"kneeled" poems
Old man, you surface seldom.
Then you come in with the tide's coming
When seas wash cold, foam-
Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,
A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
Crest and trough. Miles long
Extend the radial sheaves
Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins
Knotted, caught, survives
The old myth of orgins
Unimaginable. You float near
As kneeled ice-mountains
Of the north, to be steered clear
Of, not fathomed. All obscurity
Starts with a danger:
Your dangers are many. I
Cannot look much but your form suffers
Some strange injury
And seems to die: so vapors
Ravel to clearness on the dawn sea.
The muddy rumors
Of your burial move me
To half-believe: your reappearance
Proves rumors shallow,
For the archaic trenched lines
Of your grained face shed time in runnels:
Ages beat like rains
On the unbeaten channels
Of the ocean. Such sage humor and
Durance are whirlpools
To make away with the ground-
Work of the earth and the sky's ridgepole.
Waist down, you may wind
One labyrinthine tangle
To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,
Skulls. Inscrutable,
Below shoulders not once
Seen by any man who kept his head,
You defy questions;
You defy godhood.
I walk dry on your kingdom's border
Exiled to no good.
Your shelled bed I remember.
Father, this thick air is murderous.
I would breathe water.
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On the ferris wheel we steal a kiss,
careless zeal, no bits amiss,
slip into this, mind and timelessness,
twist wrist, spit lip like starshine, crisp.
Down below the kids get lit,
ripped,
hair wind flipped out,
broke mouths sip doubt,
shout fire-light, ice pout,
grown out the hometown,
grown loud, a fun crowd,
one's got the know how,
the others got the low down,
one shot the sheriff,
then the others hit the ground.
When he shot the sheriff
he kneeled,
we saw it from the ferris wheel.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
You'll notice him in the busy streets of Peru, dodging vendors and laughing like the sun.
You'll notice her at a small diner past 2 a.m, lost in thought, melancholy notes on their smile.
You'll notice him on a cobble corner wearing bold colours and singing about the lives he's lived and the fools he's loved.
You'll notice her on mountain peaks, soaking in the wind with twigs in her hair.
You'll notice him weaving flower crowns and writing in his journals, squinting into the hot sky with dew on his lips.
You'll notice her kneeled on the side of the road, comforting a small animal with the voice of sweet honey.
You'll notice them, dancing at sunset, colours streaking across their face.
You'll notice them running through meadow fields in the early hours of the morning.
You'll notice them laughing like the wind, smiling like velvet, with whispfill sparks in their eyes as they sit by the waves at dawn.
They are the sun and the moon
The sky and the sea
Fire and the ice
They're not likely to tell you who's who,
In fact they're not likely to tell you who they are at all.
But even without the spoken reveal
Even without the clarity of meaning,
When you see them.
You'll notice
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,
that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the hands
that created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,
they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our beds
and swamping them, letting them cough on the sea
and choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you ***** them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.
Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.
Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,
those bodies from before,
and someone might send flowers,
and someone might come to mourn
and it would be in the obits,
and people would know that something died,
is no more, speaks no more, won't even
drive a car again and all of that.
When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?
I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,
weraing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by.
5.6k
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green,
And an off-white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams,
Like leather, like elderly skin, like a crossword puzzle with half the letters filled in,
She sat by me and spilt her sentences and her tea:
She claimed her husband had been killed by a cabal of spiritualists,
Killed by a bull elephant in the streets of Nepal,
Killed by the seven plagues,
And never killed at all,
That he was once a number
Somehow both perfect and prime,
That he was Prime minister of the sea,
And independent of time,
That his bones were cracked marbles
Bought from a widow in Tennessee,
That his name continued to escape her,
But that he looked something like me,
Leaving I saw her wings drag her heavenward,
I saw her terrible wings,
As I stumbled and veered from concrete to tarmac
I heard the pavements start to sing:
“I was once a flowerbed,
My father was a field,
My mother was a source of light,
Before which all the people kneeled.”
Then lost in the eye of daytime and night,
Drawn to the moustache of a Spanish racketeer,
He was once abandoned by his books and his babies
In the boot of a broke-down cavalier,
His pasts and ideas caught up to him,
And gripped him by his belt and his teeth,
His pasts gripped him in quiet of his nightmares,
And slashed his arms in the street,
Visions shook me by the bleeding palm,
Her terrible wings now pinpricks for the moon,
Visions shook me as deities died,
With eyes like a card-trick and fingers like doom,
Then stuck in the endless space between words;
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green;
Stuck in the endless space between words;
And an off white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams...
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
The clouds poured that day
When my mother took me in the church
I kneeled in front of a porcelain Mary
Who glared down in righteousness
So full of herself, i thought.
She should be a figure of strength
A warrior even, made by her virginal status
But you are still porcelain, I snarled
A slight push
And to pieces you go.
In the fear of the Divine
I confessed my sins
Her smile still cold and smirk like
Laughing ay my earthly worries
Dismissing my lonely sorrow.
I looked up again in pain and anger
Smothered by fear and angst
To be met with my mother’s face
Who stood in porcelain
Looking down in righteousness.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 8:45 PM UTC
The owl and the ***** cat***
Were out having tea
After a simple beach side walk
The owl took out a guitar
And sang to kitty brash, kneeled
Before her Crimson chair
A sweet romantic ballad it was
Yet ***** cat was too busy
Observing owl and noticing
What a dainty meal he'd make.
Interrupting his declarations
She stole him away
Under the starry midnight sky
Whereupon in the woods
Her claws she unsheathed
And silenced his poetic display
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
He's the hand I felt on my shoulder as the tornado went over me . He's the one who saved me from choking to death in my own ***** . He's the one who sat beside me on the mountaintop as I cried over my wrongs . And if I ever kneeled before him he would take my hands and raise me so I could kiss his cheek . Who is God ? My best friend who has saved me time and time again . Who understands my limits and my failures but forgives me each and every time . One who is always there for me to lean on when I am tired , lonely , discouraged . One who has shown me heaven and promised a place there for me .
Who is God ? He is in me , my past , my present , and future . I am nothing without my God .
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
For the first time in months,
I prayed
Before my statue of Apollo,
I kneeled
With my candle lit
I held my open palms to the sky
I cried
Before Apollo,
I begged
For the first time in months,
I had to believe
There was something beyond me
That could bring you what you need
May 23, 2023
May 23, 2023 at 8:11 PM UTC
I always pictured this one girl
I drew her out to have this gentle twirl
She would have long brown hair
Running down her back, so fair
She would have pale white skin
One hundred and one hair pins
She would wear the prettiest yellow dress
And she would be perfect for me
But she would tease you with what you could only see
She whispered funny things in your ear
You’re the only one who could hear
While we spend these times in your car
Everything parked and night afar
She would have these lovely curls
Wearing these hidden white pearls
She was what I could only imagine
The thought of her was my one true passion
We would run around with these engaged hands
And land at the beach into these old sands
You said to me, “Stop thinking of me, silly”
I never known what she meant
Until it came to me sent
She kneeled next to me
Gave me this long lasting sad smile with her perfect green eyes
Giving me these last sighs
“You’ll be happy one day, just wait a little longer”
I never had to make such a long ponder
My yellow dress girl vanished from me
Leaving me all alone with this open sea
Those last words took a great toll
Feeling like I was falling down this hole
All my love is genuine
Just love for me is in this pen
I write all these love poems
Hundreds of words for you my dear
I never meant to be so unclear
It’s true I lost you when I needed you the most
Creating these thoughts to stay as my mind host
Distracting these retired emotions
Setting these feelings with inventive motions
Erasing that flower dancing yellow dress
I will not be your tossed away mess
I've always cared for you my sweetheart
I’m just sorry that I broke your gentle heart
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
He kneeled down only to whisper in her ear,
"I can feel you shaking and taste your fear.
Don't let them see you,
don't let them know...
Once they see that you're vulnerable,
they won't let you go.
Who am I?
That, my dear, you know.
I'm trying not to scare you,
take each bit in slow.
Now you understand me;
you can hear it in my tone,
I am the one who sits wise- on the throne."
She suddenly felt comforted and soon, somewhat warm.
