"lapsed" poems
a desire to know
every muscle
governing the movements
in your face
that bring smile
from lapsed synapse
explodes from my meridians
with your name
on the lips of every
captain to my ships
in hopes that my tired thoughts
could find a home
in a harbor not far from your heart
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
so someone remarks and thus a poem commissioned...
*a better world, a wish no one can turn a back to...
a literacy of mine own, a bridge too far...
but such a lie too glorious to ignore...
blessed be the wisher for he gave this day
water and wine to a lapsed Jew who reincarnates
the containership of body and soul from the Star of David,*
it,
burr~etched upon his chest, and embraces lost tourists
who unfated unfazed stumble
upon the guide dog of his verbal chicanery and funny bone,
smiling for as long as it takes to cross that last bridge,
nearer our god, you than me..
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
1540
As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away—
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy—
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon—
The Dusk drew earlier in—
The Morning foreign shone—
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that would be gone—
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.
5.4k
My spine is broken from the burden of your ungrateful heart, I have shrugged shoulders to the girls who can walk into the kitchen, just to nod my head to the girl who waits to be served on the dining table, I have swam beyond seas just to drown in your heart, I have betrayed my credibility towards the streets I was raised just to follow the path that leads to your happiness, I have chased all of my dogs at the gate so you can visit anytime, you remember when I found you drunk in careless hands at the club? Then I embraced all the shame and welcomed you in my hands, I no longer see the essence of visiting mama every weekend, cause I've always dedicated my time to you, I have lapsed the doctrines of upholding holiness just to sin for you, now all these broken promises, overflowing tears and unpromising future, you have caused all this because you are ungrateful, and before this coffee hits the surface of my cup, ill make sure this love chokes you and see if you are worth it.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
I lapsed my opportunity on loving you, and now I am all alone.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS
The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Where did they get
Them two fine cars?
Insurance man, he did not pay--
His insurance lapsed the other day--
Yet they got a satin box
for his head to lay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Who was it sent
That wreath of flowers?
Them flowers came
from that poor boy's friends--
They'll want flowers, too,
When they meet their ends.
Night funeral
in Harlem:
Who preached that
Black boy to his grave?
Old preacher man
Preached that boy away--
Charged Five Dollars
His girl friend had to pay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
When it was all over
And the lid shut on his head
and the ***** had done played
and the last prayers been said
and six pallbearers
Carried him out for dead
And off down Lenox Avenue
That long black hearse done sped,
The street light
At his corner
Shined just like a tear--
That boy that they was mournin'
Was so dear, so dear
To them folks that brought the flowers,
To that girl who paid the preacher man--
It was all their tears that made
That poor boy's
Funeral grand.
Night funeral
In Harlem.
4.2k
I dream of rigged lacrosse matches
won in 4th quarter
overtime
of chess games won with en passant
(what exactly is that?)
of horses falling at the first hurdle.
I dream of Martian landscapes
through sand-dunes of heartache
because as a child, at McDonalds
I was never allowed a milk shake,
while in my waking hours I have
absolved a multitude of sins for
lapsed nuns, ringmasters and troubadours.
I have filmed riots,
marathons and abortions.
I have seen things
pickled in jars
holding open heavy doors.
I have tried,
like an idiot
to commit all this to
memory.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:15 PM UTC
It was June and not summer,
Splashy, muddy, slimy,
wind-kissing roads of Chennai in sight,
I hear, "Jennifer, Jennifer."
Aloysius' wife answers in.
Break - in the movie, I sip my coffee.
Water was rising in the southernmost state of India,
Destruction or development,
Recovery or renovation,
Right words struggled to meet right arms,
Jennifer and Aloysius buffered in the background,
House I was not in was sinking.
I stopped watching snowflakes in the Americas,
Wished for a sun-feast in Kerala,
I lapsed to places sitting at the window pane,
Netflix didn't help the cultural fix.
here, thoughts succumbed, coffee mug dried up.
While uninvited ants,
swept my coffee off the sugarcoat...
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 12:42 PM UTC
In my nightmare, I was standing in the dark.
The wind bellowing around me, like somone screaming.
I was told to lift the mountain with my bare hands and not leave until I did so.
My insides lit up like a little sun was there, threatening to burn me up.
Sour claws of nausea rip my innards, as if they were teeth gnawing on my raw flesh, being burnt by the sun within.
Ignore it.
It will pass if I focus on the task.
That was my first mistake.
Still, dug my fingers in the ground and began to lift.
Hands began to burn and scream, sweat turned to smoke and muscle strained.
Teeth gritted, I pushed passed the pain, focused on the mountain and I.
Smoke mixed with the wind and the darkness and the screaming, bellowing through the nightmare.
The Sun burns hotter.
Mustered up every ounce of strength I could.
And I lifted.
Heaved the heavy mountain up to the Heavens.
The pain shook through my body until.
Finally the mountain and earth separated and the void between is quickly filled with air.
The weight pass from my hands to my shoulder.
I had done it.
At last almost Atlas-like.
Standing there, mountain remaining on shoulder.
But now what?
The sun still burned, hotter than ever, that blasted furnace.
And in the moment, my attention did lapsed and my body slacked, prelude to the collapse.
What was I thinking?
The wind screamed around me and I began to shake in the dark.
A fake Atlas, with the weight on his shoulder unbearable.
The pressure was too much, too heavy, and too late to do anything.
And the sun burns on.
I want to run to the nearest pier and jump, to disappear beneath the waves.
Stop the burning, end the atrophy of my muscles.
I’ve done unhappy deeds and now I want the most human of needs.
The end to my pain.
That’s the truth.
I yearn for it.
The sun burns still
I let go of the weight and allow gravity to do its job.
Flattened as the mountain was reunited with the earth.
Thought I could carry the world on my shoulder, but I am no Atlas.
I can't even carry a mountain.
I tried and look where I am now.
I am shattered.
Brittle bones becomes broken and turn to dust.
I have given all I got, thrown in the lot.
Soon my skin will rust and rot away.
Soon there will be nothing left to sustain such a fire but the sole desire for rest.
The sun within continues to burn me.
Until I am nothing but smoke, bellowing in the wind.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
Pencil lapsed over paper, strokes struck blank.
Curves raced up and down the stairs, lines longed to curve.
Loops eloped to a wedding
Spirals sprung out,
Dashes dashed,
Crosses squares with circles
Triangles jumped over rectangles
Ovals wove throughout
Dot was left to point out
The empty blank around him
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
Open the door
Enter the time that lapsed
Draw out the curtains
There is light from the past
Breathe the air
Dance to the tunes slow and fast
Ride the carriages
Travel to the time of chance
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future sees
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word,
That walk’d among the ancient trees.
Calling the lapsed Soul
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might controll.
The starry pole;
And fallen fallen light renew!
O Earth O Earth return!
Arise from out the dewy grass;
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumbrous mass.
Turn away no more:
Why wilt thou turn away
The starry floor
The watery shore
Is given thee till the break of day.
2k
Whenever I close my eyes
All I can see is your painful goodbyes
Every time I try to cover my ears
All I can hear is you walking away with your fears
You just left me hanging with your promises
I even gave you a thousand and one chances
Why can't you accept our differences?
And then, you left and I shattered into pieces
You easily forgotten what is "us"
And here I am, still waiting for that stardust
Which will make you come back
And refill the moments that we lack
We are now moving onto different places
Your feelings really evanescence
I should be happy for you now
Even though you left me with your broken vow
Time had lapsed so fast
I am still haunted by our awful past
Because even though you made me mew
My heart still craves for you
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
we are windows with lapsed insurance but see fine print where there is none
and that makes us innocent pillagers. the village learns to ween the system
from an iron fist to adopt an irony. but i digress, where the last appearance
gypsied the locals with petulant integers. the riven burn ! to clean the wisdom
of our schadenfreude. the image turns to ravine
the slender
isthmus.
but
pry it
from the
vapor
you can
knot.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
Go, my friend, to Tbilisi, where the War of Roses was won. Run the mountainsides and fall into the canyons of lapsed eons. Sunk in the valley wide, past huddling of trees that open and yawn, sprinkles a misting of sunny, dewy rocks where a certain party of gypsies gather. You will only find them there after the picking of the cherry orchards, and if they welcome you, they will feed you their cherry soup. It will intoxicate, but no more than the captivating dance of cherry stained aprons you may be privileged to witness. Dark haired and dark eyed sultanas, ****** from healthy eating and laboring, do motion a curvilinear spell. Band with the men of that tribe, if they will have you. Let them choose for you, a server of cherry soup. Though cherry season is short, your life will lengthen.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
She had a tongue that could open a wine bottle.
Razor-sharp articulation.
A fine art, some might say.
Living sentences on a knifes-edge.
It started in a unblunted manner,
The force hit smacked splintered minds like a hammer.
Honed in cuspate motions,
Incisively smashing the nail on the head.
She wasn’t wrong often.
Vivacious wit vivid oscillating witch,
some might say.
Not I.
I followed in the downstream of her resonance.
A quivering wreck,
soaked from head to toe in her libretto.
She marched in stilettos,
locomotive tip-toe motion,
devotion to the traverse.
Deviating as s he ambulated across lurid cobbled paths.
How she manages, alas.
Evades my comprehension.
She had this brunt agitation,
as if,
she couldn’t hear the words you say to her.
Maybe it was her nescient nature.
A think naive conversant,
If only it was that simple.
Those dimples on her cheeks were like craters in the moon.
That cheesy laugh fractures.
She escaped from Alcatraz,
Caught only by the dereliction,
of her minds conviction.
Infamy lapsed,
as she collapsed in a pretzel of marvellous contortion.
She radiantly turned to stone,
a statuesque stanza.
Cloned in allure,
that never found answers she was looking for.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
Places that once had names
changed by wind and rain
and sun and shifting sands
once mapped and framed
bad lands claim
dry bones.
Desert meets sky
and rivers run dry
and road is lost
to all who try
to find their way
to shining pools
of silver lies
miraged below
forgetful skies.
Days go past in time lapsed
skies changing fast to black
to red to blue to white
and back again
to no end
in sight.
r ~ 4/7/14
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Where do you get off
saying such things so aloft
Things you don't deserve
words you didn't earn
Forcing feelings I cannot stand
This was never my plan
How could you be this way?
Twisted, such a poor display
of all we have been taught
who could've ever thought
We'd end up here
Feelings so severe
I can't go back.
panic attack.
Dec 14, 2021
Dec 14, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
The city is shut, sparing its prey until tomorrow. Night rules, dreams creep down the street, eyes dead
Her poised being is the center of universe, that girl
She is loath to beg yet for the twenty fourth time of the night she sings out, God?
It’s two in the morning and they are sitting at the balcony, God and her, both holding a cigarette
Mother and father are in screaming colors but she is, only, the darkest blue
Two of them are contradiction, a vexing rendezvous but they yearn for each other so once in a while they talk
People talk
A boy across the house is found dead
Parents roaring, raging, crashing the ground, he’s wearing a pair of new basketball shoes. Blue.
He is one of million, a delicate kind, very comely, a subtle presence. Neighbors murmur maybe God
fell in love, maybe God enraptured by the boy. But God is peeking behind the closed door with the girl
Between their fingers still a burning cigarette
Maybe it’s the taste of Marlboro Red, the girl
wishing an epiphany, a revelation, for its been too long, the girl and God
writing each other’s eulogy. The girl has been dead for God and God has been dead
for the girl, ruptured for a very long time, there’s no way back. No long talk
can fix the burn of cigarette,
the eternal crippling affliction taped up in every cavity inside the holy temple of their body
A lady in the house with doors and windows painted blue
is murdered. She was having a dalliance and neighbors talk
behind their open bible. God cringes, God recoils, her god is a beige-tied, cigarette
scented with hair slicked back. She was in his thrall, calls her name in a mesmerizingly fetching way making her girl
again, an ingénue with a pair of chatoyant eyes. Bodies clashing, her muse, they fuse, he choose to ruse, dead,
God is amused, time is lapsed, but perhaps she was not divine. A lady in someone’s car trunk, murdered, dear God!
Inhaling. Conflating. Cigarette
smoke all over the veins. A bright blue
car parked across the street. A week since the boy died. A week since the lady went missing. People talk
about somewhere this week another dead
body is going to be found. Maybe in the park under the slide or on a high school bleacher, like the girl found God
under her bed. The first encounter of God and the girl.
God
and the girl run out of cigarette
counting the days God and the girl
Next time won’t be cigarette and balcony. God and the girl next time at a bar with blue
sign where sinners and saints sipping absinthe because God won’t talk
to anyone but the girl. God and the girl sipping absinthe because the city is shut. Eyes dead.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
July was deeply Yuba blue
Reflecting everything white and berry tone
I only saw through it in time-lapsed clouds
August burned through the soles of my feet
orange and red and scorching
But September has come yellow
The poppies faded
yellow
The grass drowned in
yellow
The maples turning
yellow
So I will sit in my own golden California
watching time as colors
and willing Autumn brings kindness
until October comes purple
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
Maybe we're words left behind by night,
Beneath bounding silhouettes of guiding stars,
Or waters of memory lapsed into rain;
As mind of man bleeds his dreams into day.
If there opened a window, none can know why-
When breath counts the years, and moments bide time,
For the hidden soul's body must ever grow older-
Another years living, in the sacred bowl smolders.
The offspring of earth, or day-star's bright child,
Dancing on moonbeams in scintillate shoes,
And impassioned questions, from spirit begotten-
Whatever magic made him, the secret’s forgotten.
The mold has been shattered, the bird has flown;
The seed too far from the father’s blown,
But it’s the secret we hold true because
The world's more beautiful now- than it was.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 11:30 AM UTC
yes I do have insurance.
actually, it lapsed last Tuesday
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
soap and water
dishes
laundry
or shower
brick from mortar
boys against girls
urban velvet smog
city vapors clog
this train -- there is a line
beginners
quitters
this parking lot -- there is a line
shoppers
influencers
open bar pharmacy, bottled water
no pity
no guarantees
dragon chasers
chin music
lapsed short term memory loss
opening mail for grandmother
the obituaries
that ****** fly
a discussion among men
about a woman's voice
come sit and listen
one last cigarette couple
walking home through the park
driving alone in the dark
on the heels of
a reflection
of Christ
or an hourglass
in remission
them or not them
just arrived
just married
too many stairs
not enough elevators
worry about it later
them, definitely them
sharing beds
under the leotard
under the candlelight
a helping hand
finely manicured fingers
one stationary
then two in missionary
word upon words need aspirin
orchestrate
headache
pillow is the threshold
tomorrow...soap and water
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 10:13 PM UTC
Unless your a lefty then it crawls along the skyline.
Smudgless and contorted.
Unless the culture teaches right to left.
Otherwise.
Ride the skyline
Wrist like a cervical spasm?
A long necked goose preening his
Breast feathers.
Methinks a right handed world stinks to a lefty.
A much discouraged practice in the church when
I was just a lad
In league with the devil
Satans scribe.
Jesus Christ. I lapsed at 22.
I love god.
Just not the one I knew.
Do onto others as you would have them do unto you.
Case closed. Period. Full stop..
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC