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you needed each other

though neither of you yet knew it
each ingesting what each season offered
growing beyond near defeats
each winter bare and shivering
each summer consuming broad and open
laughing all the while
showing bridges
between deep past and next season
neither existing without the water
the other poured willingly
one for the blinding yet nurturing
impending solar singularity
and the other for the pleasant aroma
and the welcoming blossom
and the predictability
the companionship
and when you
our beautiful ample matriarch left us
so did your sister
and her leaves fell
and then her petals
and her pistol
stamen
limbs
as if weeping for the loss of her confidante

when you
my mischievous sponsor
when you fell
so did your rival in beauty
i used a chainsaw
i tossed away her lifeline
turned off the faucet and tossed the hose
stacked her limbs on the curb
for the garbage truck

they wont let you
bury trees at the cemetery any more
there once was a woman named Arlene
who had an older sister named Darlene
their youngest sister was named Karlene
and her twin was named Charlene
the ladies of (lene) had a matriarch named Marlene
Jimmy Karnidge Apr 2013
Asp
The pale sands shadow your skin
The moon’s light bares you no justice
Its shine is nothing compared to your eyes
Nor does the ocean beside me, twinkle greater than they do
The goddess of the night waits atop her throne
Eyes that pierce the clouds and space itself
With the face that sent many ships to the deep of the ocean
The heart and mind to mend and destroy
You are my Helena, my Calliope, my Cassiopeia, and the River Queen Cleopatra

The waves splash my feet, my love
My boat is bound for lands dangerous
The white sand grips my feet, and I grip back
I wish not to leave you my goddess
Wait not for me, Lunar Matriarch
For I shall not return alive
Leave my body afloat dear Gods
Let my ship burn, my men die

I shall never see this beach or my Aspen Harlot afterwards.
Robyn Kekacs Oct 2012
Knuckles knee-deep in bright orange dust
Her words half-crunched
In a hurricane of hurried lunch
I mix in wit to her serious plot
Her mouth flies open, filled with half-chewed corn starch
And she still looks like a matriarch

We turned the radio on
But was gradually turned down
The ridged **** twisted all the way around
So she'd mention a song and I'd ask her
"How's that goes again?"
To hear her voice slip in and out
When really I knew it all by heart

Even when there was no reason to,
We smiled
Giggled off each other's cues
She looked from me once
Her eyes widening like a telescope
Mouth gaping, absent of laughter, as she braced a hand against my chest
The liquid-like sucker punch
Of the metal colliding quick
Like jelly under a rolling pin, I stuck
Grasping onto prayers with my fingers loose as God
She didn't scream, just held my shirt
As my tumbleweed Taurus vaulted yet another foot
Into the same solid ground, the same stars of shards
Mingled with bright orange dust sifting through the air.
karin naude Oct 2013
raised on words of Jesus's bible
given examples to follow from street bible
people in fancy clothes and houses
we were the joneses
the Lords word flowed like spit
with hearts black and cold like real street gangster
raised with loyalty to i am my brothers keeper
together we die
together we ride
together we carry the cross
knew no other way and i believed it to be righteous, the path
joke was on me
what a fool i was
i truly believed, " i am my brothers keeper and they were mine"
believed with my life, soul, blood and, heart
i believed, i believed
walked straight into a trap
was lucky when i fell
i fell on  my knees
God carried me out of the misty,cold, dark woods
psalm 23, hallelujah

now i have been blamen daddy for this drama
lets for once put blame were blame belongs
both papa and mamma had mothers, both alive and well
he matriarch of each family
they stood and watch as i was fed to wolves
torn apart i was left to die
of course they had to wait for mamma to die
11/01/2013 God caled her home and open season was declared
God, I never knew i was the trophy

2 years later
i have succeeded in leaving behind the street life
still got mammas husband
a father who love his daughter, but a love i can't take to the bank
i finally got to know the author of the bible and know i'm not alone
i realise in silent moments, to my despair
i may not have made mamma proud
i dropped the code
and i am no longer my brothers keeper
pray for me
please
Tryst Sep 2014
The blazing eyed old matriarch
Stands vigil o'er her clutch;

Two bodies sway to rhythmic march,
Yet never dare to touch.
First published 20th Sept 2014, 09:00 AEST
John F McCullagh Sep 2017
Once, in a jungle preserve in Tanzania, there were two elephant herds. One was headed by a wise old matriarch of sixty seasons. The other had a much younger matriarch who had never experienced a severe drought.  When a terrible dry season came to the preserve she kept her herd in place, trusting the water hole would not dry up. The older matriarch knew to move her herd  beyond the preserve boundaries and found a second water source. The herd that stayed suffered severe loss of numbers some literally dying of thirst.   In times of crises experience makes all the difference. This is true of elephants and among men.
Based on true events
Charles Barnett Feb 2011
You took me in like a matriarch
takes in a poor orphan
***** and hungry off the boulevard.
Well just know baby girl, every night
I pray for the crops to fail and your
stomach to swell.

You took me in like a mother
takes in a curious toddler
sticky and fragile strapped in the car
seat. Well just know baby girl, every night
I pray for your breaks to go out and your
seat belt to break.
elias Jul 2012
we are old now - you and i
and have papers that declare it
with much written in life's journal
and abundant memories of our journey

one memory i hold precious - still fresh
though we were young then
is you smiling brightly - in a red bow tie
incredibly shy, skinny, and beautiful

being old includes being young
and all the experiences with friends and kin
you are now a wise woman - a matriarch
i am grown by you into gentler knowing

we are as we had hoped to be
and as we promised - still in love
Warren-Johnson May 2017
Mom
Her heart beats true to all her existence!
She is love itself!
It is real and has sheer persistence!
She'd walk her feet raw if that's what it took!

