"millennia" poems
Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend
*tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...*
I can do better.
Why?
not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors kindness,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize
"there for the grace of God
go you and I"
have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me
<human>
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.
The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.
A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.
© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
I have this theory that butterflies taste like bubblegum.
When I was a kid, my tongue was a permanent shade of bright pink. Shoving as many pieces of BubbleYum into my mouth as I could fit was the epitome of happiness, and when I could fit an entire package at once I knew there was nothing I couldn’t achieve.
And I’m sure that right now if you cut me open my stomach would be a fluorescent pink, because
when I see your face in my mind as I’m sitting in class or
when your name is on my tongue before I fall asleep,
that’s what it tastes like.
Bubblegum.
But please don’t cut me open. My dissection would be too ****** anyway, and far too colorful to detect butterflies…
Because my blood runs red, white, and blue.
When I was younger my mom would always tell me that as I grew older my tastes would change. Of course, she meant that eventually I would grow to like peas, but even though that still hasn’t happened, she was right.
Back then red, white and blue tasted like
hamburgers
and apple pie
and baseball.
But just recently I cut my finger –
and as I brought it to my lips I tasted
lingonberries
and fish and
skiing.
Have you ever wondered why blood tastes like metal? It is the
SWORDS and SHIELDS
that flow through my veins,
passed down from ancestors of millennia past. And every time I am injured it pours out in protest, those ancient warriors urging me to fight against this strange land and this strange culture.
I was born away from home, as were my parents and grandparents before me. And as I feel the shapes of foreign words in my mouth they taste like meeting an old friend. Because I’ve come to realize that my blood never ran red, white and blue.
It runs rødt, hvitt og blått.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Math is witnessed at everything
It is behind infinite things
Capable of solving problems
From simple operations to Complicated theorems.
Math possess a long history...
Once taught by Physiologoi
Improved by history's Philosophers
Now being indoctrinated by Teachers.
Heart of all academic disciplines,
Bearer of intricate formulas,
The key behind all creation
Knowledge passed through generations.
From past mathematicians
To future problem solvers
Math changed through millennia
And so its problems and solutions.
Math can never be removed
It helped the world to improve
All society won't be like this to date
Math helped us all the way.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
I was with the ocean last night and your body
Was its vessel, overflowing. Words were frail,
Drops indwelling about the shapeless sky,
Water reaching for its own height and breath,
Like touch, were as desperate letters exchanged,
Endlessly read, until like loamy vellums, they
Disappeared in our hands. Inklings of tide-
Pool and driftwood.
My blood was a river that ran
Its course. Members feeding your deltas and birds
Breeding where the water-russet sheds on pampas
And inverness. Eyes like wing through ever—
Green, empties the fossil shell. Fire, brimming
Mountaintops that were, for countless millennia,
Sleeping. Did I mention that the earth moved?
No? Her displacement was involuntary.
Then came the waterfalls, lifting throughout
Time. The scent, searching for its identity,
The wave, calling to its own name— Ocean,
O— cean. And flowers, opening like galaxies
In the after-light. A universe of face and hand
With hunger for salt-rain and then the cloud
Burst-blue and spilt and spun more redolent,
Deities, in joyous creation.
I breathe, in your ocean, like a child unborn.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
Sailors, chanters and politicians
Proselytize our new dimensions
Warriors, weavers and priest-drawn blood
Sanctify our new haven.
The sun comes up
We chop wood
Toolerize and gamify our fun
Still the same man under the same sun.
And for millennia
The new is suppressed
Marked as devilry
To keep us meek.
Feeling crazy today
Going to have my say
But first I'll impregnate
The Chief's chief lay.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
On this night
The king-god Zeus does battle
With the titans of old.
The sky is livened
By his hurled bolts of lightening.
Their targets simply
Unseen to the mortal eye.
The calm is shattered
By the clash of thunderbolt
On stone and molten rock.
Our protector, he remains.
Though many have forgotten him
To myth, legend, and lore
We have forgotten the safety
That his lightning strikes provide.
On sunny days
Cloudless nights
We are allowed to forget his ways.
But on this night
In these dark and stormy hours,
The true believers remember.
That Zeus has watched over us
For millennia. Battling an unseen
War, waged in the tales of old
But carried out before our eyes.
We must recall that he,
The one King-God, Zeus, has
Watched over us dutifully since time
Before time before memory.
He has kept us safe
From the titans of old.
And the lightening strikes
Remind us of stories untold
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
I ask you, I beg you…not break my heart
Not now, this time, I break apart
The past doth visit, this night of all
My heart, responds to whom that call
Though you no longer walk this land
My heart remembers each grain of sand
That time when you have grasped my heart
Our dreams we swore we’d never part
Almost one year, you’ve asked from me
To take your hand, so forever we’d be
And Yes, I said...my heart spoke true
That forever, I will stand, and always love you
And so we dreamed and planned our lives
With child and more, our hearts contrived
Alas, God spoke and needed thee
To take you early, and set you free
From life on earth, where you’ve made your mark
To Heaven you land, new roads embark
God recognize your worth so true
And so he made known his need for you
Up there you shine, and your heart is known
For all to see, how you have grown
For me, its clear I've learned some truth
Though I have lost, God has me soothed
To know you serve our Lord with trust
And be the Light, to fight for just
So do not see me as one that’s broken
I know that you and God has spoken
I will soon take my place along your side
As we have planned to be your bride
And so I shall wait the time ‘til then
Know that I always love you, until then end
For now, I bide the time I’m here
No obstacle, nor hardship shall I ever fear
For I know in the end, I will meet you there
When God, shall agree our time to share
The love begun at the first hello
Through time, shall be clear, we both shall know
Forever, our love, forever we last
Through millennia, and more, whatever past
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
And we’ve all been there, me and my lovers,
we’ve all see our fair share of troubles.
cause Romance is Chance in the form of a Dance
and I’m sorry to say I still move like I did fifteen years ago.
Macarena with me and I’ll sweep you off your feet,
maybe someday I’ll learn to waltz and blow you away.
Until it all comes crashing down.
Because inevitably it all comes crashing down
even the Flintstones died millennia ago.
My Anna Marie, I’m sorry you left,
Europe ringed and you answered,
I guess we couldn’t afford long distance
(is that even still a thing?)
and I couldn’t wait for you,
I was too young and too ready to love again.
Dear Jenna,
Darling,
as much fun as you are
we move at different speeds,
and mine’s stuck in the slow lane.
I liked *** on the second date,
but I wasn’t ready for the **** three weeks in.
God knows I’d never try and change you
even he doesn’t have the ***** to try.
And God bless you Tiffany,
cause it ***** to die,
but it ***** even more
stuck here saying goodbye.
Bachelor Status reaffirmed:
**** sites filled to capacity
with self-made men of audacity
come to satisfy their proclivities
“Dear phantom girlfriends,
you’re here to gratify
Please entertain us in our fantasies
and our impossibly similar tendencies.
Also, it wouldn’t hurt if it’s all free.”
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
if the god of impulse and
furious fire decides to strike our
planets with etherial combustion,
then let us bathe each other in
plasma, let us crack like red glass
into madness, let us mine deep into
our lungs for oxygen and tie our wrists
tight with the bonds, proud, covalent,
bursting forth, so exothermic that
the molten waves submerge us.
we are not two animals who have succumb to
the embers of electromagnetism. we are plates in
the lithosphere who have built infernal mountains
across the ocean floor, millennia of melting together
atop the blazing peaks.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
December 2005; January
2006, Summer that year.
2008 round the middle - no not the crash.
2009, yes the muddle.
Tell me about how May 2010
was axed by December 2010.
Palm, palm, date palm, ash cloud.
February, April, August 2011 and
that dreaded December.
last grasp of the kite string,
off goes the dreamed of high
far far away the anchor moorings
when transmission stopped, all white
noise since then, empty
prattle chatter of the key board,
two millennia and counting thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen, march, October, March!
January 2016. A new landing.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
They're burning the stubbles of yesteryear's fields
Before ploughing.
Walls of fire around every farm.
Smoke blends with the smell of pig's furtilizing manure,
And whenever my nose wrinkles up
I remember my father's words:
*It's the result of millennia of agricultural tradition.
It's the smell of money.
It's the smell of soil to bread.
It's the smell of something far more important
Than nasal comfort.*
He had me at
-Where he should have said-
Organic.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
I fell in love with a ghost
Upon whose grave I have committed great travesties
She was silent and seemed lost
And my feeble heart could not sustain her futile tragedies
The tragedies of millennia past, gasping in in-articulation
The suffocation of a future already always lost, without observation
I fell in love with loving a ghost
Who saw past my eyes into a formless ocean
Limitlessly there, she sunk and she rose
But alas was not of my wanting nor creation
She who is of minimal infinity
Taught me nought about nothing, nobody
I only recognize that it was her that never wants me
And I who longs achingly to be in her vicinity
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 7:11 PM UTC
I like slandering your makeshift forceps.
I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill
the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s
worth at least a small intestine, and you
are worth whatever’s left over after night
has upended itself, poured sideways out of its
shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour.
There are remnants of you in the park,
some red stain by the baseball field where,
if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers
build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark
from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened
every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name
and am slapped in the head. The children cry
when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good
heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor,
even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding,
my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to-
swallow doses. I like you in my eggs.
Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily,
but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic
meadows while I sleep. What can I say?
I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub,
which has a certain foul repute, and has grown
heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere,
just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so
********* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped
looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes,
kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress,
speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so
we have not been really looking all this time, have we,
just blaring your name through the speakers,
putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving
uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were
a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not
quite, though, as the books say, you have honey
in your stomach, and if you could but be
ripped open we would taste and see.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
the green grove a magnet to my eye
on these sun baked plains
I enter the glade to take shade with the cicadas
and vampire mosquitos
then I see it, Eden’s villain, coiled and rattling,
red ready to strike
I raise my staff, I too programmed to survive, do to what millennia
have taught
still we are in this staring standoff—silent save its rattle, deaf
I am to the chorus of insects
neither of us moves for an eternity of seconds, until the snake lunges at my feet
where its fangs find a field mouse, and devour it while I watch, an unwitting witness to expiry other than my own
I leave the copse, whole, content another creature has, for today, taken my place in the bloodletting
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
Feminine poetry is the most alluring.
The curvature of a woman's wrist around a pen is beautiful.
Their faces are knit in concentration so intense, yet
velvety smooth. Women are graceful- they glide along the page like an
ice skater. Feminine poetry has an elegant air incomparable with their counterpart.
There is
darkness, but with darkness comes strength.
Demons abound on their pages, bred from the hardships stretching through the millennia.
Dark inspiration breeds radiating beauty.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
There is a woman I oft meet
On my journey here to home
Hey Lady!
I feign to shout.
My complexion's dark
But not my Soul.
So when you fright
On my approach
For
Goodness
Sake;
There is no need
To cross the road.
I'll feel that for a millennia,
ME
&
My kin
You so rudely
Robbing me,
Of the
opportunity,
To politely
Commune with you...
“good morning”
Then again,
You could be applying,
Learned street smarts?
Changing lanes,
Avoiding crossing paths.
This
Uptown
Downtown
Topsy-Turvy
Up-side-down
YOU'RE - SO - COOL
Pretending not to see me,
Hiding under your
Beats
Skull candy.
What sweet music
are you channeling?
Tunes contrary to Art?
Con
Artist
Purveyors
of
Catchy wicked things
Said twice?
High definition
'Stereo'
Types?
Shall we dance from a distance
Again tomorrow?
Yes of course!
For I believe,
You too have been deceived.
Hey! Ms. Concept,
R U
Thinking;
The beauty found in this deep Brown,
Predetermines fact that
I'm called
Black?
© Qwey.ku
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 5:15 AM UTC
I saw a gigantic tree.
Uprooted and on its side.
The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump.
But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home.
A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm.
Around its base were prehistoric ferns,
Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales.
Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur.
When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws.
The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace.
As whale sinks,
Distorted into a globster of its former self,
It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness.
The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia.
Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet.
Mouths used to scraps choking on steak.
Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi.
Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus.
Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods
But get only mucus insulting their jaws.
And they thought they helped to cut up the portions.
Soon all that is left is a skeleton.
Hanging in a museum for future generations to see.
Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand.
Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground.
We may soon again see darkness fall.
As the rayiys is skinned.
But no tears are shed.
We all cheer none the less.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
Sweet Earth, each molecule of me has come from you.
Sesame seed, broken into amino acids and calcium,
became my tiny bones; bananas, potassium,
the cells of my brain.
If we could trace each atom back, we'd find
Kansas, Iowa, Ecuador, Spain.
And further still, through unimaginable millennia,
these same atoms --the very same-- were flung from a supernova,
only to recombine, here, on Earth.
"Of star-stuff, are we made." Carl Sagan said.
And then (when I'm dead)
the same in reverse:
the atoms' slow dispersal:
pulled in by roots, washed by rivers, melted in magma,
blown, finally, to smithereens by the exploding sun....
Star-stuff, once again, become.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into fiendishly handsome toreadors.
I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct. Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
I’ve left footprints
in deserts
where no man’s been
in millennia; a thirst
not yet quenched
these dry cracked lips
can still spit out a poem
on old buzzards’
bones, trekking alone
whistling Dixie, my brother
I’ve a few miles yet to go.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC
It is believed to exist;
It is often what we as people strive for;
Something for which we are prepared to persist.
Perfection is a drug, perfection is a demon;
Perfection is what often makes us forget that we are human;
By virtue of expectation,
We engulf one another in clouds of smoke;
Creating a screen for ourselves,
Causing one another to choke;
We make it a burden for others;
Make their lives unbearable,
Yet we ourselves never want to bear this yoke.
Perfection as an ideal isn’t bad,
It has brought man to, and through,
Millennia where men believe in themselves.
Man, as a creature, will never fly,
But we have inventions that bring us perfectly close.
We’ve created environments that allow us to do things at lightning speed;
We’ve more or less streamlined our every need.
But that’s what we don’t get!
Perfection, however lovely, will forever be an ideal;
We all need to understand that it isn’t real;
Like most things on earth, perfection is relative.
I’m not , for one moment, suggesting that we stop being competitive!
No, not at all!
All I suggest is that we stop burdening one another;
Be it you friend, wife, husband, father, mother, sister or brother.
The societal norm of giving each other 10 crosses at a time,
With no apparent reason, is only going to cause the issue to deepen;
Propagate itself, as we bid humanity adieu.
Do not expect what you cannot give,
That, for me, is the better way to live;
And if you can give something to others,
Try and not expect it back always.
For we are all human,
And can only dream of perfection in any case.......
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 11:39 AM UTC
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
•
Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children
•
Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana
•
Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims
She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother
•
Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts
•
What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin
Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare
•
What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it
•
So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon
•
You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!
•
Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!
•
Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
Rise! Oh, Mighty Jupiter;
Our Father now forgotten.
Come claim your rightful reverence.
Your pagan pedigree misgotten.
You were once our Shining Father;
Great King of all the Sky.
But you allowed your world to set
so a new Son could arise.
Zeus once ruled before you, and
Jesus became your heir.
Today not many realize
how we got from here to there.
I have considered for some moments
how our thoughts of god do change.
Plural notions of so long ago,
today can seem so strange.
We like to think we've come so far,
since those pagan days of yore.
Have we abandoned superstition
or just embraced it even more?
It was millennia ago
that Zeus ruled Mount Olympus.
He, their leader, more than father,
often beaten by hubris.
The Greeks, they worshiped leaders,
seeking standing in this forum.
Such desires, democratic
became their gods that ruled before them.
As the centuries moved on,
your new Latin home was Roma.
Your title too, transformed
to reflect a new persona.
To Zeus we added "Father",
or in Latin, pater, we prefer.
So Zeus, becomes Zeus-pater,
Zupater, then Jupiter.
Our names for gods reveal
exactly how they fill our needs.
Over time our needs evolve
and so a new name supersedes.
As Rome aged, it developed
a need to know god as a man.
To be one of his number.
To see themselves as of his clan.
This zeus, he can be talked to,
can be greeted and be known.
They "Hail Zeus" as HeyZeus.
And now its Jesus on the Throne.
Through such inquests we can see
the needs Gods fill evolving,
from cold, covetous Kings
to a begotten Son absolving.
We imagine in the Heavens
things to help us understand,
how a universe so endless
can be the realm alone of man.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC