no sooner despaired than he'd be
Seeking for an alternative in Ishmael, in-
Stead of waiting more for the blessing
Of a great child Isaac,
Who is the promised son and the only
Inheritor of the land brimming with milk--
Canaan--and dripping with honey.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
*Leaving your home for a time.
Going on an adventure to mysteries places.
Always ending up a chyme.
Seeing all kinds of faces.
Meeting supernatural beings.
Defeating the evil character.
Doing things that always has meanings.
Always free of an inheritor.
Finding the love of your life.
And living happily ever after, and always extending?
Even in their afterlife?
Why never A Horrible Ending?*
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Young and bold he leaped forth,
With the power of youth at his back.
For he was the inheritor of this world
So, willingly he would attack.
Spurred on through the tales of past,
His was the passion of fire,
Deep into the world he charged fast,
Such was his burning desire.
Moving with purpose and haste
He drove forth with ambition and need,
Complete was his care not to waste;
For he was totally freed.
He stumbled, fell and stumbled more
Held by the tacit complicity of life:
He had marched through Hell's great door.
Emerging was his great strife.
He had tossed the key to his lock,
Hurled it away through his greed;
Now was this great block-
Stammering and starting to bleed.
Dark were the storms of his mind,
Festering in loathsome obsession,
Entranced by memories entwined-
Disfigured through utter suppression.
Hollow and totally coarse,
The light that shone brighter than all
Now flickered in total remorse,
Not answering to his previous grand call.
Though through darkness comes light,
Bound by the laws of accession,
So he would not be consumed by the night,
Nor bound by any great depression.
Life is but totally strange;
So he rose up and bowed around
Destined for some great change-
For his was soon to be found.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
Inheritor
Inheritor of life liver of Moment's
to Skipper of day,
of but who else only I I am and can speak for that man,
so then speak your matter’
I choose to skip this matter’/ click they're choose/ /click I'll skip.
Their choose /click
Skip again. /their choose/ click yes that's I and I'm looking for two man? ( two of the crowd yelled as if they must know the higher pitch voice ‘two man’.).
Then on a higher but feather ReSound one of the crowd duplicating the previous but louder ‘Two mann’ as if shock and disbelief. Now everyone gets it! /Click everyone now faces each other just like that /click I'm looking for a keeper and hold man, /click begin staring at each other just like that \click ‘SO'
/Click then just like that ‘hold /click I'm that man/ click great you're coming with me/ click I'm ready /click…….
Just like that click I'm the keeper man /click
You're coming to/ click I'm ready /click my brothers finally.
JOEY DIAZ
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
**** the early bird
Long live the worm
The devourer of dirt
The inheritor of Earth
Peel back the ozone layers
and you'll see no difference
between us and the ants
stuck playing the clone's dance
A mouthful of worth
no matter the curse
The type to land feet first
even when the hearse swerves
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
My daughter was shouting on me for a cause
She was correcting my flaw just clause by clause
I was just listening to her interpretation of laws
I thought I was collecting straws in flower vase
The matter pertained to my brother's widow
Who left us on the tricks of her father and family
And initiated a bogus case in the court to flow
To sail in her stream on our cost to be totally free
I was for her being sole inheritor of my brother
As the rules of army are clear and fair on subject
So why to keep her and ourselves on the altar
We should be love sparing not in contempt strict
Then idea got full support from my daughter
That will of God is supreme to take its own path
Hence we should be right not to be defaulter
We should aspire for mercy and not for the wrath
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
Three climb the hill behind the house:
my master with the yearling cow and
me. The dawn-light
glinting sidelong off the heifer's glossy
hide is a memory of the morning star
reflecting its own shadow. As we
walk out past the fence gate posts
into the winter pasture (now in bloom), the gray
grass swells in the fickle breeze.
I hear the sea swells move across the grain
and splash against my side unrhythmically.
The man, who walks with purpose in his stride,
holds limply wood and steel there at his side
or shifts the load to point into the sky.
The quiet beast, chewing, climbs the hill
from sunrise-side toward its falling down.
I guess she thinks this Eden, (this meadowland
unspoiled) and she the sole inheritor
of a paradise of grain.
But here where we can see the earth
stretch out beyond itself, we pause and tie
the yearling cow to some eternal oak.
The dawn-light in crescendo
echoes off her onyx hide. A crimson sky
offsets a gem of silver on the rise. Now
wood and steel rise coldly through
the chilled mid-morning air. Chewing she
stares down at me her sombre bovine stare.
He raises up his single arm and heavily exhales.
Her stare now without object falls
beside the hallowed tree in rippling
peals of thunder that vibrate
through the dew. She lies where she
belongs upon the earth, black
hide and life-blood mingle with the dirt.
Now two descend the hill into the yard.
My master's path is to the barn
to finish what's been done while I
wrack my mind for how
she might have sinned.
I don't think I will climb that hill again.
I don't think I will climb that hill again...
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
for quite some time now i have been wondering how great men would think, plan and excute things.
what i should've been focusing on is his character.
The battles he fights regularly
his emotional strenghts
his weaknesses.
for he faces them everyday, until the day that his physical body ceases to exists
yet he still remains.
what makes him strong?
though he knows that he is still weak?
though he knows that some of his decisions were fatal, to say the least...
what makes him strong enough to face tomorrow?
or to face his friends and smile?
what makes him push forward
when everything around him:
his friends, relatives, situation
is running the other way...
what makes him walk an extra step? though his kness could've given up
1000 meters ago?
what makes him tick?
is it his pure will
and guts
and instinct?
or maybe, just maybe
he has gotten used to this battle...
that his body is moving involuntarily, to do what is right in the eyes of God
so what makes him tick?
when he is down, and his heart is frail...
what makes him smile?
surely it isnt a fake one
though crying would have been the easier option...
and quitting could have been the easier way out.
how much passion does he have?
so that he could withstand the coldness of every grim
... of being alone in his decisions...
what intensifies him? is it the goal?
what makes a man?
so that he could be strong willed
enough to make sacrifes again
and again and again
that though the earth beneath him is shaking, he still stands firm
so what makes a man... to become a rightful inheritor
of this gift...
which is called "calling"?
i know, i will not age
and lose my eyesight
before i see...
truly see...
and understand
what makes a man.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 4:05 AM UTC
Continuous struggle.
Stevie Ray
"Inheritor of past lives sorrows"
Jump over
my perants past,
huddles,
while I tend to
my own masks
and boroughs.
-What am I-
A tool used for processing?!
A body filled with reflection?!
A straight back that can
carry your recollections?!
An antenna that can project back?!
Your reception?!
I may be transparent
but I am not your imagery!
Empathetic,
I feel you
but don't abuse our synergy!
A two way mirror
so I am not your mimicry!
I am not a water well
for your acknowledgement!
Acknowledge yourself
for a change.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 6:31 AM UTC