She instills her values true to her core!
Always kind!
Even when the rod were to make my backside sore!
Always listening!
Even when time is little, she is there!
Always caring!
A heart so strong, but always love to give no matter where!
A mentor!
If advice be sought, she'd be my choice!
A Mom
There to make affect, with the kindest of voice!

My solace
My matriarch

MY MOM
Paula Swanson Feb 2012
Eyes the color of twilight hours,
looks down from a canvas throne.
Captured for an eternity,
her languid form, in repose.

Queen of all she surveys,
within these crumbling walls.
Moth eaten Brocade, silk spider's web.
Marble stairs and dank halls.

Once the matriarch of a dynasty,
that lived beneath this roof.
She still exerts her own will,
as watches, uncaring, aloof.

She is within the very mortar,
that binds these ancient stones.
Her blood is on the very air,
that chills you to the bone.

The floors and she are now as one.
Listen!  You can hear her footsteps.
There within the mournful wind,
hear her laughter where she once slept.

The ballroom still hosts soiree's.
Muted music of bygone years play.
While in the South Rose parlor,
you can feel her pull take sway.

She will conjole and pout,
until you agree to stay.
Then she'll lead you to the cellar,
where all her guests must pay.

These windows, on a stormy night,
show shadows walking by.
Tattered curtains fall into place,
while evil hides from prying eyes.

But do not feed the impulse,
to enter and investigate.
For within these walls, her spirit dwells
and for fresh blood, she lies in wait.
Nathan Millard Dec 2012
I hate goodbyes
Yet they are the only measurement
Of my eternal life
For the seasons blur together
Only punctuated by farewells

Many goodbyes ago
I did not measure time in this way
I did not see a blur behind me
But a path ahead of me
That was before the darkness

Sun dances on my skin
Scatters through the leaves
Paints flower petals
Then a cloud covered the sun
Cool hands grasped me
I lost the air with which to scream

He was not who I saw my life with
Time is capricious character
For now I can’t see a life without him


Time…
It has changed me
Once a maiden of flowers
Now a matriarch of death

I have lived many lives
Played many roles
And yet it would seem live
Is a strong word

To be alive one must be born
This I have done twice
One side of me birthed from my mother
One side of me reborn
From the heart of a pomegranate

To live one must at some point die
Without dark light is not light
Without warmth there is no cold
There must be the opposition
To create identity

Without winter there is no summer
The change of the two a constant in my life
Unlike time that is counted by its running out
I live a life measured by transition
A project from a while back to write about a character from greek mythology
Westley Barnes Jan 2019
In Waterstones
Sighing at the bestsellers
opaque at the corner of my right
eye two ladies late in life
are centre stage amid the table
paperbacks.

“Are you following me?” the taller bellows
brimmed headscarf towering over her NHS bespectacled
sister of afternoons and shopping mornings
continuing a conversation that has obviously
followed them their entire friendship
seeming the matriarch of the pair, she is circumspect
in her contrariness.

Whatever entitles her to this
Guardianship of self-importance
Her being a lighthouse rising above the mists
condensing off beaten shards of rock
is subdued by her companions’ pithy response
“no-you know I have no interest in Autobiographies.”
Cody Edwards Mar 2010
I walked over a hill
at seventy miles an hour.
Through the early dew I
experienced geography like an audio
sample. I tasted the black
road. I was suspended in
the air. I heard my
edges falling into the grass,
carried by an unkind wind.

For a brief moment, I
understood the earth and
sought to shirk its pull.
I am a fruit from
a tree, a moist bead
that sings to its matriarch
root, but of the tree
of knowledge. I will fall
from my branch so as
not to bend in the
wind.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
a minor amnesia - nonetheless it happens,
there's another word for it...
skleroza: spontaneous forgetfulness...
this fickle creature that's memory...
thankfully i have a stash of about 5 major memories
that i like to revisit...
play them over and over in my head...
since... i'm not on the crux of death...
well... since i'm not...
i have become more prone to exercise
the freedom of memory than i might want
to watch a movie...
trouble comes when i'm not my own d.j.,
in a car... heading toward... ******* IKEA...
in Enfield... where the phlegmatic crew of
dodo are this close | | to learning the arithmetic
of time...
a song on the radio... Belinda Carlisle...
circle in the sand...
in between talking with my father...
                  nothing metaphorical about that...
- so you know how old bob marley was
when he died? 36...
- you think he would still be touring?
well... he wouldn't need the money...
**** jagger does it for the joy...
          
i can't write narratives...
it's not like we're estranged...
but... it's complicated...
i think this is one area of my life i will keep
off-limits when writing...
i can be as honest about ******
as i can be about horses...
the narrative never took place...
believe me...
we talked about a range of things...
morgage

then when we came home an hour
later than expected...
she (dearest mother)
was probably drinking alone...
throwing little tantrums of me and father
alone time...
well... not to mention he was absent
from the most crucial years of my life...
from 4 till 8...
how does the ugly side of immigration
look like? brain-drain...
we: the diaspora members...
away from the motherland...
for the "better life"...
i too am playing catch-up...
how did ol' Leo frame it?
every happy family is the same...
but every sad family is sad uniquely:
in it's own unique way...

   get Wittgenstein to sort this
tautology... i'm not going to bother...
come to think of it... it's not even
a tautology... a tautology would be more
focused on thesaurus rex...

we had a conversation about football
and music... re-mortgaging...
even Bowie remained true to music...
he probably didn't tour...
but still made new content...
singing about mortality and ****...
i think i'm having this playback moment
in my head...

but then this song came on the radio...
magic fm... belinda carlisle...
circle in the sand...
all of a sudden i had this urge to listen
to a song, that song reminded me off...
oh hell... exactly: what was it?
the search began with: 'the message'...
mc-****-fartery...
      round and round...
jokes aside... i had to listen to belinda's
song on earphones once more
before the "revelation"...

  it seems obvious... "now"...

nik ******* kershaw - the riddle...

exactly... how did i get "the message" wrong?
two strong arms... blessings of Babylon...
blah blah: toe-tying-riddle...
almost like good luck is expected...

come to "think" of it...
a revelation... even though there's that monotheistic
focus on the patriarch...
puppet... strings...
missing *******...
i'm having a hard time not thinking
that ha-shem... the nameless father of hey-zeus
and the ha-ha-mighty blah-lah-al
are not... primarily... feminine gods...
well... conjured up from a ****
rather than a working 'ed...

they're irrational... and can be reduced down
to... the three heads of Cerberus...
they are never really depicted...
worded sleuth pulp fiction harlequin traps...
most artists?
oh **** me... even the ****'ites would agree...
get your eyes to focus on something...
that's how much i dare to admire Islam...
from the ****'ite perspective...

what ******* topic is this?
i was about to pour myself another drink
and this thought like a blitzkrieg came
flushed from a ******* in the universe
where all the gods and nothings
congregate from indigestion and
constipation...
a ******* miracle: a diarrhoea moment...
of sorts...
the monotheistic veneer... of "patriarchy"...

what?! she wants a ring of gold
and my ******* too?
how about a tent's worth of a kippah
on my ******* tonsure?
a man would require a screwdriver...
a hammer... nails... screws...
it would make sense to have many
involved... than this pressure of solipsism...
vampire... succubus... leech...
a ****** hail mary...

**** speak...
                    so great... the technological advances...
atheistic secularism...
but there's a ******* grid-lock to mind too...
no a ****** dam...
a rich cognitive custard...
it's just that: a cognitive custard...
like Moses rekindling a belonging concept
along the lines of being lied to:

monotheism hardly serves man...
i can find appeals to the illusion it presents...
but... hardly...
looks like the "plenty of fish in the sea"
metaphor is drying up the concept
of a "catch"...

the conversation with my father are
off-limits in my purpose of writing in the first
place... unlike a Knausgaard...
i'm the drinker... he's the teetotaller...
he's the workhorse i'm the... chicken-scratcher:
if i had ink...
but i'm also probably ten beaks pecking
resounding at this... grand... oh my god...
******* piano of QWERTY...

genius idea... what?
qwerty... because the orthodox memory erosion
of the alphabet is of any use?
suddenly everything has to **** me off...
it has to be dipped in still water...
it has to be believable...
monotheism is concretely a religion
designated for the preservation of women...
why my *******?
oh... because if you don't have it...
i can... ******* at a leisurely pace?

that a woman can ******* without inhibitions...
while i have to be shamed?
*******, *******...
i don't even have enough slander to express
what my heart reacts to these days...
i don't have "hurt" feels...
i have... agitated feelings...
thank you for waking me up from my numb...
apathy...
but what do i hear? "hurt feels"...
****'s sake... those people don't even recognise
what feeling is supposed to feel like!
they're all french footballers... "hurt" all of a sudden...
wow! so...
"hurt" is translated into the parameters of:
feeling per se?
imagine my shock finding out that
apathy has dulled "i.q." to so little that...
you must be hurt to feel...
you can't be spontaneously agitated...
you must be hurt...

bring out the hot horseshoes...
let's have some fun branding these *******-waggling-
***** aside...

just wait for the breeders to wake up
to having children that turn into freely-arranged
agents of will...
i'm passing through a decade where there's
boasting...
but sooner rather than later...
there will be some hidden mention
of those... pickled-cabbage:
why do the 'indus find pickled cabbage
"funny"?
not eating beef sounds pretty funny...
or like that "proverb" from Morocco:
there's no water, in the desert...
then... what... the... ****... are... you...
"doing" in this, here... land of replenished
roots?!

******* camel jockeys...
what do "they" call them, proper?
sand-*******...
it would take a Bengladesi to get
smart notes on the caste "system"....
Aryan has no origin in Europe...
it probably originated in Indian when
they first came across Persians...
who are... oddly... "pale"...
but have not bartablondine aspects
of their ****** expressions...

ivory skinned like an Iranian or a ***-
without a suntan?
"you" wanted trenches...
here's my designated plot...
"you" wanted ******* to overshadow
real.. culprit-esque concerns...
the jealousy of a woman
knows not bounds...
most especially when a father-son
privacy is engaged with...

   if i ever encountered male jealousy...
it was always rare...
almost never...
         but female jealousy? anything...
everything to belittle the opposing "authority"...
ha-shem... the jealous deity of women...
blah-lah-al of...kept secrets stashed in the niqab...
allure of the ******* eyes...
come on...

