"motherless" poems
I approach most desires
like a competition; can I
**** better than him;
can I be famous at twenty-
-three since he was famous at
twenty-four -- I must be able
to sink better than him.
God, it is exhausting. I
feel like I'm dancing with
a machine; a phantom that
I can never catch, for it runs
on my blood; my insecurities;
my passion -- and, boy, oh boy,
can I attest to having plenty of
that stuff, ladies and germs.
I think, truly, that I am
encompassing the American Dream
I think is utterly flawed; that I think
is futile in nature; that I am sure of
is the closest thing to Hell, in this
Godless, spiritually motherless
dark shoebox of sudden collisions;
this space of useful and useless
results, splayed onto and into
our hearts, asking for reverence.
There is nothing I want more
than to be sure that my importance
is not illusory. I am not sure if
I am real.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
In a midwinter night’s dream
i found myself lost again,
or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther
than yesterdays out of reach,
older than an ancient pyramid stone
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
unknown for more than a thousand years
... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds
High atop a slippery edge-cliff
i clung ―
Searching for a deeper understanding
of who i am;
Roosting like a starving bird of prey
with a broken wing
born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
Staring way down deep in the pith,
into an internal pitch black abyss,
just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
into the eye of a storm
Intimately parsing the recurrent source
of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion, preventing dispersion
of the nimbus cold and dark
In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
emptiness,
A swelling silence what loudly knells,
leeching through a perennial ache
An abating voice within hollers unheard,
invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
deep beneath the light
Awakening to realize ― once i was alive
and
i could feel me holding on to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
motherless,
is who,
to society,
i am.
it's on my centrelink forms,
it's written on my face,
it's why my teachers pity me.
but i never get to be,
me,
rosie.
motherless,
is what i've been,
since the candles,
fleetingly glowed,
and i made a wish not to lose those i loved,
as i turned,
16.
motherless,
the things that happened for me to receive this title,
killed me,
and,
killed her,
too.
the whole world,
without her,
has turned cold and blue.
motherless,
has poisoned my whole world,
my whole being, whole gravity,
whole soul has been overturned.
motherless,
is what now consumes me,
and has,
painfully,
since i turned 16.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
The dark side of the moon looks like an abandoned child...
Craters and dust, left alone in the wild.
*The dark side of the moon looks like
a single mother with bruises on her face...*
**And a motherless child
lost out in space.**
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Pound for pound.
Round for round.
Sight and sound.
Look what I've found.
Love and loss.
A stupid coin toss.
The air is the boss.
Our lives are the cost.
No one knows.
But everybody shows.
****** bows and heart-shaped arrows.
A blow to the head and a broken nose.
Running to the end.
Wonder who they're gonna send.
They never cared to lend.
Or to see if the pieces would mend.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 7:58 AM UTC
i watched blankets of people
rip themselves off of you
one by one by one
you were no longer beautiful to them,
the wrong things became important to you
and so
they left and you
turned cold.
i still find you beautiful
but i have divorced my heart from you
there's not much to say when i see you,
not enough space to feel when i'm around you,
not enough affection to resuscitate
all of the moments you let me drown.
i don't want to hate you anymore, but
i don't want to love you either. both of them are
painful, so i get caught in between.
i wish i could wish you a happy mother's day
and feed into your belief
that you are a good mother, the belief you use to cover up
your deep seated self hatred
but i can't.
i will always find you beautiful
but i won't be around anymore
to tell you that.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
The answer sits awkward in my mouth
Like an Egyptian vowel
Some language I have yet to learn
And I stand like a third world country that there are no commercials for
There are no heartstrings to tug
No Sarah Mclachlan songs
No one sees the hunger
Building in the bellies of my motherless country
But if there must be indifference in this love
I want to love you more than you love me
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
Sitting there in the corner
Empty eyes, broken wings
left to dance for money,
to dance for life.
Lovely angel, lost and fallen
losing all and gaining nothing
Falling out of faith.
You're Lucifer's Angel
Love of a sinner,
Redeemer of Demons
Tempt the fires of Hell.
You grant him his heart,
give him his wings
to be an Angel again.
Motherless child,
Father has gone.
Where are you now?
You're left alone.
Dealing with devils,
working with sin.
Loose are you lips to him,
Weak are your hips
For you know no other way.
You're Lucifer's Angel
love of a sinner,
redeemer of demons
tempt the fires of hell.
You grant him his heart,
give him his wings
Help him to live again.
He flies away and leaves you
beaten and broken,
once again alone.
Lucifer's Angel,
love of a sinner
now turned saint.
Again you're on your own.
But he returns,
your health and heart regained.
Lucifer's Angel,
learn to fly again
and get out of this place.
Lucifer's Angel,
love of a sinner,
redeemer of demons,
beat the fires of hell.
Kiss deep those lips,
beat fast those wings,
Fly off before you're broken again.
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
I hear the weeping of a motherless child
My conscience is clear, my awareness defiled
Global warming, melting icecaps, disappearing bees
All these different threats of our accelerating entropy
By the recklessness of our desires our species is driven
We ignore matter of fact, and scientific proof given
Green behind the shadow, peace behind the fist
Greed behind the reason for the evidence we dismiss
So allow yourselves to experience this uneasiness of mind,
The dread that holds us fast, cause it's our species on the line...
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening a familiar silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining a runaway Pullman
flew away off the rails, airborne
on the winged wind headed north
Winter pausing for a moment
in the shadows of familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an echoless surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
to feel whole again
There is no absolving voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
Death has no mercy ―
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity
The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water
Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that passed too soon to grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch
There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
through the windshield
of countless miles and miles
And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was how I got here in this now,.. yesterday
only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling slightly stained pages,
spilling a bitter sweet dream ...
harlon rivers ... February 2018
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
I exhale.
As I fade from this life, I’ll float into the next and to eternity. I am so deeply enveloped in this world that I dissolve into all the others. My body will decompose, and I will exist again as a new collection of atoms.
I suppose through delusional, philosophical excuse I am connected to this world. And I suppose that stardust constellates and buries themselves in my bones. So I must grow in dimensions greater than height, width, and length.
But the veins of this new world are thin wires of cables and in complex codes and formulas are sent to and received by another motherless machine. Although, I’d rather break these wires and create a spark that can be felt rather than seen.
Let me ignite a craving under the continents and satisfy a spark that cannot be replicated by plastic or manipulated into energy. Let me feel the pressure of the world and the thick atmosphere that caves my posture. Let me once more feel by the fibers of kings and commoners that lace through my veins.
The world is deteriorating and has been left so deprived of life’s ecstasy that it is now hollow and I can only hear my own echoes.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
The kitten moved very slowly
She was a motherless lost kitten.
Again and again,she fumbled blindly,
Like everything was hidden.
She searched everywhere
And cried From dawn to dusk
But her mother was nowhere!
She dug into the earth's crust,
And tried to climb the olive tree,
She scaled the neighbor's wall
And wondered where could mom be.
So she began the desperate call;
"Mother,mother,where at thou?
Are you somewhere looking for me,
Are you trying but don't know how?
Mother,you I search but I can't see,
From me the world is hidden!
Why don't I see anything at all?
Mama,mama help for I haven't eaten!"
#IvanBrooksPoetry
7/22/2018
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:31 AM UTC
Hollering wind noises agitated
the motherless womb.
Clouds casted imprecations
within a roofless tomb.
One witness wallowed about
Traced her fingertips along the edges
of ivory-laden walls
Unwilling to let her out.
A veteran seeking refuge
A sheep escaping slaughter
A witness shielding her eyes
Only one will escape.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
i am a fallen star
bornless, motherless
gripped in a wet black screaming tunnel
hiding in pulsing
slippery walls
all red uterine tears
afraid to come out of her
hiding under mothers dark dress
i am a soaking wound in her
descended soul
born of blood and seed
a skull under pressure
****** by gravity
swallowing mud
beaten with sticks
cold grips cotton swabs and cloth
held upside down
and spanked
now i eat the world
and it digests me
always praying from whence i came
to a lord on some far off parametric edge
a glittering kingdom
i am no thing
stunned thoughtless
to discover
that in ******
we are closest to God
more then flesh cries
when lost in its swoon
we are
all halos
as
fire flares up the spine
and lost in paradise
we are found
in beauties eclipse
all burning moons
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 7:42 AM UTC
I am a war torn casualty hopelessly lost in an unfamiliar landscape.
I pick myself out of the rubble of a crumbled existence,
casting aside the well worn masks of my own invisibility.
I am stopped in this breathing place,
my quiet cocoon of safety
where unpredictability does not dwell,
but neither here does life,
neither here do I.
The silent screams that well up inside me never find their way out
and my door remains locked, the world shut out.
"The war is over," I try to convince myself.
This is my holding pattern.
I wonder will I ever feel brave
enough to unlock that door and
venture forth into life again?
Who am I without my captor's angry lies,
that cruel mouth that formed words defining me,
those rough hands that molded me
into the shapeless form of his invention?
I never thought to tuck myself away in safety,
hide myself in a tiny crack, or between pages of a book,
my treasured keepsake that I could run fingers over later,
smiling and whispering, "Yes, I know you."
No, I abandoned myself years ago,
left myself a motherless child.
The hands on the clock go round and round.
I dig through rubble behind a locked door,
searching for the girl I abandoned long ago
on the battlefield of disenchantment.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 12:09 PM UTC
(other states of living)
under nyc rainclouds fermenting for
centuries in the ether machine
gazing across the width of an August interlude
to a clearing amongst the ashes
in the furnaces of destiny
when the dust of time settles
onto our outstretched hands
I will walk past the way of
all weariness and into your splintered eyes
until the path becomes clear
and i am reborn
a motherless child
of stellar regions
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
A motherless child
Though she lived right up the road
An only son
A want for one never shown
If she could love
I would have never known
Nature or nurture?
Never mattered, I pondered alone
©2023
Nov 30, 2023
Nov 30, 2023 at 12:32 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Born in the wild
Raised around apes
As they congregate behind the leaves amongst the trees
Sometimes I feel like I don't belong
But there's no way to escape
I'm just another ball
Tethered to this world to be played with
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Who's been lost for awhile
No home to be far from
Traveled a road paved with un proportional tiles
Conceived from of the cracks I slipped through
No concept of the word love
Baptized In the faith of hate
Loneliness a stain on my jeans
Bitterness pokes me when I'm awake
motherless child
Who wasn't pulled out the womb
Unearthed from a tomb
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
Jobless, motherless.
Believe it or not, life is better when you have less.
No stress.
All in all, who are you honestly trying to impress?
Envision your own meaning to success.
Everything is temporal.
I mean is that $60 jacket really essential?
Even without these material things you've still got potential.
Recognize your circumstances don't define you.
Let them refine what's already behind you.
Our story has just begun, don't let anyone tell you it's done.
It takes guts to get up everyday to run towards the sun.
Our mistakes are lessons meant to shape us.
Seasons change.
Wake up to your new reality it isn't a fantasy.
We are merely survivors of our own created calamities.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
and as this new day appears
in infinite form
and we appear
formless and ill conceived
motherless
without country
hopelessly conceited
and lost
amid the burning symbols
and the death of MAN
so it is but doesn't have to be
but we are "used to it!"
aren't we all?
Jun 22, 2011
Jun 22, 2011 at 12:49 PM UTC
He is a mother for the motherless.
I never really thought about that sentence before. I am motherless. Even though I have a mother, I am motherless.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
i will need two good memories
and a bad one
i have a magic disappearing act
a left handed shaman
an ugly critic who sits alone with no electric
i have metaphors for ********
i have lower case egos
and
i don't got time for yours
i have a riot in my mind
a revolution on my fingertips
it exists
in the spaces i quit/like deadbeat dads
leave fingerprints
misplaced and misguided daughters; let's run so fast the stars call us light
speed, like we don't need amphetamines
We have our own disappearing act
starts in the bones
starves you to marrow
The smaller we get the less you react
so we take up too much space, we elbow, we pose, we leave livingrooms and bedrooms and kitchens and killing time jobs, we leave jaws on floor, we leave sand in mouths, we no map, we motherless, we huge, we funeral black, we native land, we penny talk, we memory, we instinct, we stream, we bleed, we walk
don't follow
leave no trail
this is the third act
we need you back for curtain call
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
This plot of ground
facing the waters of this inlet
is dedicated to the living presence of
Emily Dickinson Wellcome
who was born in England; married;
lost her husband and with
her five year old son
sailed for New York in a two-master;
was driven to the Azores;
ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,
met her second husband
in a Brooklyn boarding house,
went with him to Puerto Rico
bore three more children, lost
her second husband, lived hard
for eight years in St. Thomas,
Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followed
the oldest son to New York,
lost her daughter, lost her “baby,”
seized the two boys of
the oldest son by the second marriage
mothered them—they being
motherless—fought for them
against the other grandmother
and the aunts, brought them here
summer after summer, defended
herself here against thieves,
storms, sun, fire,
against flies, against girls
that came smelling about, against
drought, against weeds, storm-tides,
neighbors, weasels that stole her chickens,
against the weakness of her own hands,
against the growing strength of
the boys, against wind, against
the stones, against trespassers,
against rents, against her own mind.
She grubbed this earth with her own hands,
domineered over this grass plot,
blackguarded her oldest son
into buying it, lived here fifteen years,
attained a final loneliness and—
If you can bring nothing to this place
but your carcass, keep out.
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