She asked no more questions, no longer forlorn.
She followed him solely, latched onto his tail.
She felt if she followed him she could not fail.
She was on fire and everyone saw,
but no one could touch her- they stood there in 'awe'.
She thought that she knew him and joined him in flight.
Away he swept her, straight into the night.
Nobody had words for the deed was done,
the girl was mistaken, the devil had won.
~ short story by me.
© KD
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Intensely, I traced his steps until he met
my eyes, the only gaze I welcome
with a reflection
of light, grey and hue of
excruciating colors—to serve
his mightiness in the forlorn night—
through the fields and the city,
everyone is following him.
Their mouth agape in the sight of
his face peering at his brides—in weeping, in despair, in all forms of wrath—hope and madness.
The moon creeps in the black of the night—with his voice lulling as a whisper, faint like a finger softly lingering its hands on the piano—
through the perilous scheme of the midnight dawn.
He then wept with his brides and kneeled down in front of me.
His linen gown and fur coat covering his silver body and his eyes shriek with only a weeping melody.
He faced me and my heart sank at the sight of him,
“My bride, how come you are facing such a horrible nightmare?”
He said and held my hand,
“Artemia, I am broken by the man whom I love so dearly. I faced death, inferiority, dreamless sleep, and my heart crawled out of my body,”
“Darling, you are a bride of the moon and a man will only love you if they get blinded by the light, and such us, we are the daughters of the night. A man who is in love with the moon, is out there waiting for you.”
He then walked away, faced another midnight with his bride gleaming with hope in the forlorn night, with the light, grey and hue of excruciating colors.
There, I saw how he turns into the god of the night.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 11:02 PM UTC
Once long ago there was a small clan named Kah,
that lived in a cave up a draw, Who at that time,
had yet to discover even fire.
One among them, call him Shire was slightly
brighter than the rest, which is not saying much.
Bah the self appointed leader was a big strong man,
a hunter among men, a good provider.
But a fool in all other matters.
One day Bah returned to the cave with a large green
rock. A rock only different from all other rocks, by it's color.
Bah convinced most of the clan that this one rock was so
special that they all should worship it, get on their knees
and even pray to it, adorn it with bits of meat.
Shire too was a hunter, crafty and skilled, but also a thinker.
In the rock he saw no difference, to him a rock was a rock
and nothing more, although he did admire it's color.
"It's only a ROCK." He told the others and "nothing more!"
The clan was overcome by anger, how dare this one among
them not believe as they did? That night and the next Shire
got no meat, nor any pleasure from the women. Yet still he
pointed out his belief, that the green rock was no different
than any other and he refused to worship it.
The clan turned their collective backs to him, treating
him as if he did not live. Even his wife and children.
Still Shire did not relent, so sure was he in his own belief.
In a rage of Holy Righteous Indignation, Bah picked up the
green rock and smashed it into Shire's head, caving in his
skull. Where upon the green rock broke into many pieces.
As Shire lay bleeding, dying, he picked up a piece of the
shattered green rock and said, "See brothers and sisters,
it is only a rock, and not a very good rock at that."
Bah kneeled down beside his old friend and he too picked
up bits of the broken rock. Then said to his brother, "I am
sorry I killed you friend."
To which Shire's last words were, "I forgive you."
The clan was so inspired by these events that a new
religion was founded, in place of the rock, the dented
skull of Shire became their new thing to worship.
Many years later, one literate among them carved on
the rock alter under the sacred skull,
"He died for our sins".
And so among them grew a legend,
Shire became a God to his people.
Later still, another professed scholar calling
himself a Priest, carved a commanded message
in the face of the rock alter.
**** not a Brother in the cave,
before the eyes of our God Shire.
(Out side however is just fine.")
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
THORNED CROSS OF SCARLET TEARS,
OH HOW THY HAVE KNEELED TO THOU THROUGHOUT THE YEARS.
THOU SMOOTH BEADS THAT SWIRL AROUND THOU NECK OF THE HOLY SON,
OH HOW THY HAVE REPEATED “OUR FATHERS” AND “HAIL MARYS” FOR THOU PATRIARCHAL CREATOR ABOVE.
LOVING HANDS THAT SHALL SHOW THOU THE LADDER TO HEAVEN,
OH HOW THY BELIEVES WINGS WILL PREVAIL OVER THOU TAIL OF SATAN.
CIRCLES OF GOLD AND ASCENDED WINGS,
OH HOW THY AWAITS FOR THOU REDEMPTION THOU SHALL BRING.
FEMININE CANDLES TO AWAIT THOU FEMININE ACT OF BIRTH,
OH HOW THY LIFTS THE FOUR CANDLES FOR ALL THOU IS WORTH.
THE WINE THAT CAME FROM THOU WATER,
OH HOW THY SHALT TELL THOU MIRACLE TALE TO THOU DAUGHTER.
WHITE AND BLUE ROSES OUR LADY OF HELP REQUESTS AT HER FEET FOR HER BIRTHDAY,
OH HOW THY BUYS FLOWERS FOR THOU NEXT TIME THY AND THOU MEET.
HEART PROTECTED BY THE SHIELD OF THE HOLY SPIRIT’S GUIDANCE,
OH HOW THY NEVER BECOMES A VICTIM TO SUBSIDENCE.
WATER THAT SWIRLS INTO THE BLOOD OF CHRIST,
OH HOW THY REMEMBERS HOW THE SON SAVED US IN SIGHT.
BREAD THAT ENTERS THE BODY AND THUS THE SON HIMSELF,
OH HOW THY REMEMBERS TO REFLECT IN THYSELF.
EYES TOWARDS THE SKY IN HOPE OF MIRACLES,
HOW THE LIGHT IN THY VISION RETURNS SYMMETRICAL.
PAIN THAT DISAPPEARS LIKE THE AIR FROM THY LUNGS,
OH HOW THY REJOICES WITH THE WORDS THAT ROLL OF THY TONGUE.
PRAYING FOR THE HOPE THAT THOU SAVIOR PUSHES UNTO THY SOUL,
OH HOW THY GETS CLOSER TO THY GOAL.
REMEMBERING THE GRIM THAT THE CRUCIFIXION CAUSED THE SON WITH GRACE,
OH HOW THY IS STRUCKEN WITH TEARS DOWN THY FACE.
INVISIBLE MORTAL WINGS THAT SHALL ONE DAY BE SEEN AND RISE ABOVE,
OH HOW THY BELIEVES IN THE REDEMPTION BY THE DOVE.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
I used to love the sound of rain
The way it pittered on a windows pain;
The way it patterned on a cobbled lane
I used to love the rain.
You pealed across my sky like thunder
While I, like lightning, zigged and zagged in blunder;
On darkened night you aimed to plunder
But this golden heart had been torn asunder.
I can't account for the ways I've healed
Or which battles on wounded knee I've kneeled;
It's seen on every battle field
The way I've fought, yelled, whispered, & keeled.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
649
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way—
Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too—
But for Holiday
’Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O’er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away—
Never Bride had such Assembling—
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead—
Garland be indeed—
Fitter Feet—of Her before us—
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow—or Trick of Lily
Possibly bestow
Of Her Father—Whoso ask Her—
He shall seek as high
As the Palm—that serve the Desert—
To obtain the Sky—
Distance—be Her only Motion—
If ’tis Nay—or Yes—
Acquiescence—or Demurral—
Whosoever guess—
He—must pass the Crystal Angle
That obscure Her face—
He—must have achieved in person
Equal Paradise—
2.4k
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
2.2k
The guy picked a flower in the garden
He took it carefully into his nose
Inhaled, it deeply and smiled
I wish I was the flower
The photographer kneeled before the flower bed
Take a snap and another after another
He looks at the photos admirably
Adoring its colors, glorifying its beauty
I wish I was the flower
A lover bought a dozen of flowers
He caresses the bouquet carefully
Caring like it was a delicate glass
I wish I was the flower
Flowers in the vase
Day after day after days
The flowers turned old and ugly
The next thing I knew
Flowers were in the bin along with other waste
That's when I knew... I am the flower
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
I was waiting here, for that woman who gave me love
I told them she was my star shining from above
I waited and waited till the midnight bell rang
From my disappointment I sang
*"Everyday I wake up from my dream
And say that was sublime
I wish the clouds could hear
And then they'd cry my tears
Those tears of regret
Just because you fell down and left
And destroyed our dreams and hopes
And all those empty roads
That I had given up just for you
Who made you leave tell me who
I guess I was living in a bunch of lies
Before I ran out of retries"*
We used to walk to a church a couple of miles away
We admired the beauty and kneeled to pray
We liked to visit a park in early spring
I'd push her while she sat on a swing
I don't know what was on my mind
It was her love that kept me blind
The reality, I could not find
With her, I left all my problems behind
I remember the first time we met
It was at a party at sunset
We gazed into each other's eyes
15 years ago, how time flies
The memories pass in my head
I can't remember how many times I've said:
*"Oh Lord, gracious Lord, tell me why
Why did she have to fly
I can feel her spirit crossing seas and rivers
Would you tell me why she left her lover
Without her I'm a blazing sun without calming rain
Without her I'm a man without the blood in my veins
Oh well I wanted to take her to Spain on our honeymoon
And maybe serenade her under the light of the moon
I turned her frowns upside down
She made me wear a golden crown"*
And one winter I remember well
A first lovely snow fell
And after it had covered valleys and mountains
We went and hid in a small cave
Shared our love like we never did
And that ended our story forever
But I'm still waiting for her
Even after the midnight bell rings
I still need to tell her things
Still need to push her on a swing
Still need to gaze into her eyes
But I'm not a god and I have no power
So at her doom stone I placed a flower
p.t.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 6:29 AM UTC
my mother was born a gardener
and my father became one
through patient snap peas and
angry red tomatoes
he seeded and watered and waited
while my mother grew hibiscus in the mountains
and plums in the shade
i was born a painter
but its tank me years to pick up a paintbrush
and my brother was born a poet
but i sincerely doubt that he’ll ever show it
i mix my paints on my palette of flowers
and my brother goes to meetings at banks
My other attended the only Agricultural High School available to her within a 40 mile radius of her South Philadelphia home. This was not a coincidence.
My father attended the best athletic conference in his affluent suburban community. This was.
She started out watering plants in fast food joints, arranging flowers for junior proms in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. When my father met her, she only ate lettuce and seeds because that was all she could manage to put in her body.
My father kneeled to the ground, saw the soil beneath her fingernails, and fell in love.
I can only love men who garden. I can only be a daughter of the earth because of them.
I don’t like terrariums because they frustrate me. Life trapped behind glass, that I cannot touch, or feel, or smell. I cannot water, I cannot fathom to even slightly disturb their existence, no matter how desperately I want to.
I’m getting my hands ***** touching old soil. I wipe it on my skirt before I touch the sweat on the back of my neck. I’m planting forget-me-nots and basil. I don’t even know if those go together. But I am putting them deep in the ground and it occurs to me that in a few weeks, I might not even remember them. They might die and become some stupid memory, a part of my dinner party story vernacular, Or maybe waiting for them will change me, will allow me to commit as a meditation on earthen peace.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
When I was younger I told my mother
"Yo quiero ser como tu cuando crezca"
She kneeled down and said
"No"
I remembeer when I was younger
I looked up to my mother and I dreamed,
of the day I would grow up and be just like her.
She would always say "No"
Hasta que un día, me canse y le grite
"Cuando crezca voy a ser igualita a ti!"
She kneeled down and said
"Tu vas a ser mucho mejor que yo!"
I remember the first time I talked to my mom in english
"A mi me hablas en español!"
The first time I asked if I could go to a sleepover,
"Que no tienes casa o que?"
The first time I asked her permission to go on a fieldtrip
"Entonces para que te mando a la escuela?"
And the first time,
I told her I wanted to go to college,
"Pues a ver como le hacemos pero esta bien"
I remember her eyes, slightly dissapointed
Not at me, but at herself.
She wanted to give her daughter, only the best!
She wanted me to have the chances she never got
She wanted me to be better than her.
I don't remember:
A day that she didn't work
A day she didn't cook
A day she didn't say
"Echale ganas mija"
I do remember:
When she dropped me off at college,
She smiled and said,
"Eres como yo!"
"Eres como yo!"
Trabajadora,
Luchona,
No te rindes,
Humilde,
Sensilla,
Generosa,
Amorosa,
y Valiosa! "
Aug 7, 2020
Aug 7, 2020 at 10:19 AM UTC
A stone monolith sits in the middle of a frozen field. It has seen many a eon, many civilizations fall and rise, many many years in it's cold position. Its face once that of a mighty god or a worshiped king, is all that remains. It's chiseled grimace forever juxtaposed on its stony countenance. Throughout its still existence, this grimace never disappears. All times will this grimace will endure.
The snow falls down over its impenetrable skull. It bears no notice, only surreal patience, as it slowly awaits oblivion. Oblivion! All its thoughtless mind are set on it, forever counting the days it does not know with numbers it does not know. There is no comfort here. All is frozen, all is cold. It had never chosen to lay here, yet lay here it must.
Eternally till it is dust, it is counting with numbers it does not know the days it does not know. It reminiscences on past events it witnessed, but does not recall. The wars, the disasters and the plagues.... It has bared through all with the same grimace as the creatures subjected to the horrors kneeled before it in reverence, offering it sacrifices and soul. It towered above these pitiful creatures, it watched with eyes that do not see as they trembled in its wake, following orders it did not speak. Ignoring prayers it did not hear.
So obediently did these creatures obey what it did not say! Dutifully did they destroy their own and all around them. Faithfully did they create this ****** field of barren nothingness, thee circumspect watchers of the monolith's will. An empty scourge to what once was. Beautiful landscapes of yesteryear now turned from sprawling green to turn into frozen ash, forever recounting the final moments of misery on this lifeless realm, a misery that surrounded the monolith in its final days. Consistently reflecting off of its stone grimace before it all faded away with the last life.
As the eternal years past and the amaranthine smog lies overhead, the monolith sits in the middle of a frozen field. There is no comfort here. The snow has turned to thermonuclear ash years ago. All is frozen, all is cold. It had never chosen to lay here, yet lay here it must.
Quietly it does. Frozen in place, in a frozen field where nothing grows. The strong face of monolith is all that remains. The face surveys the empty landscape before it forevermore.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
2 am,
you slept,
knees curled in towards your chest,
a ball,
trying to protect the fragile bones
lying there.
3 am,
you cried,
gripped your pillow tight,
begged for the lost to come back.
4 am,
you showered,
cleaned the sweat from your
achy limbs.
tried to scrub
the sadness from your hair.
5 am,
you made tea,
looked at a picture of them,
and wept.
6 am,
you walked,
flowers in one hand,
a book of poems in the other.
7 am,
you kneeled like a pastor
besides their grave,
prayed for deliverance,
prayed to see their eyes,
just once more.
8 am,
you read to them,
love stories,
you told them about your adventures,
and how you aren't doing so well.
9 am,
you slept with your hands
dug in the dirt,
wishing you could dig them out
and hold them in your arms.
10 am,
you gathered your things,
and walked back alone.
11 am,
you flopped yourself on the bed,
you wished you were dead.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC
oh ****
i just had
another thought.
when kaepernick
kneels
to express
distress at his
country's
injustices
against
minorities,
(and for christ's sake
if you believe
there is no injustice
then i don't know
what to say to you)
in a quiet,
legal,
non-violent
expression,
a demand
for unity,
equality,
he is booed.
made fun of.
called
a traitor.
entitled.
disrespectful.
unpatriotic.
everyone loses
their godforsaken
minds
because a black
man
with money
kneeled.
for fuck's sake, people
wake the
**** up.
you know
what's disrespectful?
violence.
inciting violence.
you know
what's unpatriotic?
denigrating
entire groups
of human
beings.
entitled?
if equality is
special treatment
then i guess so.
i'm bout ready
to take the
******* knee
myself,
seeing the
rampant,
jovial
racism,
sexism,
classism.
the absolute
pride
people in
my country
are taking
in marginalizing,
dehumanizing,
belittling,
assaulting.
it's disgusting.
without a doubt
i will take
the *******
knee.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC