"mastery" poems
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
314.6k
I have been in skin of wolf all my kitten life
Your sister is getting an attack, help her surrender
Your ****** is bleeding
Save the world red
Unite the blood of Eve and perform monthly
have daily routine of keeping melanated to the cleanest groom
oil your crown
oil your skin
wash your bedding
do your thing
have it your way
you are royal
you are royal
bow your head
give thanks
and conquer
I have been in the skin of wolf all my kitten life
never little
never naïve
never broken
a shapeshifting ******
with eyes of enchanting love and paws that hold power
of goddesses and queens before I
spoke myself into reality
wrapped with stars on my spine and the moon and mars as my eyes
I have always seen the wolf inside my kitten skin all my life
wrapped in grace some call it woman
wrapped in mastery some call god
allah
Adonai
Mother Mary
Anetha
Medunsa
surrendered to love,
fully submitted into intuition.
I am every. I am all.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
Babylon has fallen! Aye; but Babylon endures
Wherever human wisdom shines or human folly lures;
Where lovers lingering walk beside, and happy children play,
Is Babylon! Babylon! for ever and for aye.
The plan is rudely fashioned, the dream is unfulfilled,
Yet all is in the archetype if but a builder willed;
And Babylon is calling us, the microcosm of men,
To range her walls in harmony and lift her spires again;
The sternest walls, the proudest spires, that ever sun shone on,
Halting a space his burning race to gaze on Babylon.
Babylon has fallen! Aye; but Babylon shall stand:
The mantle of her majesty is over sea and land.
Hers is the name of challenge flung, a watchword in the fight
To grapple grim eternities and gain the old delight;
And in the word the dream is hid, and in the dream the deed,
And in the deed the mastery for those who dare to lead.
Surely her day shall come again, surely her breed be born
To urge the hope of humankind and scale the peaks of morn --
To fight as they who fought till death their ****** field upon,
And kept the gate against the Fate frowning on Babylon.
11k
The eternal tango of the maestro manifests itself in nigh infinite ways.
With the flick of the artist's brush, the stroke of the novelist’s pen or the chicken scratch of the scholar’s nib, legacies are etched, history is written and the world is shaped.
The astronomer, the craftsman and the physician all have one thing in common: Mastery.
Such pinnacles of skill have decades of their lives consumed, nay devoured in the pursuit of perfection, of greatness. Like grains of sand slowly falling into a furnace are the seconds of our lives, trickling, melting into puddles. But as sand melts, it forms shapes; therein lies the potential. Moldable puddles, colourless, devoid of naught but a clear medium.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past
7.2k
In balancing of the opposites a harmonious state is the end result;
one can then see beyond oneself which some people call the occult.
Through self-mastery in one's life comes a certain transcendence
and any individual thus blest gains a unique level of independence.
_________________________________________
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
once more
layers of casing
are torn
papers culled
windows gleam
sheets smile
the cost is high
if not see
when to stop
can I find north
after all
I’d asked
so life’s paths
once veiled
in yesterday's grime
dispatched
to the winds
reveal
another vision
refreshing as
spring rain
seeking every fissure
quietly lodged boarders
not paying rent
evicted
as another corner
begs mastery
along with
a neater place
it dawns on me
atrophy
is the order
of things
vacate for a few
short paces
and face
it all again
wrenching me
from the lulling
status quo
of my stilted
blindness
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
Maid in China
she was my ayi in Shanghai
a diminutive young lady with a beautiful smile
tough as nails though small and shy
everyday she would walk a dusty mile
to cook and clean at my whim
and bathe my tense body of beaded sweat
after working out at the private gym
her mastery of sponge I would never forget
her soft hands and pale skin a visual treat
her dark hair and eyes that glitter like an Asian moon
large Persian towel there to dry my feet
offering me a taste without the use of spoon
she was my maid but more my lover
though her duties she refused to dash
she had pride like no one other
her naked body shown thru undone sash
I sweep her up and take her in my arms
carry her to my bed of silken sheets
for hours I avail myself of her charms
with rice wine and candied sweets
her kisses sweet and always select
the beauty of her warm wet ******
she knew the ways to keep me *****
she was my perfect maid in China
Gomer LePoet....
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
Cooking is
The mastery of intuition
It is knowing, smelling, tasting perfection
Before the simmering soup completes its wearisome journey
It’s love
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 6:40 PM UTC
every poem gets the exact number
of reads it deserves
<>
nah, I don't think that for
a millisecond,
shoot,
not a ****** nanosecond (1)
truthfully
I'm torn up inside
and my thinking
absolutely
could be wrong
or could be right
absolutely
just like the optionality
of believing in god;
has to be some force
of intelligence that
could create such
microscopic complexity randomly
or just thinking the world
is just a series of accidentally
interactions
so
who's to say what's good,
what's not so good,
and by what standard
one should judge
Is this a poem?
Heck if I know
and what sbout the poems that
get not a one,
a single one, absence of curiosity,
an unheralded execution.
death by silent ignorance,
a master's mastery of exactitude
all because
just because
Is that a collective decision
by an unconscious collective,
the best moderne equivalent of
the unmarked death
of just a single one of
your billions of brain cells (2)(3)
all I know is
that my confusion is confirmed
my constancy is inconsistent
my equatorial balance is
gonzo, dragging me down,
each division wants to piece me up,
and today,
right now
got no answers
at all
how do I define myself?
what categories do I fit
within?
and yet
that answers one question!
**do not write interrogatory inquisitions
at 1:15 am
(unless you're a DUMB lucky *******
who believes they got
answers**)
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC
The wind whispered his name.
He lingered, but he did not listen.
The sun shone it's bright face
Warmly upon his disgrace
And made his skin to glisten.
Bright leaves spun and danced
Taking every momentary chance
To entertain a sullen passerby
Who never did lift his eye.
He was not destined to know
Because he missed the show.
He didn't hear the music of birds,
The crickets all went unheard.
The sun might have been dim;
Rainbows were unseen by him.
He took no joy in a warm breeze
Unless it made him sneeze.
No human could catch his eye,
He was aware of no passersby.
There was no color to his sorrow
No yesterday or tomorrow,
Just the sameness painted gray
That he lived in every day.
The artist that is every day life
Painted his world with palette knife
And every kind of artful brush
But could not interrupt the hush
Of he who looked but did not see
Anything real in his reality;
His discourse with the world
Had become a sad soliloquy
He created his own catastrophe
Sculpting his world without mastery.
His sins bore him sorely down
Bent over nearly to the ground.
A painful stoop to his shoulder
He rested on a nearby boulder.
Replaying his dreadful history
He vowed to keep it a mystery.
He would refuse to bear witness
Certain there was no forgiveness.
He felt he was no better than sod,
Was a disappointment to God,
And in all there was in creation.
He was unworthy of salvation.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.
Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
Persuasive notions locked away,
in many minds that go astray;
When working along cryptic lines,
which falter during chaotic times.
While hidden in a separate space,
these musings tend to be erased;
Forgotten now in empty spheres,
dissolve as echoes of chronic fears.
Perhaps society has been foretold,
of magic tales so brave and bold;
Yet through the mastery of lies,
they disappear before our eyes.
Inside the quaintly shuttered room,
the words seem subtle but still in tune;
When wanton tales aroused before,
a complex world of closing doors.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
Black Key
My Body This
How could I Complain Against You
When I Have Loved You
And Ever Have
I Felt Your Flesh Upon My Waking
Offering In the Light
And I said Yes
Nothing More Be Set
The Appetites Came
Again, and Again
Fertility Invoking Rhythm
Pleasure Of the Speak
Glistening Initiation
Completion of this Beginning
Light, Your Touch
My Strings Played
Beloved
My Secret Ravi
No Mastery Greater
Have I ever Known
For this Beauty of Creation
That I Weep the Love of Singh
Your Hearts Pleasure
Seen Always as My Own
Soft Teardrop Now Risen
To the Certain Touch
Of Bespoken Marriage
Lights Caress Upon Your Forehead
Shatki
Beauty's Welcoming Horizon
Visions Mark
My Touch, Your Muse
Your Light, My Love
Our Understanding
Beauties Vision, One Life
I saw your Body Upon Mine
In the Privacy of the Light
A Single Photograph Given
Your Smile
My Eternal Life
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
I'm having an affair with words
They take away my breath
Words tell me what I need to hear
Without missing a step
Words work on my emotions
I'm transcended by their displays
There's legitimate anticipation
Within each and every page
When I look away for too long
There is a longing that takes place
The wonder of conclusion
Vanished, without a trace
Words help me to liberate my own ideas
In the subtlest of ways
Or when my faith seems in doubt
I am enlightened by a phrase
Their sense of humor is unequaled
Words teach us and inform
They can be as cold as ice
Or soothing, kind, and warm.
Words hold many of life's answers
To questions that we seek
When written, we can convey
Much more than when we speak
Words empower, words are strong
They help decipher right from wrong
Words can guide you,
Lead you home
Words are your friends
When you're alone
Words can help, or they can harm you
Depending on their use
Words can fool you, or misguide you,
Lie, or tell the truth
What I love, are words' transparency
Written right there in black and white
If misconstrued, words can lead to tragedy
Although the stories' plot is trite
We must take part in the mastery
Of each and every words avail
So that the notions we wish to ration out
Are nothing but...
The finest of detail.
Precision personified
Never at a loss for words
Or ****** with a mouth for war
That's when devastation's heard
Instead, a calming smoothness
Inspiration from inside
This, in my opinion, is the greatest use of words
And the peak of humanities pride.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 3:14 AM UTC
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/
Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/
Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/
Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/
Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/
Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/
Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/
Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/
You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/
An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/
Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/
Not just a part of me but all of me/
I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/
It's just the opposite actually and factually/
I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/
I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/
Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/
Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/
One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/
I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/
And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/
So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/
With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/
Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/
Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/
Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/
Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/
To let these words mold me into someone you could never be/
©2018
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 4:00 AM UTC
Painters, by the highest degree of inspiration,
And poets who with the Muse commune,
Command in their respective trades un-
Common craftmanship, exquisite creation
Of pen and brush upon the parchment
And canvass, through unfettered figment.
Gifted: poets, painters and musicians. Three
Geniuses on this terrestrial plane, with mind
As efficient as the moon in its fullest grind,
As do all artistic souls whose mastery
In finest workmanship are seen. Worship
The God of arts ye astronauts in spaceship,
For poets and painters are cardinal in artistic
Enrolment--and no less endowed are many another
Like sculptors--with thoughts solitary and cryptic.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Like an autumn tree
Let us absorb reality
Starting at the roots
Until our branches rain mastery
Reflect upon us like the sun does
Enlighten my trunk, my fiber
Sweeten the fruits of my leaves
Only to match the touch of saffron soil
To grow green, silk & brocade, I pray
Ending fall season, turned into gold, I supplicate
Naggingly I ask You, ٱلْمُعِزُّ
Gather this four-season-Ummah with just one breeze
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 11:06 AM UTC
It's All About Perception
No one can understand you, because you're not your typical run of the mill
it's all due to your philosophy, a mind that thinks but a tongue that sits still
years quickly pass you by, finding yourself alone and in a world of your own
as you learn the value of pen and paper, finding refuge in a place unknown
Like being trapped in a bubble, peering out upon the world as a screen
watching everyone going about their business, while you remain unseen
transfixed on your reality you close your eyes, wishing it were but a dream
unable to fathom the depths of emotions, waiting to take you to the extreme
The reality of who you are can no longer be ignored, facing each day from anew
accepting the fact that you have no control, from others, forced to take your cue
this world is all about rising above, as it starts at the very moment of conception
it follows us throughout life, as we learn the rules, mastering the art of deception
The external images you portray, a needed smokescreen, to maintain the perception
your moves are well planned, the primary focus of your attention, without exception
failing to have considered the matter, you realize you haven't made the connection
your insecurities have misdirected your behavior, demanding the world's affection
There's no denying this fact; life is nothing more than a continuous act of deception
while the true level of your mastery of it, your ability to advance without aggression
at the end of the journey, despite what we went through, it might come as a surprise
realizing that happiness was always there, only hidden from us by our own disguise
Why continue living the life of lies, playing the games people play, there is yet hope
break the bonds of self-deception, because this vanity has really become your dope
be who you really are, a genuine beauty to behold, and in you will someone admire
your hidden love now freed, surrendered to someone true, to build that endless fire
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
Why am I so frightened
To say I'm me
And publicly acknowledge
My small mastery?
Waiting for sixty years
Till the people take out the horses
And draw me to the theatre
With triumphant voices?
I know this won't happen
Until it's too late
And the deed done (or not done)
So I prevaricate, Egging
them on and keeping
Roads open (just in case)
Go on! Go on and do it
In my place!
Giving love to get it
(The only way to behave).
But hated and naked
Could I stand up and say
**** off! or, Be my slave!
To be in a very unfeminine
Very unloving state
Is the desperate need
Of anyone trying to write.
3k
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Is it perfect, did I get it right?
Missing pieces, relatable feels.
Sweaty palms, panic, fright.
Heart jumps back, chest reels.
Incomplete, forever it will be,
blinded by the daunting fear.
No one’s work, is mastery,
others judge it, don’t you see?
Self improvement guide’s,
our next steps towards,
the best self versions,
as we move forward.
Waiting for approval,
justified by the few,
who never truly,
understand you.
They say less is more,
but there is more in less,
so how do you choose your words?
To not be left with regret!
My words are for the amateurs,
critics step aside,
together our words will flourish,
together we realize.
Get it out the door, they
say you only live once.
Continue writing more,
go on inspire on!
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 10:45 AM UTC
Big old jade earring hung from that haunted necklace, swinging from this and that and the other way where and if that sky upstairs let go of the thing I wanted you to be but a break in the system, no a malfunction in that suction of a love that you tried to forget about but feel those typing keys on the fingers that break knees and the heels up and up with the ***** a lingerin' and thats sounding like a new pounding, the one upstairs with the translucent roof ghostly and guess i got a new boot thats fixing itself to elate another prisoner upstate where the worries are always about the women.
Yeah, that women with the diamond ring with her children by her side thinking about the monastery she never visited a big time act act act in a dress that helped her enough and forgot about the rest. But we all move on quick to detest times test with the burritos that she never ate because of the figure she imposed that she got from her transistor radio and the yearly subscriptions of the ghostly ghost that haunted her in the moat around the castle of stairs up ripunzel with dragons a aflame listening to the same wishy washer story of old uncle Maury and the twenty ten twelve salute to the mastery of the fiction of listening, another riddle in the twiddle beneath the sheets that were once painted gold but her husband done left her and she's moving to seattle to start up some new cattle spreading the seed of 1910 where time stands still with his drink in his hand because the guy has got to get around to something with all that talent, with all that anger with all that impulse that proves itself time and time again it will never be enough for a salvation sanitation with the twisty fro's of yearly ye and ye bouts of fights she twisted in that shout that she knew, she knew she swears, what it was all about.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC