"messengers" poems
His army perched above in trees,
Watching the front become a feast,
Who wins, care not, in the least?
"The cawing clan of Koronos..."
The thousands black they view the fight,
Staying late for supper -feeding at night...
Picking tender morsels in illumed moon-light,
"Swarthy minions of King Koronos!"
Corvid follow Man wherever he may go,
Feathery tomes of knowledge their treasure trove,
The messengers in the House of Jove...
"His static barbizon Aves; Koronos!"
There are many kings who come and go,
Becoming part and parcel in a wicked show,
But none of them will ever match the Crow...
"Engrosser of the dead; Koronos!" *
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
The border at Jammu & Kashmir,
One of the highest battlegrounds.
Though that scenery is beautiful,
The soil there is stained in blood.
The blood of terrorists & soldiers,
Sadly defiles the heaven in there.
White peaks often don a red hue,
Those serene valleys face hellfire.
They do not realize that it is vain,
They war in the name of religion.
Disrupting peace and calm there,
They often desecrate the paradise.
Christ is said to have gone there,
After his resurrection of course.
Hindu deities are also fabled so,
The land of Gods and their messengers has been desecrated time and again.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
I'm stripped.
Flipped inside out.
Every emotion I've ever had for you
kept locked away within this ribcage
is now laid bare.
As I stand here,
exposed before you,
The brutal honesty of my love for you is now clear.
The 206 bones in my body have been
etched with the 206 love letters
that I've written to you in my head.
Every impulse I have shoots from my brain
at the speed of 170 miles per hour,
racing through 46 miles of nerves,
reminding 640,000 sense receptors of their need to
touch you
smell you
taste you.
Though I am just a humble man
comprised of 60 chemical elements,
my heart beats your name
100,000 times per day.
25 trillion red blood cells act as messengers,
carrying word of your beauty across
60,000 miles of veins, arteries, and capillaries.
Every fiber of my being consumed with
one thought.
You.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright,
Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light,
Whom God Himself has deign'd to robe in white—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who follow through the wild
His sacred footprints, as a little child;
Who strive to keep their garments undefiled—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who commune with the Christ,
Midst holy angels, at the Eucharist—
Who aye seek sunlight through the rain and mist—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they—the strong in faith and grace—
Who humbly fill their own appointed place;
They who with steadfast patience run the race—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who suffer and endure—
They who through thorns and briars walk safe and sure;
Gold in the fire made beautiful and pure!—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they on whom the angels wait,
To keep them facing the celestial gate,
To help them keep their vows inviolate—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they to whom, at dead of night,—
In work, in prayer—though veiled from mortal sight,
The great King's messengers bring love and light—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they whose labours only cease
When God decrees the quiet, sweet release;
Who lie down calmly in the sleep of peace—
Blessed are they!
Whose dust is angel-guarded, where the flowers
And soft moss cover it, in this earth of ours;
Whose souls are roaming in celestial bowers—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they—our precious ones—who trod
A pathway for us o'er the rock-strewn sod.
How are they number'd with the saints of God!
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they, elected to sit down
With Christ, in that day of supreme renown,
When His own Bride shall wear her bridal crown—
Blessed are they!
7k
I have been avoiding this for a long time.
Simply because I know how hard this will be.
Trying to find the right words is an impossible task
Every time I try to confront these overwhelming, hidden emotions my universe implodes.
Suddenly everything becomes meaningless.
Void of light,
Void of sound,
And void of emotion.
The only thing that is left is me.
Just that a ‘thing’.
Lost in everything where there is nothing to be found.
I try to force my way through this haze of confusion,
This inability to understand my own emotions.
This inability to let myself feel.
This ability to bottle everything up, and
This ability to stray so far from home with no trail leading back…
My tears are my only guide.
Full of everything that I have felt and have not let myself feel.
In them lay a world of understanding and clarity that will constantly be out of reach,
For we cannot read our tears.
