Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jon York Mar 4
The magic in this world
seems to work in whispers
and   small   kindnesses.
                                                     ­                                  Jon York   2019
Butch Decatoria Dec 2018
In the land of the wasteful

The flesh is bound to despairing

Unmovable feasts

All dreams dreamt away

In the shallows of sleep

As transient as blood

Orange shades of clarity

In the mind blindly

seeking sun

sincerity and kindnesses

Not those in the land

Of the wasted…

Pain is as hollow and as full as

The hearts of mannequins

When already the broken who pose

Now lets go, passed long ago

Since childhood's end

Not having known

To recognize

Or find oneself

In the beauty of a world

We played pretend.

In the land of waiting

For our sadnesses to end

Waking up alone

After all

In the land of ungrateful men.


(The kind have gone extinct

once again.

The End.)
Time travel is forbidden. So speaks the mind.
Oh hollow Thirst!  

How it drowns out life's liquid scenes,

All treacherous memory now

It dries the tongue;

          When recollection swims with dire aches

          In the stomach lingering

Deserts  

          once oasis-providence:

the ease of us

sifting with the sand

Minutes limpid between caress.

Creation our chalice overflows

Quenching and in each other

Love for water

As the hours go touching vastnesses

To open us / one heavenly sky :

Illuminating you

Both assuage and succor...

But I am drought and man

          Flesh heavy / crawling through

         War's searing hills

         Chafed of what made me fearless . . .

         Once a Traveler discarding haste,

Still Thirsts for those palm trees’ shading moments

Still-pictures of bodies we felt

Still continuously feeling.


It is as though an affliction’s game

To wait

Between search and weaning

No swift elixir

I am just a bare tree leaning.

(praying for love's rain...)


This Thirst is deeper than remembering

The drink that once was Us.


.  .  .  .




Halcyon,

I’m bathing in your adoration,

Nothing so sinful, or minuscule, as to need

Redemptive rinses of the spirit

When we were

As what we only knew how to be,

Ourselves yet together sharing feasts...


Which we lay out for each other

Ceremonious only through the unveiling,

Knowing how to trust in this (which is between us).


Oh How to feed that old hunger, I longed for you,

Love soft mornings dew on skin,

Like when we had the outdoors with our mischief, bodies

Attentive as the grass when we look within…


Those bright eyes that pierce me deeper now

Understanding / how my breath always quivers

With the slight tips of your tender fingers.

Wish makes the body famished and weakened,

Needing

The food from in between kiss and spark

Lovely of smiles that shares heaven’s glee,

In each other’s sensations, feeling the answer

Rather than being told to eat…


The Reveries of wines tasted, the lifting of all things

To a memory, yet not having the full course

Of dining with serenity, finding that destiny

Has yet to begin

When love was the race I was questioning,

Kindnesses were supposedly human,

While dreams came true with happy endings..?


Hunger can make the world seem cruel

When we give up on searching for meaning,

We ourselves make

The feast of All meals

with our believing …
Revised repost
Wishing you were anywhere
But here
Can be
A decent state to be in
If you can still appreciate
The kindnesses you're gifted
Without so much to part with
Or to donate foreign strangers
Who have been on the receiving end
Of their fair share of dangers
When displaced in distant
Destinations
Illuminations
Of the darkest spaces
All too often getting lost
In what I thought
Might find myself again
In Paradises's cost
Another fortune
Disproportionately
My prerogative
Compared to millions out there like me
Who may have much more to give
Than take away
From every goodness sake
And goodest grace
The human race
Seems willing to embrace me with
Despite the dearth they make
A common trait among the masses
I am still content
To exploitate
Nat Lipstadt Sep 24
Unabashedly Public (return of the babies; my broken ribs, Zenith poem)


~for Sue Huff~

“unabashedly public,” the accusation,
causes me no blushing consternation
for it’s true, no secret kept worse, than this,
my sleeves, all outside-stained, heartfelt red,
the poems hide so little, with exception of my multifarious,
multivariate, semi-secret identities y’all mostly ferret out

“had no plans to look you up,”
but you kept sending selected of the eldest children,
even from 2012, I remember an afternoon well,
the odors, the food, my friend Al, now passed,
who made me think, indeed,
where do the poems come from?

a bequest to my eldest, who still never calls,
never writes, but will call me for help when
he finds himself in jail, or needs my (car) services;
its been a couple of years, but suspect time
is on my side, life makes needs, those **** happenstances,
that are never happy, but require your lawful presence

and on and on,

men & women, discovered, by their poetry reveled, revealed,
in thigh highs and backhoes, keepers of tortuous promises,
doing the quiet way, always asking, what’s the honorable thing,
all uncovered here, and secret sharers, these poets grab a holt
of my eye ducts, gifting insights that my brain tearfully inquires,
how did they know that bout me, these new kin and kindred?

my broken ribs?

the knowers know i am a summertime creature.
What they do not know, that on the last day
on where I summer shelter, a thin ring, a tree ring,
appears around my chest, marking my annualization,
some rings thick, thin, a year of seasons, all at different paces,
a year of rain & pain, thicker, slower did it pass

What they do not know, these fateful poets, all of my one faith,
these rings deep go, beyond the surface, constricting contractions,
they tighten, squeezing the lungs, slowing the breadth of my breath,
breaking ribs, reminder to write better, now that time is shortening,
labored breathing is a breathtaking experience, do, be better, chances for kindnesses lessened, why hide, time to be unashamedly public

had no plans to write today, especially this one, but circumstances
of my added-on circumferential measurement appearing, triggered by y’all sending me my poems of long ago, played mind-gotcha, this rambling emerged, to celebrate my being nearer to thee, thee, my passing, nearer than thee, this, me old-crust pieces, cutting the mouth’s soft-inside, inside softness, place where weeping & writing
leak on the poem tongue directly

to live in harmony with the
unending quests that yet, always need doing,
all in, are you, am I, awaiting your best attentions,
giving you thy own reparations, given to yourself;
if this then be my own equinox, autumnal equinox,

when the sun is at zenith, directly above,
the equator, this then my reparation, my

                                          Zenith poem**


9/24/19 12:15p
Oh maybe ten thousand years
will wear a light, a wide light
such as only a few might bear
today - might.
Grace perhaps has visited those few,
purifying them through and through
of violence. But even the blessed
shall not be able to dissolve those countless shadows
that dance malevolently within the breast
of all the struggling and suffering rest.
No careful, methodical inquiry,
no gold or platinum of the intellect
can silence the pre-rational any more
than a puppeteer can be stopped by the puppet.
The intellect will reason this way, that way -
and we may enjoy a prosperous age -
a prosperous and peaceful delay,
bu those shadows, finally, will find a way;
one malevolent deed will suffice to undo
a million kindnesses, one sprouted seed
will be enough for rubble and ****.
My love, we may grow old together yet,
and I hope our love will carry the day
before those shadows find their way...
In our own modest, temporary way
we can beautify what can be beautified
before The Shadow sweeps the far and wide.
sadhealer Mar 22
We are not rude and impolite

It’s the lacking of genuineness

The world has been so unkind

We refused to acknowledge the kindnesses
md-writer Apr 6
Perfidy,
traitorous brother of mine
unseen like splinters
and deeper than mines
unloved, unlovely
a speaker of wind
blow on the coals and
destroy every
friend

crashing far below upon
a shore of molten ore,
that symphony of silence
stares and swiftly
takes the gore

laughing gods of
cruel men,
take and leave no rest
for them
to slave for in the night.

Heart's beat fast
like horses
running from a flood,
to lift all other dangers
far above one burning sun.

Agony lives in those souls
with dry and crusted tears,
layered by the thousands
for the simple
earthen spore.

Life or death, it's spreading
and there's nothing left to do,
unseeing eyes have turned away
and listening ears are
through.

Spitting gods of fire,
sparks,
the infinity of war,
simmers slightly, spatters,
roars,
while scented candles bore.

Deeply into nostrils flared
the sacrifice abhorred
by man and all the kindnesses
of aelven daughters
******
to please a god.

This doubting rustic
truth obscures
no dragon fuels his love
for dreams;
but listing warily
that ship's a parchment breaker,
gone
a far, long way from home

Desire, sweet god,
defining every ordnance,
every lyre's sweet undoing
with sicknesses
of the heavy-laden soul:
deep delight in all
forbidden things
well up, and godly grief cannot
unstopper such a harsh
and human
drugging of the mind.

God! Above! You sit,
we sink; you smile,
we wilt, into the cracking
hopelessness of helpless other men.
Devour us all, you light of glory!
Let the fire of your spirit
shine.

Disgruntled murmurs,
death's gaze green
- the envy of his duty
slipped away by soft
divinity.

All wrong, the world creaks
around the miracle imposed
like so many crystal shards
pressed in and yet
not bleeding.

One of us, you say,
He's come and living,
a miracle of flesh and bones
and spirit-filled
desire

No, you lie.
I won't believe such nonsense,
for the aloes are away,
no sweet syrup salve exists
to balm my broken sores.
You lie.

Devils laugh in whispered
shadows,
lurking just behind the mind,
undoing tiny winglets
from the bodies
of God's flies.

Unimagined terror, and the
worst of your bad dreams,
fall like heartless bits of honey
on the putrid flesh of
these...

...these broken children
sitting huddled up,
bitten off on every side
like the cookie crumbles - gently -
when you **** the sweet
insides.

Happy little dancing feet
will never come again,
not now or ever near to me
I'm dragon-born and
thin.

It's my own curse come back,
my sensible defeat,
the folly of a tongue unchained
with hideous things to speak.

Tearing ribbons off my hand,
I reach up for twinkling sky,
for one last breath of sweet
dear light
before the grant to die.

Unknown above, the stars blink out
the universe is winking;
and false-patterned light comes
closer to the wreckage of my
soul.

The eyes of angels glowing,
the scent of suns unseen,
of walking in the forests of the
long-forsaken sheen.
Planets breath their last - expire -
and stars are broken clean,
but still they slip like shadows
towards this darkened piece of
green.

It's all the last things
that long followed,
all the final thoughts unseen,
as the miracle of flesh and bones
is lifted up and freed.

Lift your eyes up to the heavens,
let my goodness filter clean,
open all the cracking corners
of your god-forsaken being
till the end.

Laughter sounds a bell-toll,
listen for the second strike,
yet the hammer never falls
for I have travelled
into night.

Confusion cramps its
elbows in the corner of my
mind
and the god of heaven's thunder
laughs beside him. He is mine.

Cherry-red,
his wounds are flowing freely,
the ****** balm sweeps over me.
I gasp - the burning agony
of every sting revealed.
Blood for blood and
stripes untold,
every fraction that they hold,
weeps into the ravening
of unforgotten, unforgetting

grace.
April 5
Natalie Bowers Sep 2018
I am the wilted roses in your vases,
I am the stale water in your glasses,
I will always be bittersweet;
A reminder of past kindnesses.
Abandoned by your neglect.
I linger.

— The End —