****** ******* mary:
that matriarch of sold foetuses and
walking abortions...
at least there was something adventerous
in conceiving the existence of Loki...
of Thor...
there's nothing... original about the point
of monotheistic gods...
that there are three...
is Islam the truest of religions?!
they had a Sunni ****'ite schism... didn't they?
once again:
i want to believe in something:
to give me momentum...
give be a willing acceptance to excuse...
an overarching stressor of incredulity...
and a... "what life"?

well... existence is...
out of every instance: a persistence to:
instance... a persistence...
that's... existence... ex-
out of...
and stance...
dis-ease... a negation of ease...

there will be plenty more of those car
journey listening to magic fm...

an "original": whether mind, or thinker...
that mythology of evil that the Nazis provided...
******* Armani suits and boots...
or whoever designed them... Hugo Boss...
what are we left with,
to mind matters of collectivism?
the evil of censorship instigated by...
halfwits and ******* haemophiliacs?

a myth of evil that could be...
galvanised... momentum and emblem...
what's on offer... currently?
grey-suits and...
expectations: that it's the "21st century"
something magical is about to happen...
what's the difference between the 20th century
and the 18th century?
the 19th century...
so what's the difference between
a pebble, a cliff edge and a mountain?
don't know... a river? a lake?

that same **** different cover excuse
like some wonderful was going to happen
in the 21st century...
like there was a promise...
where is this **** coming from?!
oh yeah... but it's the 21st century...
i was hoping for gravity to ******* and turn all:
short-circuit awry...

i can pretend... for a while...
but after that while passes... i turn into a real mystery
of a door **** gone berserker...
are there these societal expectations
to simply **** **** the next...
blow the next... ******* origami of OXFAM
purple-fest whimpering "dead-doughnut":
although i'd cry... if it was a stray dog
from the streets of Seville...
******* camel-jockeys...

  it's not even a inhibited play on pronouns:
there's no: "they"...
i thought the trans-lobbyist covered the plug-hole
of cognitive-****...
there is not "us" or "them":
gender neutral is me...
armed with a strap-on ***** on my ******* forehead...
a bit like... that hebrew practice of...

so i had me a "friend: a fwend...
maybe that's cornish for something in velsh...
you know how word salad sounds?
on a persistence?
sure... a son of divorce...
what am i? his ******* uncle?
his mother undermined the concept
of al dente spaghetti...
we're talking fractions of people...

people eat ****... leave the universal utility
of pork aside...
mind you: not water in the desert...
and not piggy too...
the leather shoe... the belt...
it's not exactly kosher... is it?
i have this backlog of a peoples...
at least a priest only attracts confessions...
i'm not at knife point
easy... for this triad to work?

if my fwend mentioned cognitive custard...
but the concensus of word salad
is socially broke on the norm...
so blah blah boo'yah assortment...
enriched strawberries...
juicing much later...
i can understand cognitive custard... pie...
but a word salad?
that's.... what doesn't deviate from
solipsism... this solo "project"
of "you and i"...

                       psychiatry is persisting to be
deemed a branch of
the Hippocratic oath....
but it's not...it's pseudo-"medicinal"...
it's hyped-up... idon't remember
that junction in a life...
hardly worth lived... just lived...
of my 20s... what mea culpa stressor of
those psychopaths?
currents under the broken wheel of...
attempts at supressing..
momentum? this whole ******* "flake"
of barrage?

by word salad you're implying i
have, speak... low i.q....
    non-hieroglyphic suede...
non-answerable... past replica...
woe wow salad...
but how i understand it...
a cognitive custard...
well... thinking is messy:
you ******* dim-wits!
        ought-i: thought...
i don't like being ridiculed...
or expected to her a less i.q. than what's...
nuanced at a ****** favouritism... Balkan-esque...
seriously... *******: before i ****** someone...
ugh attached to that: wind... now there's a purpose...

yeah... so what's what?
this is the least of my "concern"?
well... as they say in the west...
as long as the brain-drain happens...
we can forget about keeping the native 9 to 5ams...
sort of... but hardly... justifiably...
less than expectedly...
capitalistically boast: not exhausted...
sort of...

i can understand cognitive custard...
meddle some more...
word salad?
your ******* ****- nig-
of sorts is speaking your language better than me?
******* sour crass of a native's ***!
*******...  and you deserve it.
Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /

Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /

Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /

(—Se' lah)
Your heart /
Is an impearled grand piano: /
Every word, /
Every thought, /
Every utterance, /
Is an ivory key emitting /
A sonic, an aeonic testimonial; /
A reverberation of spirit./

Awaken your senses, /
Trust your intuition, /
Burgeon in the beauteous /
Molecule quenching, /
Rays of the Feuillemorte, /
Hiemal, Vernal, & Estival Sol. /
In truth, our Mother Lodestar /
Transcends the seasons./

Evanescent, /
Though life may be, /
She is worthy of every /
Onerous breath, /
For all is a quickening; A preparation /
For the auric-ascendence, the platinum self-transcendence /
Awaiting us in /
The Realm of Greater Eden. /


Excelsior Forevermore,



Sanders Maurice Foulke III, AAS


09-06-21
Shin Dec 2013
My mother told me when I was a boy
Son look up, and see it, that grand old sky.
But now I suspect, her meaning was coy.
When I look up, I see that we will die.

This great ordeal will end without a ring.
For I have befallen no matriarch.
Not one coy mistress to dinner I bring.
For life is as passioned as my food's starch.

I don't want a body, merely your heart.
I no longer care, life has lost its art.
Natasha Peters Apr 2015
See badness and drabness as signs of unfaltering instability,
Righteous infertility,
Oh the humility.

When the magic of the mind disappears into explanation,
We lose true art,
Art is pure and unyielding.

To howl an unending song to an unmoved matriarch,
Move the wolves to the moon, move the tides too soon,
waters ebb and swoon to their nightly doom.
Edward VanHoose Mar 2012
For years
the square inner courtyard,
surrounded by sky-reaching apartment complexes,
accessible only through brief

openings

between the buildings
whose windows looked down
soullessly upon our child's play,
contained my entire world,

and I did not perceive any difference
in the hands, faces, and seasonal limbs
of my friends--

But when I returned
the openings had closed,

the courtyard inaccessible
to an unrecognizable Cincinnati child
whose white face and green eyes
brought only memories--
1884, 1929, 1944, 1967,

and angry April showers
that drowned disapproving windows
in curfews of 2001.

And I do understand.

But,

Would the windows open if they knew
there's black in my line,
way back in my line,
from a time when ships like the Delta Queen--

sailed the Middle Passage
monikered in false virtue
granted by titles like Henrietta Marie--
brought African queens instead of slot machines--

when the fields of mud ran with blood
hemorrhaged from Makhulu's
innocence forcibly stolen
by Grampa's lust.

Now I must window
watch my own daughter,
recalling the lesson
on the names of the week:

You know daddy,
someone just made those names up.

And I can see
beyond her blonde pig-tails--
the darkness of her eyes
recalls the act of shame--

coupled with the sharp wit
of a chained matriarch standing proudly
on the auction block declaring:

These waterways are all connected.
Talarah Shepherd Jan 2014
Sleep with a wrench
For my protection
Always from violent men
Who head my family
Never been struck

Always threatened of my life

They all sleep with guns
Fear their transgressions
Committed and damage done
Eyes ever open
Rage that they failed

Whatever standard was set

It makes me worry so hard
My matriarch
Can't take shock to a failing heart
How easy would it be
With this metal beat
Respect into
Their heads
123
one two three
a loop in my head
i count my steps
to the grave

one two three
breaths in a row
faltering
atlas under a globe of grief

one two three
the mortician mutters
hitting the lever
a box in descent

one two three
relatives
trail off
weaving through the stones

one
matriarch in shambles
a perfect pietá
lingering by the hollow

two
a couple broken
separated
by the greatest door

three*
wails punctuate her sentence
goodbye bill
I’ll always love you
a play on a common abbreviation of 'i love you,' and my anxious tic of counting
a sixty year marriage ended by leukemia
and the strongest woman i've ever met in shambles
ConnectHook May 2016
Judy Judy Kansas cutie / it starts in the heartland / Tornado = social change through manipulated crisis / Toto the only free agent / Dorothy struck on her head by the closing window of virtual possibility / She realizes that hope'n'change have reached the prairie / Alice in Wonderland Hollywood / Kansas as futurist narrative / Star Wars pre-dated / It's a Wonderful Mythic Life / Miss Gulch as Henry Potter / Witchery in bitchery: Hillary 2016 / Scarecrow as Celtic bog-sacrifice victim / Tinman as ****** therapy client / Did that hurt? No - it felt wonderful ! / Bible-belt Pentecostal subtexts: "the anointing" / obsolete leonine monarchies / Louis Quatorze the Sun King /  enlightenment through concussion / the tyrant must be resisted from the heartland / populist progressives plot stealthily to justify their rule through the wizardry of science / the tyrant utilizes tech to manipulate the credulous / green state fascism / journey out of ontic inevitability into the futurist nightmare / eco-mammon bailouts / infantile mental midgets ruled by witch-tyrants = One World Munchkinland / Dorothy as redeemer-Messiah / Dorothy as Mary Poppins / America exports populist prophecy to the greater world / Glinda the Matriarch-Goddess / Glinda as transcendent Wisdom / the Anti-witch antidote / Patriarchy creates "special effects" subterfuge / flying monkeys: shock-troops of the witch / simian social justice warriors / Obama as Witch of West AND Wizard simultaneously / flying monkeys: brown-shirt armies of new multi-culti order / George W. Bush was the the witch the house ("Hope & Change') fell on / Over the Rainbow: somewhere beyond ****** identity grievance-mongering / There's no place like the Restoration of All Things
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰

just a simple Deleuzian line of flight.

Riffing on W. of OZ

∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰
David W Clare Oct 2015
READ THIS ALOUD!  

LINK > https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbYkiKKNZEI

Bangkok Spooky      POEM By: David Wayne Clare
(Edgar Allen Poe style Poem I wrote about NaNa Klong Toey – The heart of Bangkok’s Wild Nightlife Fun!)

Where every **** Thai ***** filled night on the Sukhumvit is like Halloween...

BANGKOK, a dimension of unspeakable filth! In forbidden circles of those who never admit they detest boredom. Will do any curry favor to partake in the whoremongering Babylonian proclivities and vile ****** festivities found only here in this seething sinister air in this insatiable cyclone of sin is thick with musky city 5000 year aged ancient old dust…

This, the Krong Thep City became Bangkok in 1769 today still as then can turn a wholesome foreign gentleman into a freak a wholesome man who dare visit here will fast become a vexed drooling fool in less time than it takes to cross the filth ridden ****** crosswalks of ancient soot and dust from the many Tuk Tuks exhaust the man will become lost and of no use as his very soul will wail in the Asian musk –

...once bitten twice smitten kid in a candy shop will drop his Thai baht money as there is no way out as to ever leave here… as he yearns to become wanton in fiery incision with incurable desires within this hideous overload of sensual persuasions of kitsch and splendor vile derision…

Better wear tightly a neck brace as the Thai traits of beyond gorgeous dolls trolls and trollups

Will beckon your embrace where even Ulysses could not be bound by sailors ropes as the sheer grasp with Herculean strength of a he man will snap the mast of the voyagers ship as you slip into the abyss of her to die for jup jup kiss…

He will wish away his all until his head takes in all of the bliss and soon he cries tears of blood.
Siam, is the age old ancient matriarch of ultra **** ladies very young to very old.

Caveat Emptus, to all ye fools who dare enter and dare to survive here as this is the fool’s gold street soi boutique in the twilight realm of illusions and lady boy Léger Jermaine…

Beware, there is no turning back in Bangkok! Its nightly floggings and unmentionable 10,000 delights has for eons mesmerized the lost fools Oh the tales of ancients street freaks grip tightly
Your very soul nightly!

D. Clare
This Poem tells it like it is in BKK!
Napolis Nov 2018
Big brown
back  pelicans

sit a top

their

matriarch

perches

casting

their cynical

stares of

judgment

to all

who happen

by.


fat Mexicana

fisherman

skinny

Asian

fisherman

throw their

sights and

lines

beneath

the horizon

line.


dinner or

die.


two teen

lovers

holding hands

as their

walk

under this

splintered

pier,


stars in

their

eyes you

can see

that even

from

way up

here.


totally oblivious

to the half

eaten sand *****

that lie

lifeless

under their

feet.


and the tide

rolls in,

and the tide

rolls out.


and yet

to know

how I

fit and

breathe

amongst

all of this.


escapes me.


like the

punch line

of a bad joke

at a

holiday party


now without

you for

the first

time in


my life.
Jason Drury Apr 2012
Past the moon light
over the tall knoll
under the bows of the mighty

exists a pond
steaming from the warmth of the day
like glass the water is still

it is the stage for countless fireflies
that dance with the evening chill

there on the grandstand
lives the olympian
who gently glides
in silent elegance

looping under ribbons of light
she is the matriarch
of this small kingdom

tucked on the edge of timber
it is here a figure appears

she is not alone

peering from behind the steam
his eyes gleamed
slowly following the white

he examines her majesty
transfixed on ever feather

he watched

feeling strange
he saw what lies before him

a shape yet odd

her glowing feathers she spread
bathed in moon light

her body ached
twisted and full
wings to arms
feathers to curves
beak to full rose
eyes to blue

her hair flowed a gray stream
covering her subtle *******

he fell to his knees
eyes wide
hidden in spring fed grass

his eyes following the slight shadows
of her neck
pass the barren of her belly
down through taut slender legs
he confessed, he declared
that she was his

the maiden now notice
the eyes of another
demands he reveals thy self
from toe to tip
the stunned man stepped
a man of no work or duty
nor rich or fame
he stepped into view

a peasant

her ice blue eyes
weave through his features

their eyes met
and as if fated
they fell at first glance
Tate Morgan Jun 2014
His play he would be forsaking
facing the darkness we all fear
Soul aching tiny heart breaking
oh how he wished that I were near


The matriarch of his small clan
was ill and finally dying
It was his plan to act the man
while inside his heart was crying


I had finished my latest book
which I dedicated to Drake
The Ties That Bind weren’t so kind
as I heard his little heart break


I sent him the book to peruse
in the hopes that it would cheer him
To ease the blues and heal his bruise
though the diagnosis was grim


He took her my book with the note
opened it to the beginning
Where he read the quote,  I had wrote
his face all aglow and grinning


In the end what could any say
to this child who loves his small clan
Love whispered stay,  don't run away
to this boy forced to be a man


Tate
Original poem and music
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/701419/
Little Drakes grandmother passed away a week later and he was extremely upset. If I could do anything for him I would. He has taken it as well as any man would. But times like these we don't want him to have to be a man. We want him to live out his childhood as a boy. I can tell you the tears of a child can break the heart of any man!
This was the dedication I wrote in the front of my newest book
The Ties That Bind
I dedicate this book to Drake Cooper
A young boy of unique talent and intellect. In him I see the great handy work of the Almighty. His was the heart that once reached out to mine. When I was most alone. I will always be grateful. He bought me my first poetry album. Then inspired me to fill it with my writing. Possessed with the heart of a lion and soul of a poet. Meeting him was one of the greatest gifts I ever received. He will always be loved by me.
Tate
Olivia Kent Feb 2014
That Matriarch .
Supports her brood.
Provides them with food.
Disciples bow in her honour.
A Sergeant major on patrol.
She is, is she?
They are more in charge these days.

You must do that, you must do this.
You should do that.
Discipline feeds them with a mantra.
To run a life of strength.
In ivory towers.
In glorious pastures bathed with flowers.
Behave yourself.
Do as you're told.
Do as you would be done by.

T'will make you good as gold.
Rather than that discipline running permanently.
Teach them lovingly.
Give them kisses.
A listening ear.
Provide them with love abundant.
Keep them safe and giggle with them.
Maybe laugh at them, as they laugh loud at you.
This funny old female.
With greying hair.
Much too late to start to care.
Keith Ren Nov 2011
I want you to dribble.
I want you to turn
From the matriarch past
To a subject to learn.

I want to state plainly.
I want you to see
What your vain, selfish givings
Have created in me:

Most lustful of torments,
Low pains from my knees,
A pattern for this mind's
Truly bittersweet disease.

Just twelve years of innocence,
Could've thanked you for that,
As you gouged in this monster
Within this boy on his back.

I often search for the key now,
That I might walk from this cell.
But I'm still Pavlov's pup,
With you holding the bell.
drumhound Feb 2014
Among 
the buckets
and mops
a man pushes aside  

a sponge hoping to find
anything without a sharp
mildewed stink.
Somewhere he’s hidden
a meaning,
and his soul.
He’s sure.

Before the pails
filled with dank
green
liquid,
before the loss,
before diapers and rent
he dreamt 

of a midwest girl, 

five acres of bluegrass 

kissing the feet of a cabin, 

a horse named Scotch, 

and a secret escape 

near a creek 

where he could fish
...or not.

But today is not about
a childhood dream
never discovered after
hide and seek.
Today, like most days,
he fades into the structure 

with his monochromatic 

gray uniform 

and attitude. 

Children running, 

passing him,
taking him in as inventory.

Desks,
chairs,
chalk boards,
water fountains,
the half man in gray.
If not for bending over 

to pick up 

the page-puckered 

third grade reader, 

his eyes would have never been seen 

or a thank you uttered.

He is only spoken of
in children’s whispers.
The young ones
talk, with fabled tongues, 

of his home in the closet 

with a single 

pull-chain light and 

quickly hung 

supply store calendar 

still lingering 

on January.


Wedged between 

pink soap refills and 

puke litter 

are three tattered photos 

long neglected 

dusty with heartache.

Pigtails and freckles 

frame the eyes 

born matching his. 

Yellowed Kodak moments 

embrace memories departed

but longed for 

in a girl, now woman, 

disconnected and tortured.

A white-haired matriarch 

crayon outlined lips 

around an endless smile 

of fraggled teeth. 

She wears her love and life 

in experience lines 

like rings in a tree. 

He wears her name in a heart 

on the forearm tattoo 

he got an the first anniversary 

of her death.

The last, 
a boy 

strapping 

bat in hand 

trophy at his feet.
Tugging at 

the brace on his knee 

he remembers it more vividly 

than the photograph. 

What he cannot recall 

are the cheers and praise. 

The stench of the closet, like motor oil
and any pre-Monday night,
trumps it all.

He didn't choose today
but today has a way of reminding him
it’s here and stretching on
into forever.
What an icy gambler today is,
seeing our dreams and
calling our bluffs
until we’d simply
settle for “hello”.
Tammy Boehm Aug 2014
His matriarch set off in the brilliant burn
Pre-monsoon summer skies as she flies
Home to Big Blue and strawberry fields, rolling sand dunes
Studded with peaches and cream stalks full corn ears
Past the gunmetal  hulls - Motor City madness
Send that cheap crap back to China
Import ratchet dreams that obsolesce faster than a preteen’s
Boy band crush
We left our polite goodbyes on padded benches in the Sunport
Trekked the cement labyrinthine path back to the car
Sprawled myself out in the backseat
Marinating in my bipolar haze of relief and regret
Two weeks of my soft under parts presented  
Respect for the Alpha who never hacked up a rabbit
At the mere sound of my keening cries
Sate the pack tomorrow I’m off the forest floor
In all my ears back, feral, foaming at the fangs glory
Salient thought abandoned on the crest of a stressed induced migraine
And the whelps yipping for pricey coffee with caramel drizzles

She broke my bleary eyed unfocused reverie
Wrangling two carts corralled by bits of ragged twine in the parking lot
As she ferreted through her peculiar tinsel adorned collection
Scraggly plastic wreaths, sad ghosts of Christmas past
And her grizzled locks wound round a red velveteen door decoration
Muted hues against her transient mantle
I caught myself looking away…
A triad of flies buzzed her presence
The dull thrum of something important forgotten
She shuffled to a center table
Arranging dusky floral skirts and kohl layered clothing
With hands caked with cracked black grit
Fingers studded with grimey chunk costume jewelry
Dug at the lid on a generic bulk bowl of noodle soup
While baristas and capri clad patrons skirted her table
As though they were restless waves
Fleeing before the power of God across the Red sea
And me ******* spun fat from the top of an overpriced iced concoction
Without pittance in my pocket
Caught myself staring…
Waiting….
For someone else to do the Christian thing

Is that how a Freak rolls?
Tongue lolling for the opportunity
When crazy plants itself
In the high backed chair in front of you
And pops open a styro container of “stroke in a cup”
Do you flash that cash wrapped round a tract
Put a hand on her weary back and pray
Do you simply look away
Caught up in awkward indecision
Uncomfortable in your urban bubble
This is latte day at Starbee’s for God’s sake
And she never put a hand out for help
Or spoke a single word
As if a bag of Oprah’s cut leaf tea would
Change her world.
Or yours.
Pride goeth before Christmas wreaths, and shopping carts
And *** metal costume jewels

Under the cool blur of my ceiling fan I glance skyward for answers
Offer a smattering of plaintive prayers
For matriarchs
And mavens with dull velveteen bows in their hair
For my children
For release from the pain at the back of my brain
And the constricting grip of entitlement torqueing my brittle heart
God breathes in moments missed
When we simply look away…
TL Boehm
08/21/2014
The day my MIL left after a two week visit, we stopped in at a local Starbucks in the Burque and ran into this woman in the parking lot. She now has a permanent if cramped home in my memory.
sofolo Feb 2021
Oh mama I tried my best
Danced across the lawn
Oh mama I was not blessed
Heart sang until dawn

Your protector held me close
Casual conversation with a hand below
From open door she took off her clothes
Trust was broke—buried under snow

Like a sister only she was bruised
Another had tainted the shell
How could she have known
This was just another hell

In youth he was my friend
Held me to his chest
Innocent yet I felt shame
Was this more evil than ******

Oh how I thought I could pretend
Poetry on a doormat
Mama would that make you proud
If I were as tame as a house cat

I grew older and tried even harder
She smiled and I bowed
Oh my stars it was so strange
Lips silent while my soul was loud

Oh mama here am I
More me than I've ever been
Oh mama can you see
(Oh mama can't you see)
I ignite the night like a firefly

Oh mama he broke my heart
Made me happy until I thought I'd break
(Made me happy, made me shake)
Oh mama he turned away
Love twisted like a snake

Oh mama I’m a monument
Chiseled by loss, painted in pain
Oh mama I love you so
I am onyx now—do not lament  

Children, she is magic
She smirks with a spark
Children, she is a celestial body
A matriarch

Oh mama I tried my best
Well-taught by you
Oh mama I am blessed
Spell is broken
Truth is spoken
Life awoken
From the ground
Something springs up
Anew
Written in 2018. Rhythmically inspired by the song Nests by Keaton Henson.
As I sit here on this cold winter's morn
I ponder my life and what is now in store
Here on the day of reckoning before
The sun has yet to crest over the eastern sky
The moon still clings fighting to give one last childlike lullaby
Am I like the moon, fighting to stay
Not yet wanting to be chased away by the brazened sun.
The moon soft, comforting, familiar, like my past
The sun, harsh, brazen, unknown, sharp, new as my future can be
Shall I stay with my moon and continue with my soft light
or shall I rise in the eastern sky like the sun and shine with a boldness of things to come.
A scary new adventure.
A choice I must make, for the sky is changing from grey to pink.
It is time, the past I cut my strings.
No longer a woman-child, matriarch let me be.
My past, I let it go to float upon this winter's breeze.
Come upon me now sun, it is you and I, a new life for us to write....
My mother is to have another heart procedure tomorrow morning.  If it fails,  then she is done.  She wants nothing more done for her. She refuses to have another open heart surgery (this one is not that). As a nurse, I know what this means. She will not be long for this world. I will have to step up and take over her role as "matriarch" of the family. I am the youngest in my family. I have been at war with myself over this for a while now. I've known this was coming, I am finally ready. I have cut ties with my childlike attitude to only visit now in my dreams. My waking times, I will be the woman my mother has groomed me to be. I love you momma.

#matriarch #strings #cut #past #future
Oh how it must itch-
The lady whose body is
Covered in hard plaster.
Finely carved face of alabaster.

The miracle maiden!
The matriarch with
The eternal smile
Could never feed
A hungry child

The dress she wears is a
Skin tight suit.

Shield atop shield.
Even in the heat.
her sweet baby ****
Burning beneath
Layers upon layers.

Prayers upon prayers
Would only save her.
"And he created out of one man every nation of men, to dwell upon the entire surface of the earth, and he decreed the appointed times and set limits of the dwelling of man." (Acts 17: 26) (New World Translation Study Edition)

When I look in the mirror, a doughty warrior, an oracle, an Olympian gazes back at me. The caramel-tinge of my skin tells of the colored pedigree from whence I came. Every ebony-tendril that bursts from my epidermis is as impregnable as the Sacred Lotus.

The history of my Mind's Sky has been tried by the Ancient African Sun of my ancestors. It is my hope, that I have passed the trials decreed by the ordinances of the Moon & Sun. Moreover, the Arbiter of Fates, Jah, dawns upon our fleshly vessel at each twilight, assaying our entities. (Isaiah 60: 19, 20) (New World Translation Study Edition)

So many intrepid souls have compassed me about. The Chalice of my Heart burgeons with esprit d' amour. The meaning of life is ne' er about intellect, is ne' er about achievement, is in part, about creativity; wholly, about Love. (John 13: 34, 35) (New World Translation Study Edition) For this reason, strength cascades upon me every moment as I witness the brilliance, the resilience of my beneficent matriarch, Stacy Amanda Foulke.

In life, I have learned that being a person of color in America is not only a wonderful privilege, but a responsibility. Why? The afflictions brought upon this skin only make it glisten brighter after convalescence. Our people have suffered inordinately so, but this is conducive to cultivating surpassing empathy. Therefore, I believe that history, as begotten through the colored legacy, shall be one of ultimate victory.

If and only if, we unfetter ourselves from the onerous burdens of the past, then Monarchical Wings shall burgeon from our Astral Chrysalis. "For though the tribulation is momentary and light, it works out for us a glory that is of more and more surpassing weight and is everlasting." (1st Corinthians 4: 17) (New World Translation Study Edition) Se' lah.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------    

               The Dictum of Vitality:

(I) "If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” – Frederick Douglass

(II) “Freedom is never given; it is won.” – A. Philip Randolph

(III) "Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.” – Langston Hughes

(IV) “There is no ***** problem. The problem is whether the American people have loyalty enough, honor enough, patriotism enough, to live up to their own constitution.” – Frederick Douglass

(V) ”Almost always, the creative dedicated minority has made the world better.” – Martin Luther King, Jr.

(VI) ”Where there is no vision, there is no hope.” – George Washington Carver

(VII) ”Character is power.” – Booker T. Washington

(VIII) ”Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.” – Harriet Tubman

(IX) ”Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.” – Barack Obama

(X) ”When I dare to be powerful – to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” – Audre Lorde

-------------------------------------------Envisage-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Freedom, freedom---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------At last---------------------------------------------------

— The End —