"inviolate" poems
Long lost time stretches blacked out questions and
white
in the place where it should have been
A triple threat of time, continuation, and displaced memories
Backtrack
Slapped back into the
black again
I know it's a sin but I ******* love it
Push it, shove it down, choke on the smoke and the fumes of the ancient
Wisdom is the loss of purity
Awakened
Ravaged
Blended back into the swirling twirling Universes, such perverse pleasure in the pain of it all
I love to fall
The wind in your face, blend it with a trace of sweat and blood as it all
clicks
into
place.
I love the taste
Blasphemous and decadent, giving in and giving out to **** it all back in again
RISE and FALL
I grin a bladed smile all the while, never minding the cries
Such pleasure as it dies
All taint of purity reviled
Desecrate the sacred, mutilate this inviolate aspect of creation
Only a seed of destruction contained within the potential
I see and I lust and I take and I ****
Not a drop of precious life spilled
Without cause
The laws remain, rise and fall, rise and fall,
I saw it all and then I sought a call of FLAW
For in the impurity lies perfection
An insecure dissection speaks the truth
As I now lie and speak to thee uncouth
I regret the best was yet to be
Blinded stumbling through Infinity
....just let it be.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright,
Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light,
Whom God Himself has deign'd to robe in white—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who follow through the wild
His sacred footprints, as a little child;
Who strive to keep their garments undefiled—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who commune with the Christ,
Midst holy angels, at the Eucharist—
Who aye seek sunlight through the rain and mist—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they—the strong in faith and grace—
Who humbly fill their own appointed place;
They who with steadfast patience run the race—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who suffer and endure—
They who through thorns and briars walk safe and sure;
Gold in the fire made beautiful and pure!—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they on whom the angels wait,
To keep them facing the celestial gate,
To help them keep their vows inviolate—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they to whom, at dead of night,—
In work, in prayer—though veiled from mortal sight,
The great King's messengers bring love and light—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they whose labours only cease
When God decrees the quiet, sweet release;
Who lie down calmly in the sleep of peace—
Blessed are they!
Whose dust is angel-guarded, where the flowers
And soft moss cover it, in this earth of ours;
Whose souls are roaming in celestial bowers—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they—our precious ones—who trod
A pathway for us o'er the rock-strewn sod.
How are they number'd with the saints of God!
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they, elected to sit down
With Christ, in that day of supreme renown,
When His own Bride shall wear her bridal crown—
Blessed are they!
7k
***Your home is still here, inviolate and certain.
Thank you, oh Lord, for the white blind light.
Jumped, ****** born to suffer.
Made to undress, in the wilderness.
Our love so found a safe niche
Where we can store up riches and talk to our fellows,
In the same premise of disaster.
Thank you, oh Lord, for the white blind light.
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of God,
wandering, wandering a hopeless night.
Moonshine night, mountain village insane in the woods,
in the deep trees, in the deep trees, in the deep trees.
Your home is still here, inviolate and certain.
Oh, I want to be there, I want us to be there,
oh I want to be there, beside the lake, beneath the moon,
Cool and swollen, dripping its hot liquor.
I want to be there.
Thank you, Lord, for the white blind light.
A city rises from the sea.
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of God,
Wandering, wandering a hopeless night.
Let me show you the maiden with wrought iron soul.
Out here in the perimeter, there are no stars.
Out here we're ******
Immaculate.***
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
promised you a new love poem
every day till forever arrives,
for it will until then to
exhaust the crazy no limit ways to communicate
how my love for you consumes my
fragility, uncovering my core of strength,
that is never exposed, but for/to you,
but for/to you
*my unidimensional surface
unpierced,
no one sees what you x-ray,
and I fess willingly, with ease of mind,
that my secrets are safe stored best within
the borderless country where our ven
diagrams of souls
intersect with iron & steel & titanium
ribboned lines of inviolate invisible
pure white*
*here I stop
lest I die of bursting,
and yet I weep
for us,
for
you,*
no longer
read my poetry
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 12:19 PM UTC
Slapdash into the ****** pan
Is thrown the longed-for son of man.
Between the gossiping cups of tea
God attains mortality.
In the cathedral calm and cold
Kneel the erroneous-memoried old.
But in the womb's cathedral calm
The walls collapse in a birth psalm.
The blood sings from the soiled hand
The apprentice cleans at the washstand.
Undismayed by omission,
For everything, everything is won.
The proof blazes in impudence
Above the miopics of science,
Swaggering in love inviolate,
Over the uninitiate.
And over all the angels dart
Like squadrons in a war apart.
Dropping parachutes of bliss
On everything that is.
3.7k
Forgetting is the only clarity.
It was a day of forgetting.
No unquiet dreams or
casual reunions with the dead
who wander the halls of sleep,
the bodies of someone else’s loss.
No ghosts in the gazebo.
No echoes in the fading light.
Exiting sleep’s empty waiting room,
She woke. Blue sky blinked into her eyes.
The room’s climate began to clear.
There was writing on the wall.
Old fragments came to closure.
The windows slowly turned to mirrors.
She fiddled. She soared.
She played with her ancestors’ building blocks.
She lent a myth to god.
She stood in a garden with five black stones.
She foretold an eclipse,
Burned the witch of winter,
Stepped in the same river twice.
The moment froze.
Then there it was.
The compound inviolate paradox
at the heart of things,
the answer flickering in light and shade,
to the sound of a child’s voice,
then the roaring wind.
She chuckled as it faded to a point of light
then vanished, like the picture on an old TV,
Like the moon shrinking into the alarm clock’s face.
Her breath brewed clouds above her forehead.
She sat aloof in the empty air,
Alone in the immense morning,
At rest in this inviolable disconnection,
the clear cold innocence of now.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
1385
“Secrets” is a daily word
Yet does not exist—
Muffled—it remits surmise—
Murmured—it has ceased—
Dungeoned in the Human Breast
Doubtless secrets lie—
But that Grate inviolate—
Goes nor comes away
Nothing with a Tongue or Ear—
Secrets stapled there
Will emerge but once—and dumb—
To the Sepulchre—
2.8k
It was not when temptation came,
Swiftly and blastingly as flame,
And seared me white with burning scars;
When I stood up for age-long wars
And held the very Fiend at grips;
When all my mutinous body rose
To range itself beside my foes,
And, like a greyhound in the slips,
The Beast that dwells within me roared,
Lunging and straining at his cord. . . .
For all the blusterings of Hell,
It was not then I slipped and fell;
For all the storm, for all the hate,
I kept my soul inviolate!
But when the fight was fought and won,
And there was Peace as still as Death
On everything beneath the sun.
Just as I started to draw breath,
And yawn, and stretch, and pat myself,
-- The grass began to whisper things --
And every tree became an elf,
That grinned and chuckled counsellings:
Birds, beasts, one thing alone they said,
Beating and dinning at my head.
I could not fly. I could not shun it.
Slimily twisting, slow and blind,
It crept and crept into my mind.
Whispered and shouted, sneered and laughed,
Screamed out until my brain was daft. . . .
One snaky word, "What if you'd done it?"
And I began to think . . .
Ah, well,
What matter how I slipped and fell?
Or you, you gutter-searcher say!
Tell where you found me yesterday!
2k
Your door is shut against my tightened face,
And I am sharp as steel with discontent;
But I possess the courage and the grace
To bear my anger proudly and unbent.
The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,
A chafing savage, down the decent street;
And passion rends my vitals as I pass,
Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.
Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour,
Deep in my wrathful ***** sore and raw,
And find in it the superhuman power
To hold me to the letter of your law!
Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate
Against the potent poison of your hate.
1.8k
Come softly
silver rain, come
softly now my thoughts,
heavy as October's reddest hue
in hours shed these patched conceits
of dry leaves, curled
along the Summer road,
become some vast appalling wilderness...
Your hands, an Autumn dream,
cast a thick red sap
upon the swollen planes of my body,
crouch in a stealth pathos
of grey leopard cells,
as they well, wild with faith
and thirsty prayer...
Come away
from these stale Summer breads,
for your kisses
are a much softer fate
than wisdom, come
the ease of rain, softly
silver rain...
Stay the solemn night
with leaves, bedeck
my perilous flesh,
let it ascend
its grey latitudes
in blizzards of dogwood,
kindling songs on paperchains...
My hands,
string an alphabet
of silence, tied
by hours of rope,
inviolate, palms
clasped to glass, two
hummingbirds, quiet...
Stilled, joined, unbind
to close into fists, come Autumn
the season of bearing,
the rich red earth darkens and drinks
our tears, and now, never
the ease of rain, falling,
come softly,
softly silver rain....
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
FAR-OFF, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In Druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred moms had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods:
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless
years,
Until he found, with laughter and with tears,
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?
1.7k
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes
See nothing save their own unlovely woe,
Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,—
But that the roar of thy Democracies,
Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
Mirror my wildest passions like the sea
And give my rage a brother—! Liberty!
For this sake only do thy dissonant cries
Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings
By ****** knout or treacherous cannonades
Rob nations of their rights inviolate
And I remain unmoved—and yet, and yet,
These Christs that die upon the barricades,
God knows it I am with them, in some things.
1.5k
don't worry about fate darling,
even if she got it bad for you
don't worry about things breaking,
even if I'm not there to fix it for you
for even fate follows her foreseen immutable road,
while you push on looking for some inviolate abode.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 9:48 AM UTC
Come softly
silver rain, come
softly now my thoughts,
heavy as September's reddest hue
in hours shed these patched conceits
of dry leaves, curled
along the Summer road,
become some vast appalling wilderness,
your hands, an Autumn dream,
casts a thick red sap
upon the swollen planes of my body,
crouched in a stealth pathos
of grey leopard cells,
as they well, wild with faith
and thirsty prayer,
come away
from these stale Summer breads,
for your kisses
are a much softer fate
than wisdom, come
the ease of rain, softly
silver rain,
stay the solemn night
with leaves, bedeck
my perilous flesh,
let it ascend
its grey latitudes
in blizzards of dogwood,
kindling songs on paperchains
my hands,
string an alphabet
of silence, tied
by hours of rope,
inviolate, palms
clasped to glass, two
hummingbirds, quiet
stilled,joined,unbind
to close into fists, come Autumn
the season of bearing,
the rich red earth darkens and drinks
our tears, and now, never
the ease of rain, falling,
come softly, softly silver rain....
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
in the half light
of the whole day; dozing
where the marsh plods clottly
but the pond scums slowly.
you can spare no moral
when your tall tale's
growing.
but you sift slop oddly
through the rot god's
nothing.
II
Fugue ahead. Caution.
III
On thin air, thick tongues and brick lungs scrum
for balloons and ruinous truth, teething batter and gum-shoes
attuned to less violence, but inviolate, if only for the fist
in the violets. the pugilist in the plums. Or maybe -
the cancerous rhinoceros
in the plasticity
of a knows job
goblin.
you tell me.
no problem.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Love has no memory
Save of itself, resisting
Intrusion into any realities
Beyond its senses,
Denying the existence of anything
Inviolate to the sanctity of
Its treasured illusions and delusions.
Pleasant memories; no confusions
Nor doubts about how beautiful,
How sweet it really was--
Love has only the memory of
How things should have been.
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 1:09 PM UTC
Until Now
You have taken the words from my own
You are the pedals in my poem
A riddle wrapped in a rose
Cherry pie a la mode
A garden of poppy prose
Poppy I have waited for so long
Followed the primrose path
Running along to your song
Swung from the branches of your stanzas
Hidden in honeysuckle extravaganza
Picadillos and innuendos
Abound
Words sprung from fertile ground
Budding images messing
A delicate balance
A lover’s dalliance
A vineyard
Of the triggered and the inward
Thickets of thorny morning glories
Questing bouquets of lily days
Where daffodils
Are dressed to ****
And a single rose grows
Inviolate
Yet
Stem to stern
I have felt the male fern
And the grass burn
And the willow cry
And the dragonfly fly by
In the blink of an eye
But I have never ever felt you.
Until now.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 1:11 PM UTC
1402
To the stanch Dust
We safe commit thee—
Tongue if it hath,
Inviolate to thee—
Silence—denote—
And Sanctity—enforce thee—
Passenger—of Infinity—
1.2k
I do not underestimate mysellf. More importantly, I do not underestimate the poor of Earth. They have been enslaved, abused, scorned, starved, left homeless and uneducated to this very day. Yet they persevere. Notwithstanding, they bring new life into this world, their babies, their children. Each is sacred. Their divine worth is inviolate. But those who currently rule the world are impervious to their suffering and are unaware of the great, fatal, inevitable result they will encounter because of their moral blindness. There will be, sooner than later, an uprising of the poor of Earth. There will be no guns, no bombs, no killings, no wars, because this ascendancy is spiritually preordained. And the poor will no longer be poor. They will share equally with all others the good of Earth. And this horror of millennia will come to an end. It is already beginning to happen as I write. Rejoice!
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 4:35 PM UTC
***So weak is the mind
That the heart feels drained
Evaporating love in respire
Pretending inviolate love
Has a place here
Ascension of the soul
Negated by nocturnal verbosity
Insipid words of discontent
Exacerbated by the irrationality of emotion***
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:51 AM UTC
He tasted love with half his mind,
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling
This bitter seed among mankind;
That could the dead, whose dying eyes
Were closed with wail, resume their life,
They would but find in child and wife
An iron welcome when they rise:
'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine,
To pledge them with a kindly tear,
To talk them o'er, to wish them here,
To count their memories half divine;
But if they came who past away,
Behold their brides in other hands;
The hard heir strides about their lands,
And will not yield them for a day.
Yea, tho' their sons were none of these,
Not less the yet-loved sire would make
Confusion worse than death, and shake
The pillars of domestic peace.
Ah dear, but come thou back to me:
Whatever change the years have wrought,
I find not yet one lonely thought
That cries against my wish for thee.
1k
Lonely vigil, nigh on midnight,
Stars above and earth below,
Sacred silence, dark inviolate,
Seated in the fire’s glow.
Dreaming of a lover’s whispers,
Dancing with her memory,
Drowning in a sea of roses;
Drinking in the melody.
Breathing, touching, soft caresses,
Sweetest honey, strongest wine,
Whispered vows, that sweet assurance:
“I am yours, and you are mine.”
All is fleeting, air and ashes;
Tears ahead and oaths behind,
Fire burning down to nothing,
How could I have been so blind?
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:48 AM UTC
She said in a dream:
You act all tough and mighty
You walk as though you are inviolate
You talk as if you do not care
You utter words that pierce through my soul
All the while you do not care.
You do not feel what I feel for you
You hang up as if to quickly call another
But baby I see you
I love you, and your dangerous ways excite me
Your lustful eyes invite me
I see through you
Beyond the player camouflage
Deep within that bitter-solid heart.
I see you, I see beauty
The colours of your soul overwhelm and confuse me
Your strong embrace makes my heart jump for joy
Your embrace eases me to express the scent of my love for you
Fumes of romance-scented perfume blaze searching for the essence of you
Do you not know how much I need you?
Every meal is an illusion for I hunger for your breath
I long for your presence
I thirst for your kiss
The love stage is vacant waiting for dancing lips
Come to me as you are
Come to me truly
Do not leave gaps in magic
Do not let these feelings fall into slumber
For I see beneath the mask you hide under.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 9:05 AM UTC
Guarding the door,
like a bulbus Heimdall,
a blank pumpkin sits,
internally unhallowed,
without gashed gaping maw,
nor knife-notched nose,
nor eyeslits: triangular and odious.
Its inertia, serendipitous,
not for a moment did it greet
children asking
"Treat-or-Treat?!";
Never a one did it glow for.
Encased within, like
those stringy pumpkin guts,
is the puckish Pagan spirit,
craving bones ablaze in a fire;
Lost Loves manifested as moonlit
flaxen apparitions,
finding them Angelic
(yet unchanged),
easily as a ring
found in barmbrack.
A return to the turnip.
Ambling along ferns
rusted that same shade of pumpkin,
pondering the dead, and where
I long for them to reside now;
Rose, with her heaven,
Ryan, his Valhalla.
To each their Kingdom
of eternal inviolate peace.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 1:28 PM UTC
Prizes, awards, ribbons?
How about a kiss, a hug, a "thank you,"
a memory instead, knowing inside
that you remained true to yourself,
to the inner worth that is in everyone,
sacred and inviolate?
The prizes, awards, and ribbons
remind me of the shiny stars
your 3rd-grade teacher stuck
on your paper after you had answered
all the addition problems correctly.
We have turned our existence inside-out.
We still do not know the locus of our worth,
which is within each of us.
Shakespeare and Michelangelo--
how many prizes and awards and ribbons
did they win? No wonder Hemingway
shot himself dead in Ketchum,
as have so many others.
Remember always the poem is the prize.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 1:33 PM UTC