They are tiny messengers with no message to deliver,
Even if we could read them, there would be nothing to see.
Always left to our own devices, our own thoughts, on your ‘own’.
In the midst of loneliness we must remember we are not alone.
The world is crawling with billions of people,
Chances are someone is willing to listen, because
We cannot read our tears.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
I had once been in a church to drink a beer
Behind the pastor seat
A risk I took with no fear
Ends me a back seat.
I wonder who reported me
For I was sure all doors were locked against me
I was sure the gate keeper didn't notice me
I guess the walls have eyes
Oh, maybe holy spirit really exist
But why did he have to show up then
I was in the same spot sweating in prayers
Crying rain seeking for a divine help
Nobody reported me then
Is this not a case of betrayal?
People, they just love being messengers of negativity
When I was sweeping the altar, dusting this same pastor seat nobody shouted my activities.
Wait a minute, what was I thinking
Why should I carry a sin in a bottle
Straight to a supposing holy temple.
Holy? Is a place I once caught cockroaches making out holy?
The venue where our tithes and offerings are being pocketed by the church hierarchy still holy?
Even as that, I don't suppose to join the crowd to pollute the Lord's place
Truly I deserve even behind the back seats, yes I deserve the shame.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
An irrefutable dream,
fulfilled tenfold in the illusion
made imperfect by dreamers' oblivion,
sought by the delver of selves.
Rejection of messengers,
the hive of deluded apathy
that saturates the air thick with the droning of silent hesitation
hexagonal compartmentalization,
sundering your cedar carapace,
which cancerous excess shatters,
and only cracks remain;
the afterthoughts of paradise
and undiscovered paths of depression,
an anxious exodus of life-force.
Part thine red sea,
lest plate tectonics make waves,
that cause molecules of hemoglobin to disperse in light,
the crimson tears of a soul,
sweeter than the lips coveted.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
I sink, my feet slowly becoming part of the earth softened under the heat of my body and a shy sun rolling evenly on horizon. Lazy sun slowly extends his arms stiff from winter reluctance and expanding them into a hug. I see green meadows, still poor with colors, pale spring messengers and Harlequin's face in the glass reflection. Eyes full of ice slowly melting, just as piles of snow hidden in the spring shadows. I sink deeper into the trap of needs. My hands have become bare spring branches and wait for your smile to bloom touches. Delicate greenish flowers and young leaves will slowly wake up your eyes from the winter gloom, gentle kisses will tickle your throat and nostrils. My hands are empowered, illusive fingers gliding over your breast. I feel the beauty of the Snowdrop and already lured with memories of Violets. You open slowly like a red Tulip. Tulips are too simple for you. I see beauty of Cyclamen bathed in dew of hidden alley and I think only of sweet kisses you give. As I dive in you the Earth is not just a lump of mud in the universe and the water is not just a matter which makes it blue. While tears running down your cheeks you say they have decided themselves to come and not knowing why. Then, I stand little before you. The boy filled with dreams. Then I stand bigger than the Earth before you as you are more than water.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
There are things unseen that keep this world living.. Things that go without notice.. Things that we make sure go unnoticed.. So the everyday things you see as everyday things simply are not that at all.. Everyday messengers and receivers are at a constant movement of life giving moments.. The bird you saw fly by, The cat that leaves and never returns, The butterflies that migrate south, And the ghost that sometimes haunt the living.. But when the path is interrupted the unknown ramifications occur.. The disasters, the catastrophes, the plagues, can all be prevented.. On this day two children, two brothers, will set forth a path that is unknown to them.. On a plastic bottle cap they put one large red ant on board.. They float it down the creek and watch in awe at the sailor ant they have set in motion.. This ant has a very small package to deliver.. Across a world to him, at the end of the river to us.. This ant will deliver a small speck of light.. The first star in an infinite darkness..
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
A quiet life
A country life
Where the grass sways in the breeze
And the hues of green signify the beginning of balmy nights
A far cry from the city
Gone are the endless vibrant lights
Gone are the 2 a.m. trips across town just because they make the best doughnuts
In this place of air almost too clean to breathe
They stroll
A traffic jam is four cars at a stop sign
Battling rules of the road with polite hat tips of "you go first"
Fast feet and hot dog carts
Italian ices on every corner
Fifty-six blocks to a destination
A world of choices
A billion footprints at a time
Stoplight crowds of sneakers and pantyhose
Everyone is invisible and naked at once
The green haired freak and the business man
The limos and the gypsy cabs
The excitement only felt in a world of possibilities
The difference between pick up trucks and bike messengers
A hundred miles for supplies
Or fifty-six blocks of everything under the sun
Soot filled pores and too much traffic
Street sounds to sleep by and a world of opportunities
Crickets and junebugs
The world closes at eight
Nightlife turns into Wal-Mart and Taco Bell
The slow pace of growing grass
The warmth of a winterless Summer
Wishing for a trip across town at 2 a.m. just because they make the best doughnuts
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Night invaded by the rain
Cleansing away the weariness
Messengers of the sky descends
To bring happiness to the parched soul
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
Whispers of Love, they come in the still of the night
carried on the cool breeze, their being ever so light
promises of love echo, as birds flying high above sing
where hearts bound as one, will forever lovingly cling
Whispers of Love, they come from those giving hearts
softly floating from body and soul, waiting to impart
a heart once sad, elevated, with depression to depart
life's ultimate meaning, a long awaited love to start
Whispers of Love, they really come from G-d above
we are only messengers, giving each other His love
unique contentment, found in the fidelity of the dove
a unity of which devotion and trust are really made of
Whispers of Love, emanating from a heart wishing to share
a man and woman carefully choose a partner in whom to care
whether for good or bad, better or worse, together to the end
a world of love to bestow, on the wife in whom you can depend
Those Whispers of Love, are really desires from way down inside
earnestly hoping for that one soul alive, in whom you can confide
so when you start to hear those soft whispers, remember to smile
because your love is now to begin, as you walk her down the aisle
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
1148
After the Sun comes out
How it alters the World—
Waggons like messengers hurry about
Yesterday is old—
All men meet as if
Each foreclosed a news—
Fresh as a Cargo from Batize
Nature’s qualities—
2.7k
If I were a solivagant star in space,
I'd link arms with the universe
and have her tell me that
all this pain was worth it,
that something golden would
blossom from it,
maybe then I'd be more focused
on planting seeds instead of
always drowning in the weeds
of my blackened psyche.
I'd burn, explode,
spontaneously combust,
and no one would tell me
that to confirm was all I
had to aspire to,
no one would be around
to make me feel like
too much of a burden,
as if I feel too much too quickly,
too warm, too much, too fiercely.
If I were truly solivagant,
I'd have no reason to cry
when asked "How are you?"
I would not avoid the
ever familiar question
"How was your day?"
Wanderlust would consume me
and I'd search for hidden gold,
space would not cheat me,
would not let me crumble and fold.
My tears would be of use,
they'd fall on clouds as messengers
to rain upon the seeds on earth,
to give life to the breathing dead.
I think I'd love to be
a solivagant star in space,
no magic tricks would be needed,
no quizzes to tell me
that I belong in this place.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
Granny gave me moccasins
To run and play in.
She got them from the pow-wow.
They made me swift
And light on my feet.
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a dream catcher
For my good dreams to fly through
And the bad ones to get caught in.
She got it at the pow-wow.
It made my nightmares go away
And gave me dreams about my ancestors.
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a totem pole
So that I would know our seven clans.
She got it from her father.
The Ani-gatagewi keepers of our land
Ani-gilahi and Ani-waya the peace and war chiefs
The Ani-kawi and Ani-tsiskwa earthly and spirited messengers
Ani-wodi and Ani-sahoni the creators of medicine
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a book
With the words of my people
And their stories.
She got it from the pow-wow.
I learned about our earth mother
And how we grew from her *****
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a day
To wear my moccasins.
She took me to the pow-wow.
I saw the people from my stories
And dreams.
My people and clans.
She told me
“You are ᏣᎳᎩᎯ ᎠᏰᎵ (Cherokee)”
*The seven clans of the Cherokee tribe: Ani-gatagewi translates to Wild Potato Clan (keepers of our land), Ani-gilahi are the Long Hair Clan (peace chiefs), Ani-kawi is the Deer Clan (earthly messengers), Ani-sahoni or Blue Paint Clan (medicine for children), Ani-tsiskwa or Bird Clan (spirited messengers), Ani-waya is the Wolf Clan (war chief) , Ani-wodi Red Paint Clan (medicine).
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
Burning, midday asphalt
reaches up to break my fall,
as I crumple in a heap
of broken pain.
Wiping blood and sweat
from my face,
a voice cuts through the
sound of my beating heart.
Gentle hands reach out,
calm and soothing,
lead me to icy coolness
and safety.
Divine messengers,
press me to ride
their magic medical van
to ER.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
The sterile smell that covers my hands like a snug glove became so familiar. The trip to the intensive care unit at the same **** hospital became repetitive, it was like waking up in the morning and going to school....it became a traditional trip.
each trip was followed with the sorrow, followed a darkness...the coldness and darkness that stretched over the hospital's interior snatched away laughs and cries and shoulders to cry on like the grim reaper. it came in like the plauge and there was just not turning back.
and the worst part? the news, the messengers, were so mototoned. no feeling. no emotion in the delivery of the news. its always a cold hearted "im sorry" with a side of "there gone".
These highly paid messengers whom wear the white coat which should symbolize purity and angel like creatures, cover up their mistakes and sew up the secrets with "we did everything we could". but when they actually accompanied the road to nothingness. When they actually stuck the bullet in the wound, when they actually choked up and messed up-they punched in the wrong numbers to the wrong program causing it to shut down but we are all only human right.
But the real tragedy passing the fact a lifes last grain of sand has fell to the other side of the hour glass, are the mourning humans whom still lurk in the shadows of the same **** gross hospital. Its as each time I enter the doors of the hospital, i enter the realm of death. Each time we enter death is delivered to us and each time we step into that same **** hospital the rain showers of despair and hurt, and confusion.
All that is left now are the memories in-beaded in our minds and rest in the crevices of our hearts. All that lingers are those giggles and smiles and the past. All they left was a footprint..... in our hearts. And now we stand.
Left with the sterile.meek.sound...and the coldness...of the same, **** hospital.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws;—they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow ******* sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears:
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
2.4k
1
in the absence
of your rays
dear Sun
the fearful
created God
2
we trembled in our nights
in the wild
and you shattered the darkness
and you said:
‘Behold, Creatures -
Behold the Earth!’
3
I lie asleep
and you send in
beams of messengers
dear Sun
each with the same message:
‘Hey, lazybones –
wakie! wakie!’
4
by you
dear Sun
is life;
and through you
too is death
5
O setting Sun
do not drag my
heart down with you;
for it’s known in nations
where you do not shine as often
you ****** cheer and smiles away
till you come again;
do not let then my heart
dear Sun
sink with you
6
sun crazy sun
very disobedient and ill-tempered
unwilling to listen
to shine not too hot and not scorch the earth;
and show-off
and bad-tempered with its flares
7
see
the creatures of the earth
burrow deep
and go to sleep
in your absence;
and they come again
kicking and hungry
when you shine
8
I see you in the flower
that blooms it seems at random;
and I see you too
in the leaves of the lilly-pilly at my window
9
one must see the sun
or feel it
oneself
10
I think
you’re one hot blonde,
O Sun babe;
on this side of the universe
no one’s as hot as you
11
the clouds try catching you;
they are little children
and they think you are a ball
they can throw to one another
12
sometimes I wonder
in the loneliness of night
where you are
and then I see you
bouncing off the moon;
ha!
she rejects your advances
13
they look at the sun
but do not know how to see;
poets interpret it
as children play with clouds
and the holy ones attempt to
squeeze the sun into their texts
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
when my faith is tested
i recoil into the lurid nest
by moonlight, by the sound of a lyre
whose blood whispers dank currents
into the low hillside.
and over the hillside
pour screaming maenads
who pluck from the damp ground
snakes for their altars.
a timid peak out of my grotto reveals
a crawling sailor scattered on the rocks.
Apollo’s choir releases hymns
from underneath dark sediment.
i am secure inside the den
the man writhes on the shore for help
but even if i let him in,
i will consume his rooted soul,
so he dies one way
or another.
foot
steps
does he really wish to
become absorbed by this
dark cloak? where he will kick
and drool and never again
see rain stretch over the Aegean?
as i have not seen past this
constant haze of lead,
an infinite bang on a finite drum i
played long ago into infinity?
and the swirls
of infinity
shedding outward like the
tresses of a fire haired fae.
a sprinting sugar fae,
the wind inside the hair
outside her head,
blowing behind her.
she dashes through the wood
until her feet fossilize
within the rock below.
one day several naturalists will find
the slabs of granite
and make a map of elegant
collarbone etched into hardened stone.
all the while i will guard this cave, alone.
and if my foes send winds as
messengers, i will saunter in
amusement, with an olive
on my tongue
the wind cannot destroy
the seashore,
the moon and sun
command the tides.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 10:00 PM UTC
humans born a mess,
messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music,
brought from within to the without
a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained,
garnered from all too brief a prelim existence,
arriving possessing hints of what may be
most emerging crying,
crying over loss of the womb security,
for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded
by an inevitable chance of rain
and death
all of us, no one excepted,
covered for months in **** stained fluids ,
a holy, ***** combination
of amniotic nourishment,
and our own waste
a hint of what is to come?
human then spends the rest of life
cleaning up after himself,
mostly with tasks of addition,
punctuating by the occasional cleansing of
elimination subtraction
making room for the next love,
labored birthing of a baby poem,
from your womb, midwifed,
haunting ghosts of three note tunes,
begging for a set of lyrics and a
great chorus everybody can sing,
a completion competition
going along, all along, to the goings on,
all our routes preternatural crooked,
lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life,
which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components
which are all curves, dots on a line
and the composition source,
the secret chords employed,
tech installed just prior to birth,
effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy,
the human building blocks,
with the certainty that
*everybody knows,
that's how it goes
everybody knows,*
only fools believe,
you'll live forever
but live at least long enough to sing and write of
a man cleaning up his own life's messes,
and perchance, after our absence,
leaving the world better for it
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
I shouldnt resent feelings for arent they me?,
A mistaken representation of my internal sea.
Though the messengers native tongue is without face,
the message is clear "you've fallen from grace".
The sensation avast of our reality,
I relinquish this dependence on sanity.
Please defend me in my cry against man,
And witness my fall into the depths again...
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
Don't let me be misunderstood
the Lord must have sent you
but we know how that goes
messengers appear, leave faster too.
Saying, don't let me be misunderstood
Only possible with a voice gleaming
bright and loud; that's what you like.
Goodbye soft smiles, warm and aware
hard to say if we'll meet again
hurts, but i'll let you live you're life.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
The rosy-fingered dawn
bleeds excitation
and atmospheric trails
for seeking out tomorrow
Are these stars like rain?
Emitting imagination,
refracting suggestion?
Perhaps a new art form swimming
about as cloudbursts?
In undulating waves
war and peace
are colliding out from
the center of the sun
Could they be
messengers from heaven?
A signal from God?
Perhaps at magnetic midnight,
four horsemen shall ride?
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC